The Grim Company (15 page)

‘I’ll teach you a fucking lesson,’ Borun bellowed, and he pounced. His axe came flashing down. Kayne raised his greatsword and caught it, turned it aside. The two men came together in a flurry of feints, parries and clashing steel. Borun was every bit as good as he remembered. Unlike him, Borun hadn’t spent a year in a cage, his muscles withering away to nothing. He hadn’t spent the best part of two years running from the Brethren, giants, and even worse things. He hadn’t just survived a damned shipwreck.

The haft of Borun’s axe caught him a glancing blow on the face and he stumbled backwards. He felt blood dampen his right cheek, trickling down to his chin. His body hurt all over and his heart hammered. Borun feinted, punched forwards with the head of his huge axe and then brought it swinging around in a devastating overhead slash. Kayne ducked and rolled out of the way, his body screaming in protest. No sooner had he finished his roll than Borun was upon him, his axe swinging downwards in a fierce overhead chop. He caught it with his greatsword, but the effort sent pain jarring through his neck and shoulders. He was on his knees, the weight of the muscular warrior pushing down on him.

Ten years ago, maybe even five, he would have summoned up the strength to push back. Borun might be the larger man, but he was
Brodar Kayne
, and his strength had been legendary.

That was then. This was now. Try as he might, he could not overpower the huge, stinking warrior looming over him. Fact was, he wasn’t the man he used to be.

You have to adapt
.

He dived to the left, heard the heavy steel head of the axe thud into the turf an instant later, missing his head by a hair’s breadth. There was an angry grunt and then Borun was on him again. Still on his knees, Kayne parried the first blow. He dropped a hand to the magical dagger at his belt and parried Borun’s second slash one-handed, his arm almost buckling with the effort.

With his free hand, he drew the blade and slammed it hard into Borun’s stomach.

The big Highlander gasped and stumbled backwards, staring down at the hilt quivering in his midriff. Blood seeped around it, dribbling between his legs.

Brodar Kayne clambered back to his feet and stalked forwards. ‘I reckon that’ll about do for you,’ he said, swatting aside a diagonal chop aimed at his neck. Borun was already weakening. The dribble of blood had become a steady patter. ‘I should leave you here to die a slow death. Ain’t like you don’t deserve it.’

Borun drew a shuddering breath. ‘Couldn’t rightly blame you for that,’ he said. He wavered and suddenly his axe tumbled from his grasp into the mud with a squelch. He placed both hands around the hilt of the dagger, where they hesitated.

‘Lost count of the times I dreamed of killing you,’ Kayne said. ‘Sometimes it was all that kept me going. I guess I should be feeling mighty satisfied right about now. Truth is, though, I don’t. You can’t change what’s been done.’

‘Aye,’ said Borun. He rocked on his feet again. His hands had begun to tremble. ‘And sometimes you can’t change what’s coming.’

Kayne closed his eyes for a moment. Memories came back to him. Swimming down the Icemelt on his twenty-first naming day, his skin so cold it had turned blue. Borun laughing his arse off, little more than a boy. He had swum to the shore and hauled the younger man in, to much laughter from them both.

Hunting in the Long Pikes together, Borun bringing down his first boar after they’d spent the best part of a day fleeing an enraged mountain lion.

The look of pride on Borun’s face when Kayne asked him to be Spirit Father for his bride-to-be.

The same face staring at the ground while he scraped his arms raw on the Shaman’s cage.

Mhaira’s screams
.

He raised his greatsword high above his head. The sun bathed it in a red glow, the colour of blood. ‘Sometimes you can’t change what’s coming,’ he said, staring down into Borun’s eyes. ‘But a man who looks away and accepts it without as much as a whimper, he’s no man. And for damn sure he ain’t no brother.’ The sword flashed down. Borun’s head thumped onto the ground and rolled for a good few yards before coming to a stop against an outcrop of granite.

Jerek walked over, his twin axes dripping red. ‘You told that cunt,’ he said simply. Specks of blood dotted his face and short beard.

Kayne glanced at the bodies of the two Highlanders the Wolf had killed. It wasn’t a pretty sight. ‘You could have stepped in,’ he said. ‘Borun almost had me.’

Jerek snorted. ‘That’s some fucking gratitude. You’d never have forgiven me, Kayne, and you know it.’

The old barbarian thought about it for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Aye, you’re right. The others?’

‘Isaac and the girl are fine. He ain’t bad with a sword. Held them off until I got there. As for the faggot, fuck knows.’

Brodar Kayne shook his head. The Halfmage’s manservant was full of surprises. ‘Vicard fled. I expect he’s hiding under a rock somewhere.’

‘Up here,’ called a strained voice. They looked up. The alchemist knelt on a narrow ridge some distance above them. He had a stupid smile on his face. ‘I found a path,’ he exclaimed. ‘I was preparing a little something for those brutes, but it turns out it wasn’t necessary.’ He tossed the small ceramic ball in his hand into the air to demonstrate. The barbarian winced as he almost fumbled it.

Vicard wiped his nose with the back of his hand and grinned again. Kayne could see the brown leather pouch on the ground near his satchel. ‘Pack your things and get down here,’ he bellowed. ‘If I see you snorting that shit again, the whole pouch goes up your arse and that’s a promise.’ The adrenalin was wearing off and his whole body was aching worse than before. He glanced down, saw Borun’s sightless eyes staring back at him. He grimaced.

It don’t get any easier
.

Hard Decisions

 

 

 

Cole retched one more time, heaving until there was nothing left inside him and he thought his innards were going to spill out of his mouth. Between the constant rocking sensation and the foul stench, scarcely an hour passed when he didn’t feel the need to empty his gut. Puddles of piss and dark mounds of excrement lay mingled with vomit, blood and other assorted filth on the floor beneath him. The one saving grace was that it was too dim to see the putrid mess in all its glory. Cracks in the planking above allowed a few narrow shafts of light to illuminate the faces of his fellow prisoners, but they didn’t reach far enough to penetrate the darkest recesses of the cargo hold.

Someone kill me
, he thought miserably. The
Redemption
had set sail the night before, and while the small carrack was making good time they still had the better part of a day and night before they reached their destination.

Of the forty men on board, almost half were consigned to the cargo hold. Their ankles were shackled to ensure they didn’t try to escape. The rest of the ship’s passengers were above decks: Kramer, the disgraced former admiral of Dorminia’s fleet, now captain of the
Redemption
, and his first mate, a bald-headed brute of a man named Vargus; their crew, ten of the bravest – or stupidest – men they could convince to sail the ship; a dozen Crimson Watchmen to maintain order and help operate the small arsenal of heavy artillery in case of attack; and finally Falcus, the lisping Augmentor overseeing the expedition. He’d already murdered one captive for refusing to return to the hold after they’d been allowed on deck for their morning meal. The Augmentor had clucked in annoyance, whipped out his crossbow and put a quarrel through the man’s head at point-blank range. The body had been hurled overboard to sink to the bottom of the Broken Sea.

Cole’s ankles were chafed raw from his shackles, his ribs still ached and he’d been pissing blood ever since Goodlady Cyreena had clobbered him in the balls and shoved a needle in him.

She had been waiting down at the docks to watch them depart. Cole had longed to spit in her face or break away from his captors and drown her in the harbour. When she’d met his gaze with those strangely familiar eyes of hers, however, he’d felt his legs turn to jelly and promptly vomited all over the Crimson Watchman beside him. That had earned him a rough backhand across the face.

I want to die
. He’d never known suffering like this. He was trapped on a cramped and filthy ship, his body a mass of agonies, any single one of which would likely incapacitate a lesser man. Even a hero had his limits.

Not for the first time Davarus Cole cursed his ill luck. He was on his way to the Swell, a place sailors spoke of only in the most fearful of whispers. The odds of him returning to Dorminia and the glorious future he had been promised were growing worse by the hour.

‘Stop your snivelling, boy,’ spat Three-Finger. He was an evil-looking fellow, with dirty grey stubble covering his scabrous face and piggish eyes staring from beneath a brow that seemed permanently furrowed. His left hand was missing its index and middle fingers. As a boy he had been caught stealing in the Bazaar.

From the other captives Cole had learned Three-Finger was also missing half a cock, having more recently been charged with numerous counts of rape and sentenced accordingly. He scowled at anyone he caught looking at him whenever he decided to take a piss, which was often.

‘My nose is broken,’ Cole replied sullenly. ‘I wasn’t snivelling. You don’t know what I’ve been through.’

Three-Finger laughed. ‘Aren’t you a special snowflake. Take a look around, kid. Every man in this shithole has a sorry tale to share. You think I want to be here? It was this or swing in the Hook until the crows pecked off the rest of my prick. I figured the Swell would be quicker and a good deal less painful.’

One of the other captives coughed, a horrible hacking that told of some illness in his lungs. ‘I didn’t even have a choice,’ the man said, once he’d wiped the blood away from his mouth. ‘The Watch burst into my home. They told me I’d been found guilty of treason.’ He coughed again before continuing. ‘Taxes were raised so high to fund the war with Shadowport that my business collapsed and my wife had to take to the streets to support our family. I called Salazar every name under the sun, didn’t see the mindhawk until it was too late. Then the Black Lottery chose me.’

‘What kind of trade you in?’ Three-Finger asked. He had a rash on the side of his face and kept scratching at it with his maimed hand.

‘I’m an engineer,’ the sick man replied. ‘I ran a business. Soeman’s Solutions on Artifice Street.’

‘I know it,’ Three-Finger said. ‘You’re Soeman, then?’

The engineer nodded and lapsed into another fit of coughing. ‘Those in charge of this operation must have thought I’d be useful to them,’ he said once he recovered. ‘Otherwise I’d be dead. Armin is directing the mining operation. Maybe he requested an additional engineer aboard the ship.’

‘The
Swell
,’ exclaimed a red-nosed man of advanced years chained nearby. ‘I’ve sailed the Broken Sea for thirty years – travelled to the Drowned Coast and the ruins of old Andarr, and west further still, out onto the great Endless Ocean. Yet never once did I venture near that accursed place. They say the Swell marks the spot where Malantis plummeted from the heavens. His corpse rots there still.’

The old seadog’s voice suddenly dropped to a whisper. Cole struggled to hear him over the creaking of stressed wood and the murmuring of waves washing against the hull.

‘A ship can be sailing happily along one minute – and the next, it’s twenty feet under water. That ain’t the worse though. I’ve heard tales of craft that have crested a wave only for the sea’s surface to plummet a hundred foot or more in an instant. He might be dead, but the Lord of the Deep don’t rest easy in his watery grave. His rage is unquenchable, they say, and he’ll scupper any ship that dares disturb his resting place.’

The old sailor’s words sent a shudder of fear rippling through Cole and the other captives within hearing distance. Danger was one thing, a calculated risk to overcome. What the veteran sailor described amounted to playing roulette with the very sea itself.

‘This is suicide!’ he gasped.

Three-Finger grinned, revealing crooked yellow teeth. ‘I hope those wankers know what they’ve let themselves in for.’

The hatch above up them suddenly banged open and sunlight flooded the hold. Cole blinked tears from his stinging eyes. Once his vision had cleared, he saw the weather-beaten face of First Mate Vargus staring at them. Sweat ran in rivulets down his bald head and scarred cheeks.

‘Captain Kramer wants you all up on deck,’ he barked at them. ‘We’re coming down to open your shackles. Any of you so much as
looks
like causing trouble, that man gets to feed the fishes.’

He disappeared. A rope ladder was lowered, and four men of the Watch climbed down into the hold. Each wore chainmail and carried a steel longsword in his hand.

Cole briefly considered trying to overpower the soldier unlocking his shackles, but a glance at the open hatch revealed Falcus and a half-dozen Watchmen positioned around the edge of the hold, crossbows at the ready. The young Shard’s appraising gaze became a sickly grin when the Augmentor caught him staring at them. Cole gulped and quickly looked away.