Grim Company 02 - Sword Of The North (3 page)

An arrow whistled over Kayne’s shoulder. He ducked low, gritting his teeth against the spasm of pain that shot down his back. The youngster, Brick, was reaching for his quiver again, utter terror in his emerald eyes. The other bandit was already sighting down his bow. It was aimed straight at Kayne.

He caught the glint of metal in the corner of his vision and the archer’s head suddenly burst like a melon, an explosion of gore and chunks of bone. The body tumbled to the ground, the handle of Jerek’s axe sticking out from the broken mess that had been the man’s head.

And only one bandit remained.

Kayne met Brick’s eyes and held them as the lad’s freckled hand fumbled with the bow. There were thirty feet between them. ‘You any good with that?’ Kayne asked conversationally, wiping his greatsword dry on the corpse at his feet. Jerek was inching closer to the axe buried in the chest of the first man he’d killed.

‘Good enough,’ replied Brick with admirable conviction. He got the arrow nocked and drew his bowstring.

‘You already missed me once,’ Kayne replied evenly. ‘Best make your next shot a good one. Don’t reckon you’ll get another chance.’ He nodded pointedly at Jerek, who was bending down slowly to retrieve his weapon, face grim with the promise of death.

He could see the boy’s resolve beginning to waver. ‘I don’t want to die,’ he said, sounding awfully young. He stared around wildly at the bodies of his comrades. At the ruin of a man’s head, mangled brain leaking through his shattered skull.

‘None of us do. But it’s an ugly business, robbing folk.’

Brick’s eyes jumped from Kayne to Jerek and back again, the bow in his hands twitching one way and then the other as he tried to keep both men in his sights. ‘I know who you are. You’re the Highlanders who killed dozens of Asander’s men. The Bandit King has a bounty on your heads.’

Kayne sighed. ‘Aye,’ he replied. ‘That’s us.’

‘I’ll ride away and won’t look back,’ Brick said, desperation in his voice. ‘I won’t tell anyone you’re here. I give you my word!’

Bit late for that now, lad. I let you go free, you’ll bring every bandit in the Badlands down on us.

His heart sank at the knowledge of what had to be done. He steeled himself and walked slowly over to the boy, then thrust out a bloodied hand. ‘Give me the bow and we got ourselves a deal.’

Brick hesitated and let the string go slack. Brodar Kayne took the bow with a grateful nod.

With his other hand, he punched Brick hard in the face.

‘We should kill him. Get it done quick.’

Kayne rubbed at his bristled chin. He glanced up at the stars overhead, then down at the groaning figure strapped to the saddle on the horse beside him.

‘He’s just a boy.’

‘You’d killed a man at his age, Kayne, and you know it.’

Jerek had been less than impressed to find Brick still breathing. The Wolf had calmed down now, furious rage replaced by sullen anger. In Kayne’s experience the latter tended to linger a fair old while.

‘Best not to use me as a yardstick, I reckon.’

Jerek spat. They rode on in silence, heading ever northward into the wilds that lay beyond the Trine. Another day or two and they’d be well inside the Badlands.

‘The Bandit King ain’t forgotten about us,’ Jerek finally said. ‘Chances are his cousin Fivebellies ain’t either. You heard the kid. There’s a bounty on our heads.’

‘I know. Not much for it now.’

‘Kid’s uncle will come looking for him too. You thought about that?’

‘Aye.’

‘And?’

‘Not much for it now.’

Jerek shook his head, the moonlight casting a shine on his bald scalp. ‘You’re turning into a right old pussy and that’s a fact.’

Kayne sighed. ‘Age will do that to you.’

Jerek snorted in reply.

An hour later they reined in their horses and set up camp. They bundled Brick off his saddle and onto the ground. The boy had a big purple bruise on his cheek, but no permanent damage. Kayne shook his head ruefully. There had been a time when his right hook was guaranteed to break a man’s jaw.

‘You awake?’ He gave the waterskin he was holding a shake, sprinkling a few drops over Brick’s face.

‘Urgh! Leave me alone.’

Jerek jabbed a booted foot none too gently into Brick’s ribs. ‘Shift, you lazy prick.’

‘Ow! Where… where am I?’

Kayne took a bite out of a chunk of bread and gave it a good hard chew. ‘I’d like to say among friends,’ he said, around mouthfuls. ‘But the truth is that you’re our captive and you’d best do what we say or we’ll more than likely kill you.’

He gave Brick a moment for this to sink in. ‘Where’s my uncle Glaston?’ the boy asked.

‘First hint of trouble and he fled like a startled deer. A right coward, your uncle.’

‘He’s no coward! He’s the smartest man I know.’

‘He was smart enough to save his own skin, I’ll give him that.’

‘You don’t understand,’ said Brick. ‘Asander the Bandit King would have killed me if it wasn’t for him.’

‘You’re not on good terms with the Bandit King?’

Brick shook his head and rubbed at his bruised cheek. ‘We were fleeing south to escape him. We only wanted your food and whatever coin we could steal. We’re not murderers.’

Kayne raised a thick eyebrow but decided to let that pass. He was silent for a moment, trying to see a way forward that didn’t involve murdering the lad. ‘Right, Brick,’ he said. ‘Here’s how it’s going to be. You’ll ride with us, act as our guide through this land. Do as you’re told and you can have your horse back when we reach the Purple Hills.’

‘Uncle Glaston won’t abandon me.’

‘Then you’ll just have to explain the situation when he shows his face again. I’ll untie your legs but your wrists are staying bound for now.’

He cut through the rope around Brick’s legs and then handed him a heel of bread and the rest of the waterskin. The boy tore hungrily into the bread, the right side of his mouth doing all the work. Kayne felt a moment of pity for the young bandit. He shook his head sadly, remembering a small body disappearing beneath the Icemelt all those years ago.

Jerek was seeing to the horses. Kayne lowered his aching body to the ground and settled back against the trunk of an oak. Then he reached into the coin purse at his belt and rummaged around inside. It felt lighter than before – they’d lost a handful of spires and sceptres during the fight with the bandits. He figured it was coin well spent.

With great care he removed the items wrapped inside the bag. The protective cloth had become stained with blood during the fight, but he was relieved to find none of the contents were soiled.

He stared down at them, cradling them delicately in his palm. His three most precious treasures.

A lock of Mhaira’s hair, chocolate brown.

The ring she had presented to him for their joining ceremony: a plain band of silver. It was still bright despite the passing of the years.

The small knife he had fashioned for Magnar: the traditional gift a father presents to his son on his fourteenth naming day, when a boy officially becomes a man. He ran a finger softly down the dull blade.

Jerek walked over, and Kayne noticed that he limped slightly. The Wolf must have taken a wound in the fighting earlier that day. He hadn’t mentioned it. He never did.

Kayne felt a fresh wave of guilt, the terrible burden of truths he had kept hidden for so long.

Jerek watched him, his scarred face unreadable. If the Wolf noticed the tears threatening Kayne’s eyes he betrayed nothing. ‘We’ll find her,’ he said simply. He kicked off his boots and was snoring almost as soon as he hit the ground.

Kayne rewrapped the objects in his hand and placed them carefully back inside the pouch. He glanced over at Brick, who was staring out into the night, no doubt wondering when his uncle might return and attempt a rescue.

He got himself as comfortable as he could, and then he too settled back to watch the wilderness. Time and again his failing eyes were drawn to the north.

A thousand or more miles away, the wife he had until recently thought dead waited for him. He would find Mhaira; put things right between him and his son if he could. Then he and the Shaman would have their reckoning.

After two long years, the Sword of the North was coming home.

The wharf was crowded with people – a big stinking mass of humanity sweltering in the noon sun. Most appeared to be poor and desperate, though Eremul the Halfmage wondered if a few of the ‘volunteers’ packed onto the docks weren’t in actual fact bored merchants’ sons seeking the thrill of adventure.

The city folk who would remain behind watched mournfully as their loved ones shuffled down the gangplanks towards the huge ships floating listlessly in the harbour. They would shortly be sailing west, out onto the Broken Sea to the Celestial Isles. The majority looked terrified at the prospect. One or two seemed strangely eager. Eremul’s thin lips twisted in contempt.

They believe they are going to return from the Isles rich men. It takes a special kind of moron to place his head in a noose and expect the hangman to make him a prince.

A month had passed since Salazar’s assassination. During that time it had become clear to Eremul that Dorminia’s new ruler was no saviour, no great deliverer compelled by altruistic desires. As far as he could see the city had merely swapped one tyrant for another. The White Lady of Thelassa was every bit as totalitarian as Salazar had been. Only subtler in her methods.

‘Are you the Halfmage?’ someone drawled behind him. He twisted his neck and frowned into the unctuous grin of a round-faced fellow – a merchant judging by the extravagant purple doublet straining over his corpulent frame. The gold buttons alone must have been worth a small fortune, enough to feed dozens of starving mouths down in the Warrens.

Eremul wheeled his chair around and pointed a slender finger at the robes hanging over the stumps of his legs. ‘Know any other horrifically maimed wizards?’

The merchant’s watery eyes narrowed slightly. ‘No.’

‘In that case, you have surmised correctly: I am indeed the Halfmage.’ He shifted uncomfortably on his chair. The fabric of his robes clung damply to his arse in the sweltering heat. He would need to wash again before his visit to the Obelisk.

‘You’re a hero,’ the merchant said, refusing to take the hint and piss off. ‘I heard they had to scrape the Tyrant off the streets once you were done with him.’

Eremul sighed. He was beginning to tire of his new status – not least because it was based on an outrageous lie.

‘Look at all those brave pioneers preparing to sail,’ the merchant continued. ‘A testament to the indomitable spirit of this great city.’

They watched the line of men and women filtering down the gangplank into the carrack currently docked. The ships were all Thelassan vessels, boasting names like the
Maiden Voyager
and
Mistress of the Seas
. Their flags hung slack in the afternoon sun.

‘I almost wish I could go with them,’ the merchant declared. ‘They say the Celestial Isles are filled with riches.’

‘Riches this city will not see a copper of.’ Eremul couldn’t keep the anger from his voice. ‘The White Lady has already helped herself to a generous slice of Dorminia’s wealth, as evidenced by the dispossessed nobles furiously plotting rebellion.’

‘You are against those privileged parasites having their assets stripped?’ The merchant sounded surprised.

Eremul frowned. ‘On the contrary, I fucking
love
the idea. But I note that none of the confiscated coin has filtered down to the proverbial man on the street. The poor are worse off than they were under Salazar.’

The merchant shrugged and waved a dismissive hand at the scattering crowd. ‘Then they have only themselves to blame. Some of us are doing rather well under our new Magelord. I’ve always believed in an honest day’s pay for an honest day’s work.’

‘And if there is no “honest day’s work”?’ Eremul asked softly. ‘What do you suppose became of those who served the nobles? The maids and the cooks and the gardeners? The White Lady imposes heavy taxes while food shortages grow worse. One might almost suspect her of intentionally starving the city to force people to take the Pioneer’s Deal.’

The merchant’s bluster was replaced by the anxious look of a man not at all keen on the direction the conversation had taken. ‘You shouldn’t talk like that,’ he said, glancing around nervously.

Eremul’s expression twisted into one of mock confusion. ‘Why ever not? Are you suggesting we still have reason to fear speaking the truth?’

The merchant wiped sweat from his face and adjusted his collar. ‘You of all people should be glad the White Lady now rules here. Good has triumphed over evil.’

Eremul sneered unpleasantly. ‘This is the Age of Ruin. There is no good and evil.’

There was a sudden commotion north of the harbour. A score of men in chains were shuffling towards the docks, as motley and sinister a bunch as the Halfmage had ever seen. A handful of the White Lady’s spectral handmaidens shepherded them along.

Eremul watched the group with interest. He found his eyes drawn to one prisoner in particular: a tall figure wearing a black coat that must have been grand once upon a time but was now a tattered thing, too large for his gaunt frame. The way he carried himself was different to the others; where they slouched, he strode along proudly. For some reason, the sight brought to mind a great bird whose wings had been clipped.

The prisoner turned his head towards Eremul, who flinched and shrank back in his chair. The prisoner wore a red cloth covering his eyes, and his jaw was clenched so ferociously that he looked like he might bite through his tongue. Despite the fact he couldn’t possibly see through the cloth, the Halfmage had the unsettling sensation the man was somehow staring straight at him.

The strange prisoner was led into the hold of a ship a little apart from the others, and Eremul remembered to breathe again. He felt suddenly embarrassed. Getting spooked by a blind old jailbird was a troubling reminder of just how badly Isaac’s betrayal had shaken him.