Grim Company 02 - Sword Of The North (13 page)

‘Ah, so you know about magic-mining?’

‘A little,’ Cole replied glumly. He remembered the Swell – the resting place of Malantis, Lord of the Deep. The terrifying moment his ship had been swallowed up by that accursed stretch of the Broken Sea would haunt him forever.

They resumed their journey and eventually reached a great crowd that had gathered before a raised platform in the centre of town. Cole could make out a man tied to a stake in the middle of the platform. He seemed to have a sneer glued to his face, and it took Cole a moment to realize someone had sliced a big chunk out of the right side of his mouth. The resulting scar had given him a permanent lopsided grin.

There was a ripple of movement behind the captive. Cole’s eyes widened as he recognized the three pale figures lurking behind the stake. The robes of their order were unmistakable. ‘The White Lady’s handmaidens,’ he said darkly.

Derkin nodded. ‘The Trinity.’

One of the handmaidens drifted to the edge of the platform and addressed the townsfolk. ‘This man has been sentenced to death. Let his fate serve as a warning to all present. Obey the laws laid down by our mistress or suffer the consequences.’

‘Fucking raper,’ shouted a woman in the crowd to answering jeers.

The handmaiden turned to her sisters. ‘Proceed.’

Together the Trinity pounced on Mockface and he disappeared behind a whirlwind of white robes. Slender arms seemed to blur together. Seconds later the handmaidens parted, leaving a flapping torso that fountained blood down onto the rain-swept platform.

Mockface hadn’t even had time to scream.

One of the handmaidens held up the man’s head, winning cheers from the crowd. The handmaiden tossed the head from the platform and it landed in a puddle with a loud splash. The arms and legs followed to further cheers. One arm flopped down just in front of Cole, who was grateful he had nothing in his stomach to puke up. Derkin limped past him with surprising speed, then knelt down and began chopping away with his cleaver. A moment later he held up a bloody finger with a ring still attached. ‘Silver,’ he said, with a whistle of satisfaction. ‘Ma will like this.’

Cole stared in horror. ‘What did he do to deserve that?’

Derkin placed the finger inside his coat. ‘Goldie, Corvac’s girl, she accused Mockface of forcing himself on her. You don’t get on Corvac’s bad side. He’s the leader of the Mad Dogs. They run the mining operation.’

‘They could have hanged him or something! Anything but
that
.’

The White Lady’s handmaidens descended the platform and ghosted over to them, bright blood flecking their perfect ivory faces. They seemed not the slightest bit discomfited by the fact they had brutally dismembered a man with their bare hands but moments ago.

‘You were to dispose of this one,’ uttered one of the handmaidens. It was difficult to tell if it was a statement or a question.

‘He woke up before I went to work on him,’ answered the corpse-carver diffidently. ‘He has some experience mining magic. Could be a real asset out in the Blight.’

The handmaiden drifted right up to Cole and placed a gore-covered hand on his cheek. He tried not to flinch away. ‘There is something unusual about you,’ she said. ‘You bear the mark of death... and yet you are not of the Unborn. Who are you?’

‘No one important,’ he replied quickly, hoping Derkin kept his mouth shut. He had no idea what the pale woman meant by the
Unborn
, but he was beginning to think it wise to keep his true identity quiet. The White Lady had ordered him killed, after all.

‘Tomorrow you will accompany the others to the Horn,’ said the pale woman. ‘You will finish each day so sore you cannot stand. Your muscles will scream for mercy, but none shall be forthcoming.’

‘Try to escape and you will suffer the same fate as that one,’ added a second handmaiden, gesturing at Mockface’s sneering head. A pack of strays had begun to sniff around it. ‘There will be no release for you. No release except for death.’

Derkin tapped the edge of his cleaver. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said brightly. ‘I won’t let you become a shambler. Bessie will take care of that.’

‘Thanks,’ Cole mumbled. He was beginning to wonder how things could possibly get any worse.

They stopped outside of a tavern in the east side of town. A painted sign displayed ‘The Black Lord’s Re-Spite’ in crude letters above a bad illustration of a horned figure quaffing a tankard of ale. Cole glared at it, finding little humour in the bad pun. ‘Will I be staying here? It’s not as bad as I expected,’ he conceded.

Derkin cleared his throat. ‘Actually, the dosshouse is over there.’ He pointed to a huge building opposite the tavern. The windows were boarded up tight, the roof drooped, and the entire structure looked ready to collapse at any moment.

‘At least it’s dry.’ Cole splashed over to the door, eager to get out of the rain and eat something, anything. He gave the door a shove and it creaked open on loose hinges, revealing a common room illuminated by a handful of glowing spheres hanging from the ceiling. The place stank of damp and old sweat. A handful of rough-faced men lounged around playing cards. A few shot Cole baleful stares.

‘Those are glow-globes,’ Derkin said, gesturing up at the spheres. ‘The Trinity create them from raw magic mined from the Blight. It’s too dangerous to hang torches in these buildings – something catches fire and the whole town could spark like kindling after a spell of dry weather.’

They crossed the common room. At the far end was a wooden stairwell. Derkin stopped there for a moment, grimacing and rubbing at his joints again. ‘Let me tell you the shape of things in Newharvest,’ he said, giving his fingers a good crack. ‘The Trinity rule here, assisted by Captain Priam’s Whitecloaks. After that there are three groups. The Freefolk, including the Mad Dogs, can come and go as we please. The Indebted are stuck here until they’ve paid off whatever sentence landed them on one of the convict ships. And then there’s the new crowd, the Condemned – like you – doomed to die in the pits for whatever terrible crime you committed in Dorminia.’

‘This is bullshit! I haven’t committed any crime.’

Derkin scratched at a spot on the end of his nose. ‘Well, it’s not for me judge...’

‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘The two men on the ship that got into a fight with you. I heard they had to be scrubbed off the planks they were in so many pieces. I know you were upset about getting stabbed and all. But it seems to me you might have anger issues.’

‘This is all wrong,’ Cole said furiously. ‘I didn’t kill anyone on the ship. I wasn’t even conscious until an hour ago. And it was the Darkson that stabbed me.’

‘Who?’

‘The Darkson. The White Lady’s master assassin. I had a hunch something wasn’t right with him.’

Derkin stiffened suddenly. ‘That’s a weird thing to say.’ Without another word he turned his deformed back on Cole and began to climb down the stairwell.

Cole followed behind, confused at what he had done to upset the strange little man. They emerged from the stairwell into what could best be described as a well-kept sewer. The walls were naked stone and at least an inch of filthy water sloshed around on the floor. Cole thought he saw tiny shapes darting around at the edges of the light provided by the glow-globes above.

‘These are the Condemned dormitories,’ said Derkin, rather brusquely. ‘Follow me and I’ll find you a bed.’

They splashed through the water that flooded the halls. Beds lined both walls, dozens of them, little more than rotting wooden frames filled with sacks of straw and topped by dirty blankets.

The worst of Dorminia’s convicted criminals stared at Cole and Derkin as they passed. They were a group of men for whom the term ‘ragtag’ conveyed a certain charm they didn’t deserve: a rogue’s gallery of thieves, ruthless killers and the simply deranged. Most of the prisoners lounged dejectedly on their beds. Some paced back and forth, faces twisted in anger. A few seemed on the verge of committing murder. At least one already had, judging from the body sprawling face down in the water.

Derkin saw the corpse and shook his head ruefully. ‘They’ve only been here a day and already they’re killing each other. Looks like you and me aren’t taking the night off after all, old girl.’ He gave his cleaver an affectionate pat.

At the end of the hall a single bed lay unclaimed.

‘This one’s free,’ Derkin said. His annoyance seemed to have passed. ‘You aren’t looking well.’

Cole reached up to his face. His skin felt cold to the touch. ‘Do you have a mirror?’

‘What’s that?’

‘You mean you don’t know— Never mind. Pass me Bessie.’

Derkin hesitated before handing him the huge cleaver. It was twice the size of Magebane and at least three times the weight. Cole angled the blade under the light of the glow-globe above and examined his reflection in the steel.

‘Shit.’ His face was gaunt, almost cadaverous. He hadn’t noticed how thin he was until now. Even more shocking was his skin, which was far paler than he remembered, almost the same ghostly pallor as the White Lady’s handmaidens. To add to his woes, there were thick streaks of grey in his black hair.

‘I’ll bring you some food,’ said Derkin softly. ‘The quartermaster is a friend of my ma. I’ll wrangle something out of him.’ The little man reached out and patted Cole on the arm sympathetically. ‘Try to stay positive. Things will look better in the morning.’

Cole handed over Bessie and watched numbly as Derkin hobbled off back down the hall. He thought of Sasha. How had she reacted when she had learned that Garrett and the other Shards had been murdered? She must think
him
dead too. He was trapped in this hellish town with no way to contact her, and if he tried to escape he would be hunted down and killed. Once he would have secretly revelled in this kind of predicament, regarded it as yet another way to prove himself, to show the world what a hero he was.

He sat down on the end of his bed and put his head in his hands. He had been a fool back then. The truth was that he was no braver or smarter or more talented than anyone else. He was no hero. He was just Davarus Cole, a common bastard.

A moment later he heard someone approaching. He looked up expecting to see that Derkin had returned. Instead he found a hairy ape of a man sitting naked on the bed opposite. The man was clearly a halfwit and was trying unsuccessfully to balance a miner’s cap on his flaccid manhood. It kept slipping off and splashing down onto the floor. He caught Cole watching him and his heavy brow furrowed in anger. ‘Don’t look at me,’ he moaned.

Cole heaved a big sigh. He was sick with hunger, but he decided not to wait for Derkin. He wanted sleep to carry him to oblivion. He grabbed hold of the blanket, intending to bundle himself into bed and forget about the world and its injustices for a short while at least.

Instead he paused, blanket in hand, and stared down in disbelief at the mattress. It was covered in fresh shit.

Cole hurled the blanket down on the wet floor, and then in fury he turned and aimed a kick at the oak trunk at the bottom of the bed. He hit it harder than he intended and heard his foot crack.

‘Hurr hurr!’ The halfwit laughed uproariously as Cole hopped around in agony. The big oaf was like a child witnessing the performance of a street mime for the first time.

Rage surged inside Cole, terrifying in its intensity. He wished he had Magebane to hand: he would have driven it right into the halfwit’s face just to shut him up. He looked around, searching for something, anything, to use as a weapon. He was so furious he could hardly see straight—

Caw.

It was the bird from his dreams again. Calm washed over him like a cooling tide quenching hot sand. He glanced down at his foot. The pain was gone.

Some instinct compelled his gaze down the hall and he caught sight of a tall, ragged figure in a black coat watching him, though a moment later he realized there was a red cloth wrapped around the man’s face and he couldn’t possibly see a thing...

‘Who—’ Cole began, but then he stopped in confusion. He blinked a few times, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him.

The man had disappeared.

‘You ready for this?’ Orgrim hefted his great warhammer and stared into the mist. The early-morning air was utterly still, not a sound to be heard except for the soft gurgle of the Icemelt. Even the birds in the trees had fallen silent. A sign that demons were near.

Kayne took a deep breath. He had waited five years for this moment. Each morning he would rise just before the sun, climb the battlements of Watcher’s Keep to stare out at the colossal Devil’s Spine mountains far in the distance, dreaming of the day he would join his brothers at the Borderland. And now that day was here.

‘I’m ready,’ he replied, though his heart was beating fast and his hand felt slippery on the hilt of his longsword. He raised his shield and glanced at Taran beside him. The Greenman seemed just as nervous as he was. Maybe more.

‘Remember your training,’ Orgrim said. ‘Demonkin are weak and stupid, but they strike fear into a man’s heart like the rest of their kind. Master that fear – or better yet, turn it into a weapon. And watch out for their claws.’

‘I saw a Lakeman die of demon-rot,’ Taran said. ‘He turned black. Lost his fingers and then his arms. Nasty way to go.’

‘Sounds like it,’ Kayne muttered.

‘Give me a warg or a troll. Even a giant. Demons, they can’t be reasoned with. They got no mercy. They ain’t natural.’

Kayne remembered a young voice screaming his name, and his grip tightened on his longsword. ‘Natural or not, they die like anything else,’ he growled.

Orgrim gave him a look he knew well. ‘Keep your temper in check, Kayne. A true Warden requires more than just skill, he also needs discipline.’

Kayne nodded and forced himself to relax. Orgrim had saved his life more than once. He had spoken up for him before the King, and then again back at the Keep, when old Kalgar had judged Kayne too reckless for the Borderland. He had even put himself forward to accompany Kayne on his Initiation. He reckoned he owed it to the big Easterman not to let him down.