The Grim Company (40 page)

‘No!’ exclaimed Sasha. ‘We can’t do that to these people. I know the Watch. They’ll torch the entire village if it means getting to us.’

‘Aye, she’s right.’ Kayne took a step forwards. ‘Isaac, fetch the horses. I’ll go get my sword. We’ll give them a chase they’ll remember.’

Jerek turned away and muttered something savage. Kayne ignored him. He was already running back towards the physician’s home where his greatsword was stashed.

Three weeks,
he thought.
Three weeks of peace. I’ve never felt so relaxed and carefree
. His feet hammered on the dry muddy ground, sending jarring impacts up to his knees. They were already starting to ache. There was something almost comforting in that.

It took him a moment before he realized he had a smile on his face.

‘Not much further,’ Isaac shouted. He was out in front again, having taken the lead for most of their mad gallop from Farrowgate. To the surprise of none of them, it turned out he was a skilled rider. Brodar Kayne knew how to handle a horse, but even he’d found the uncertain terrain a challenge. The manservant, however, had guided them with an assuredness the chasing soldiers could not hope to match.

It had been almost two hours since they fled the village. The sun was a red orb sinking beneath the hills to the west. He could feel his horse heaving beneath him, sucking in great gasps of air. It couldn’t keep up the pace much longer, but it didn’t need to. The coast was only a few miles ahead of them.

The question of what they would do when they actually reached the coast was another matter entirely, but he figured it was enough to focus on one thing at a time.

He glanced behind him. The soldiers had gained some ground over the last ten miles, but there was still a good distance between them. Gaius had evidently succeeded in delaying them for a while back at Farrowgate. He hoped the physician had followed his advice and not been too obstinate with their pursuers; he didn’t want to be responsible for the kindly old man taking a beating or worse.

Sasha was clinging onto Isaac for dear life. The girl wasn’t very familiar with the back of a horse. That had become apparent as soon as she had vaulted onto her mount and promptly slid off to land in an undignified heap on the other side. At least Jerek had had a good chuckle out of it.

The Wolf tugged at his reins, closing the gap between them. ‘Kayne,’ he rasped. ‘We’re almost at the coast. What’s the plan?’

Right. A plan. Can’t put it off any longer
. ‘We split up,’ he said. ‘I’ll get their attention, try and lead them west. You look for a way across the channel. Failing that, loop back around to the north.’

Jerek took a second to digest his words. ‘That’s it?’ he growled. ‘Fuck me, and there I was thinking you knew something I didn’t.’

The old barbarian shrugged. The horse beneath him stumbled suddenly, sending spasms of pain arching up his back. ‘Best outcome we can hope for is that they split their pursuit,’ he said between clenched teeth. ‘Three against ten, I reckon you stand a chance. Ain’t a hunter or tracker who can match you, Wolf, and you know it.’

‘Could be,’ Jerek agreed. ‘But that don’t help you much, does it?’

‘Just lead the girl and Isaac to safety and forget about me.’

‘Don’t start with that shit.’

‘You saved my life once already. I reckon your debt’s just about paid.’

Jerek’s face grew dark. ‘It’s paid when I say it’s paid. I ain’t leaving you to die. You want some noble death so maidens can get themselves wet thinking about your heroic sacrifice? Shove it up your arse, Kayne.’ The Wolf spurred his mount and the horse pulled away, taking him out of earshot.

Shit
. Jerek was about as stubborn as he was, which meant his hastily formulated plan was dead in the water.
Shortly to be followed by us, I reckon.
He could see the edge of Deadman’s Channel now, the water glittering orange in the dying light.

His horse shuddered again. He patted the mare on the neck and his hand came away covered in lather. The beast reared suddenly, and before he knew it he was flying from the saddle as the animal stumbled to its knees.

He hit the ground with an impact that forced the air from his lungs. The pain was excruciating. He gasped, rolled three or four times down the slope before coming to a halt against a jutting slab of rock. He lay there in agony, listening to the pathetic sounds of his horse expiring nearby.

Somehow he rolled over and managed to lift his head. Jerek and Isaac had ridden on for a few hundred yards, oblivious to his misfortune. The Wolf must have noticed his absence then, as he swung his gelding around and thundered back towards him.

Kayne pushed himself up from the ground as Jerek drew near. He could see their pursuers closing on them with alarming pace.

‘Grab my hand,’ the Wolf snarled as he brought his horse around. Kayne reached out, grasped the scarred hand of the grim Highlander and pulled himself up behind him.

The Wolf kicked down hard, sending the animal beneath them galloping ahead at full tilt, every strike of every hoof against the hard ground igniting fresh spasms of pain throughout Kayne’s body.

Isaac had slowed. They caught up with him just as they approached the edge of Deadman’s Channel. The manservant shouted something and pointed down to the water. Kayne shielded his eyes from the sun and tried to make out what Isaac was gesturing at.

It was a small caravel. The ship was anchored barely fifty feet from the shoreline. He could make out a handful of figures watching their approach from the railing.
Shit
. Had another force been sent to intercept them?

As they grew nearer, however, he realized this vessel was not from Dorminia. The flag that flew from the mainmast displayed a circle of stars on a white background. Inside the circle a woman’s outstretched palm supported a cluster of towers. Kayne didn’t know much of the land south of Dorminia and its hinterland, but he was reasonably certain this was a Thelassan ship.

Several of the figures aboard the vessel had lowered themselves onto a tiny boat and were paddling towards them. He squinted. The man at the bow wore dark robes of some kind, but his hood was thrown back to reveal skin as black as the night. Behind him—

Sasha gasped. ‘It can’t be…’

The dinghy reached the shallows and the young man in the middle of the boat vaulted out and splashed towards them. That swagger, that ridiculous beard, the cocksure smile: they were unmistakable.

‘Sash!’ the boy exclaimed in delight. ‘How long has it been? A month? I have some stories to tell you! Here, meet my new companions. This is the Darkson, a master assassin from Shamaath. And this’ – he pointed at the largest of the three men wading through the surf – ‘is Three-Finger. He’s my henchman.’ This last one was an ugly fellow with thinning hair and an unpleasant skin disease ravaging his face. He looked faintly annoyed as the boy finished his introductions.

‘Greetings,’ lisped the dark-skinned newcomer. Kayne narrowed his eyes. The way this one moved, the confidence with which he appraised their ragged little band – everything about him spoke of the kind of man who was as comfortable killing as he was breathing.

The assassin continued, ‘I see you, too, are familiar with Davarus Cole. You must be Brodar Kayne.’

The old barbarian swung around on the horse and lowered himself gingerly to the ground. ‘Aye, pleasure to meet you,’ he said. He glanced back up the hill, where two dozen men approached them on horseback, outlined in red by the departing sun. He cleared his throat.

‘Before we continue with the introductions, I guess I ought to mention a small matter that’s going to require our attention pretty damned soon…’

Dark Omens

 

 

 

Yllandris turned to the man in the bed beside her. Magnar watched her from beneath half-closed eyes. His deep breathing was the only sound within the bedchamber. Outside the storm raged on, the shrieking wind a terrifying animal that threatened to tear the roof from the Great Lodge and reveal their nakedness to the world.

‘You are troubled,’ she observed. The mingled smells of sweat and sex and smoke created an aroma that was not altogether unpleasant. She placed a hand on his face. His cheeks were smooth. Many Highland men wore their beards long in celebration of their manhood, but Magnar had always kept his face clean-shaven. It was a brave choice considering his youth, an open invitation to scorn from the older chieftains. It seemed the young king had confidence enough not to care.

‘I am uneasy,’ he admitted. His steely grey eyes held a hint of worry. ‘The Shaman summoned the Brethren away from the High Fangs. What right does the Tyrant of Dorminia have to demand our Magelord do such a thing?’

Yllandris remembered the ease with which the frail old man had turned Shranree’s magic against her. The senior sister of the Heartstone circle was possibly the most powerful sorceress in the High Fangs, yet Salazar had handled her as he might a child – and, moreover, he had been near exhausted while he had done so.

‘I cannot say, my king. The ways of Magelords are not easily fathomed. Did the Shaman give any indication when they will return?’

Magnar shook his head. He was a handsome man, with a strong nose and jaw. His torso was lean but well muscled and his chest still glistened with sweat from their recent lovemaking. She felt her body stir as she gazed upon him.

‘We may be without our sacred protectors for some time,’ said the King. ‘I have instructed Orgrim to post additional men on the northern and southern borders of the East Reaching.’ He paused for a moment and sighed. ‘The Foehammer was not happy with the order.’

‘Orgrim took the greatest losses at Frosthold,’ Yllandris replied. ‘And the East Reaching has suffered the most in recent years. The Foehammer does not want to expose his largest settlements to the Devil’s Spine by posting his men to the frontiers.’

King Magnar nodded. ‘That was the gist of his argument. Yet the East Reaching is the barrier between our nation and the horrors that lurk in the Spine. I cannot allow demons to wander unchallenged into the other Reachings.’

A howling gust of wind rattled the roof once more and Magnar sighed again. ‘I’ve done my best to win the respect of my chieftains. It is no easy thing to stave off famine and keep the tribes from each other’s throats while managing the Shaman’s whims. He listens to me sometimes, but still… I feel as if I am caught between a cave bear and a pack of wolves. I try to placate the former while the latter look for any opportunity to pounce.’

Yllandris was puzzled. ‘You rule with the Shaman’s blessing,’ she said. ‘Who would dare try to depose you?’

‘Krazka One-Eye and Carn Bloodfist, to name but two. Many desire the throne. The Code dictates that all men and women swear allegiance to the king – yet it is also written that a weak king must be usurped for the good of the nation.’

‘And the Shaman is the arbiter in such matters,’ Yllandris said softly.

‘If another proves himself more worthy, the Shaman will not hesitate to replace me.’

‘As you replaced Jagar the Wise?’

Magnar nodded. ‘I did not seek the throne. Jagar was dying. His rule had outlasted that of any previous king. The Shaman could have chosen any one of the ten chieftains.’ He looked up at the ceiling. ‘Yet out of respect for my father he chose me.’

‘Out of respect for your
father
?’ Yllandris repeated, shocked. ‘But what he did to him… The Shaman wants nothing more than to see your father dead.’

‘Yes,’ Magnar replied. ‘He does. But that anger is born out of the love he once held for him. Father was the closest thing to a friend the Shaman has known. He did not expect the answer he received from his champion when Beregund rebelled. And it
was
a rebellion. The Green Reaching intended to break the Treaty and begin a civil war. The Shaman’s response was justified.’

He burned your mother alive
, Yllandris thought, but wisely she held her tongue. Instead she said, ‘Do you know where your father might be hiding?’

Magnar shook his head. ‘The Unclaimed Lands, perhaps. The Brethren hunted him for two years without success. His companion is a tracker without peer.’

His companion. The Wolf. The man who freed the Sword of the North from his prison was almost as infamous as Kayne himself. Horribly burned and with a savage temper to match his prowess, no one would have guessed he would be the one to enact a daring rescue. Apparently he had owed Kayne a debt from many years past.

Yllandris had set eyes on the Wolf only once, a few months before the trial of Brodar Kayne. The thought of two Highlanders somehow evading the Brethren for months on end was difficult to credit – yet the memory of his scowling visage, so utterly implacable, convinced her that this was a man capable of anything.

When it came to the likes of Brodar Kayne and Jerek the Wolf, it seemed even the will of a Magelord could be defied. The thought gave her pause.

The King was still staring at the ceiling, a strange expression in his remarkable eyes. Yllandris decided to take a risk. She needed to know. ‘It must be hard for you,’ she said carefully. ‘What happened to your father. What was done to your mother.’