Grim Company 02 - Sword Of The North (2 page)

There was a brief silence. He held his breath, the roar of the Icemelt raging below him.

A strong hand pulled him up, almost gently, and turned him around. ‘I’ve never met a boy who put up as much fight as you did. Especially not half-starved. I’ll ask again: What’s your name, lad?’

He stared back at his saviour. The man’s face carried a few minor injuries from their earlier struggle, but his eyes betrayed no malice or anger. Only a certain curiosity.

‘My name...’ he said slowly, trying not to pass out from the pain. He blinked snow from his eyes. ‘My name...’ he said again.

‘… is Kayne.’

‘Kayne.’

The gruff voice snapped him awake like a bucket of ice-cold water over the head. The Wolf could rasp his name any number of ways fit to freeze the blood. One glance at Jerek’s bald, fire-scarred visage was all the confirmation he needed that things were about to turn ugly.

‘Bandits?’ he mouthed silently. Jerek nodded and scowled at the receding night. The grim warrior’s twin axes were already unharnessed, brutal implements of death that had taken more lives than Kayne could count.

The old Highlander pushed himself painfully to his feet, rubbing sleep from his eyes. They hadn’t bothered to light a campfire. It was the height of summer and, besides, they’d hoped to avoid drawing attention. Hoped to avoid a situation like this.

He unsheathed his greatsword and squinted into the darkness. Not a damn thing, he thought sourly. His eyesight was getting worse.

Jerek’s senses, on the other hand, seemed as sharp as ever. His friend did the lion’s share of the sentry duty, and though neither man had spoken of it, Kayne was beginning to feel guilty. There was only so much guilt a man could take. And the older you got, the more difficult it became to bear the weight.

A twig snapped somewhere nearby. An arrow zinged through the air and thudded into the grass six feet from where the horses were tethered. They snorted and shifted nervously.

Kayne sighed. He hated archers. They were little better than wizards, in his estimation, though at least most had the decency not to prance around in what was, when it came right down to it, a glorified dress. A sliver of the dream he had just woken from flickered in the dark pits of his mind, and he glanced down at his left knee. The memory of that ancient agony made him wince.

Jerek motioned to his left and stalked off, crouching low and weaving from side to side. Kayne followed his lead, though the effort of bending caused his back to complain something fierce.

He thought he saw the shadows shift ahead. Bandits normally travelled in small groups, the better to strike hard and fast and make a quick escape. There were unlikely to be many of them. If they could take out one or two, the rest would scatter soon enough.

Suddenly, he sensed movement to his right. Careless of his creaking knees, he dived into a roll, coming out of it with his greatsword raised high, prepared to cleave whoever it was in half.

But it was only Jerek, his eyes glittering in the ghostly light. The Wolf spat on the grass and shook his head. ‘They fled,’ he said. ‘Best we get moving. No sense waiting to be picked off in broad daylight.’

Kayne nodded. Bandits were always a risk when crossing the Badlands, as the two men knew all too well from recent experience.

They returned to camp to find their packs missing.

‘Pricks stole our bags,’ growled Jerek, never one to mince his words. He reached up and began tugging at his beard, the way he always did when he was on the verge of flying off into a rage.

Kayne closed his eyes and leaned on his greatsword. This was an inauspicious start to their journey. Three weeks had passed since they’d departed Dorminia, and the wounds they’d suffered during the battle for the city had forced them to rest for a time. Jerek’s injuries in particular were nasty – at least two broken ribs and a cracked cheekbone. But the Wolf would rather pass out in the saddle than delay another week. Jerek hated crowds. He hated soft, Lowlander comforts. He hated pretty much everything, truth be told.

‘At least we still have the horses,’ Kayne grunted. He walked over to the mounts, shaking his head ruefully. ‘We could ride back to Ashfall and resupply,’ he suggested, though he already knew what the answer would be.

Jerek shot him a dark look. ‘I ain’t going back there. Place is a shithole.’

Kayne couldn’t argue the point. Ashfall was appropriately named. The black dust got everywhere, blown in by swirling winds from the Demonfire Hills to settle on Dorminia’s northernmost vassal town. Ashfall wasn’t a place either man wanted to return to in a hurry.

‘Guess we ride on,’ Kayne said, sheathing his sword and pulling himself onto his mount. The sky was lightening, midnight blue fading to iron grey as night gave way to morning. He studied the area as Jerek climbed onto his own horse, a black stallion that accepted his scowling burden with an ease that would have surprised the stable master who sold them the beast. Jerek had a way with animals he lacked with people.

The land ran flat for miles in every direction. Wild grasses warred with small copses of oak and elm and beech. The daylight would soon reveal their brilliant shades of gold and green.

Further north, Kayne knew, these vibrant colours would become muted. The grass would grow dull and sparse, and scrub would replace tree until the Badlands truly began – a vast stretch of barren country once home to the nomadic Yahan horse tribes before the Godswar broke the land. The last time he and Jerek had passed through, the place had been fair crawling with bandits. Given the trail of corpses the two Highlanders had left behind, Kayne figured the Bandit King would be in no mood to welcome them back with open arms.

As they rode, he watched Jerek with concern. The Wolf looked in some pain. Likely he was nursing one of his injuries. Kayne’s own wounds still hurt, especially the knife slash in his stomach that had threatened to turn rotten. The flesh was clean and had knitted back together, but the scar was still raw. He paid it little mind. There were some wounds that never healed, wounds that festered deep in the soul and ultimately did more to break a man than any bodily hurt. The spirits knew he carried enough of those scars himself, but the news he’d received back at the Grey City lent him hope that the largest of them might not follow him to the grave. For the first time in many months, he had a purpose. Something to live for.

He let go of the reins and squeezed the coin purse hanging at his belt. Forty golden spires and a handful of silver sceptres – a large sum of coin by anyone’s standards. He and Jerek had been through hell to earn it. It wasn’t every day you helped liberate a city from a tyrant. He’d made friends down in the Trine, met some good men and women – and a few some way off good, but interesting nonetheless. In different circumstances he might have been tempted to stay. Instead he and the Wolf had left Dorminia as soon as they had collected their pay. The treasure nestling inside that pouch had changed everything. It was the reason he was back riding north. Back to the High Fangs. Back to the place he had once called home.

‘Kayne.’

Jerek pointed at the thicket of trees just ahead. Kayne leaned forward on his brown mare and squinted, but saw nothing save an indistinct green blur. He shook his head in frustration. He could remember a time when he had thought thirty was old. By forty, a man was past his prime. A man’s fighting days should be ancient history by fifty, stories to tell the grandchildren. Yet here he was into his sixth decade and still doing the same old shit, except now his body was falling apart and taking a piss was a tougher battle than killing a man.

He pulled back on his reins and fell in behind Jerek. They turned away from the stand of trees and urged the horses to a run. A moment later a group of armed men on horseback burst out from behind the trees. He counted five, and Jerek grunted to draw attention to three more emerging from a thicket ahead.

‘We’re not getting by those without a fight,’ Kayne said, eyeing the men warily. The two Highlanders spurred their horses on, wind streaming through Kayne’s grey hair and dancing around Jerek’s hairless scalp. Kayne risked a glance behind him. The riders giving chase were gaining fast. ‘Shit,’ he muttered.

They were never going to outpace the bandits; the Highlanders’ mounts were of reasonable stock, but the horses of these steppes were renowned the world over. The sudden disappearance of the vanished Yahan tribes had gifted the Bandit King the finest horses in the land.

Three of the riders pulled alongside them, easily keeping pace. The leader raised a hand with what looked suspiciously like a flourish. ‘Surrender!’ he called out in dramatic fashion. ‘Flee and your lives shall be forfeit.’

Jerek narrowed his eyes and spat over the side of his horse. Surrender was the last thing on his mind, Kayne reckoned. More likely the Wolf intended to cut a bloody path right through them.

He lowered his voice so he hoped only Jerek could hear. ‘Better we do this on the ground. We’re outnumbered four to one, and I’m not much for fighting on horseback.’

For a moment he thought his companion would ignore him, but a few seconds later Jerek tugged at his reins and brought his stallion to an abrupt halt. Kayne did the same, hoping he hadn’t just made a terrible mistake.

They dismounted as the bandits moved quickly to surround them. The leader slid off his mount with an easy grace, even seeing fit to sketch a quick bow, to Jerek’s evident annoyance.

‘Well.’ The bandit leader stroked his thin moustache; his jet-black hair was bound in a ponytail and the hilt of a fancy sword stuck out from the belt at his waist, which was cinched tight around grey leather armour. Kayne swallowed a sneeze as the fragrant scent of the bandit tickled his nose. The man smelled faintly of perfume.

‘Well,’ the dapper outlaw repeated. He flashed a smile, revealing bright white teeth. ‘I believe we have ourselves a robbery. I would like to say you gave us quite the chase, but that would be a lie.’

Kayne watched Jerek out of the corner of his right eye. The Wolf’s teeth were grinding together, explosive rage mere seconds away. This dandy was rubbing him the wrong way something fierce.

‘I’m gonna make a suggestion,’ Kayne said carefully. ‘We pay you a few coin to buy safe passage. Then you bid us a pleasant journey and we part ways, all peaceful-like.’

The bandit leader raised a gloved hand to stroke thoughtfully at his chin. ‘I see you are familiar with our customs. That pouch at your waist will indeed do nicely. As will your weapons – there is always need for good steel in these parts.’

‘Go fuck yourself.’

Every man present immediately turned to stare at Jerek.

‘I ain’t handing my axes over to some faggot,’ the Wolf explained unhelpfully.

Kayne tried not to let the despair show on his face as steel whispered from sheaths all around them. To his credit, the bandit leader kept his sword at his belt. ‘I do not believe’, the moustached outlaw said slowly, ‘that you are in a position to refuse.’ He pointed at the purse hanging from Kayne’s belt. ‘What’s in the bag, old fellow?’ he asked amiably.

Kayne’s blue eyes narrowed at the insult, but he untied the pouch nonetheless and tugged it open to expose the glittering contents for all the bandits to see. ‘Forty golden spires,’ he said, trying his best to keep his tone friendly. He gave the purse a shake to demonstrate, but in his annoyance he misjudged it and the real treasure he kept hidden within spilled out onto the grass.

Shit.
He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so he settled on a manic grin.

‘Forty golden spires – and what else? A collection of precious gems, perhaps?’ The bandit chuckled, a rich throaty sound. He gestured at the small bundle that lay wrapped in cloth. ‘What are you trying to hide? Hand it over.’

‘I can’t do that,’ replied Kayne. There was iron in his voice now, a hard edge he couldn’t will away, though he knew where it would lead. Jerek met his eyes and in that moment they both understood what was about to happen.

The bandit leader sighed again, clearly savouring the drama of it all. He shook his head in mock regret. ‘Then we shall take it by force.’

‘Uncle,’ a small voice piped up. It was the youngest of the bandits, the lad nearest the leader. Kayne studied him with a frown. He was little more than a boy, a wiry figure with green eyes and bright red hair. Too young to be keeping such company.

‘Hush, Brick.’ The leader waved a dismissive hand.

‘But these men...’ Brick tried again. The older bandit leaned across and cuffed him around the back of the head.

‘I said hush. Where are your manners? I didn’t raise you to be a barbarian. Not like these brutes.’

‘That’s a bit harsh, boss,’ said one of the bandits, a hint of reproach in his voice.

Their leader raised an eyebrow. ‘I was talking about the Highlanders.’ He placed a gloved hand on the hilt of his sword. With his other hand he drew his forefinger dramatically across his throat. ‘Kill them.’

Brodar Kayne tossed the coin pouch into the air.

It sailed across the circle of bandits; their hungry eyes were drawn to the gold spilling out like flies to a corpse. The distraction lasted only a moment, but in that short time several things happened.

Kayne reached behind him, tugged his sword free of its sheath, and beheaded the brigand nearest him. An axe arced through the air, spinning end over end, and thudded into the chest of the bandit opposite Jerek. The impact dropped the bandit like a stone, blood painting the shocked faces of the men on either side. The Wolf was on them in an instant, his remaining axe cleaving through leather and bone.

Only the bandit leader reacted to this surprise turn of events, vaulting quickly onto his horse. He kicked down and sent his mount racing away without so much as a backward glance.

One bandit ran at Kayne with his scimitar raised, yelling in that pointless way men who’d never been in a real fight often did. Kayne knocked aside his awkward swing, drove a boot into the man’s stomach and sent him sprawling. He was still fumbling desperately for his weapon when the old warrior finished him off.