The Grim Company: 1 Page 6
‘To most in the city I am simply Eremul, a rather tedious fellow with a love for cataloguing books,’ the man responded, repositioning a particularly large volume on his desk. The whole interior of the building was filled with stacks of books and reams of paper; tomes of all shapes and sizes filled endless shelves and covered almost every available inch of floor space. ‘To a select few,’ he continued, ‘I am known as Eremul the Mage.’
‘You mean the Halfmage,’ Isaac corrected gently. ‘They call you the Halfmage.’
Eremul froze. ‘I distinctly recall asking you not to call me that, you buffoon.’
‘You’re a wizard?’ Sasha gasped. ‘Impossible. Salazar would never tolerate another mage in the city. Not after the Culling. Everyone with the gift of magic was put to death.’
Eremul sneered, his thin lips curling up unpleasantly. His voice was soft, but the bitterness was almost tangible. ‘I was a scribe at the Obelisk when the order was given. I was young and talented. I dare say I was a favourite of his lordship. He must have seen a use for me, since he allowed me to keep my life.’ He put his hands on the edge of the desk and pushed against it.
All those sitting around the table gasped, save for Jerek who gave an amused snort. Large wheels had been affixed to the bottom of Eremul’s chair, allowing it to slide effortlessly backwards to reveal the mage in his full glory – or more appropriately, his half-glory.
Eremul’s legs had been removed just above the knee. His dark green robe had been shortened to fall just below the stumps.
The Halfmage sneered at the faces gawking at him. ‘Never let it be said our benevolent lord is without mercy. Salazar only butchered half of me, which is a half less than every other wizard in Dorminia. I was given enough coin to set up the depository here. As long as I bequeath certain information to the city’s magistrates when required, they leave me in peace. I suppose I was the lucky one,’ he added sardonically.
Vicard twitched and rubbed at his nose. ‘You… You would dare to help Salazar’s enemies, despite what he did to you?’ he stammered.
‘He thought me broken,’ Eremul replied. He tapped his head with a finger. ‘Yet I still have my wits and some small amount of magic… pathetic though it is in comparison to a Magelord. Most of all,’ he continued, ‘I have my hatred. I won’t rest until Salazar’s corpse is strapped to the bottom of this chair and I’m free to shit on his face for the rest of eternity.’ He laughed suddenly, a horrible choking sound. ‘You think I’m scared of what they’ll do to me? They can’t do anything to me. Look at me. I’m the Halfmage!’
Another sound chimed in with the mage’s broken gasps, and Brodar Kayne realized that Jerek, too, was laughing: a harsh bark that formed a duet of tragic amusement. Sasha and Vicard looked deeply uncomfortable. Even Isaac appeared perturbed.
‘Right then,’ Kayne said slowly, attempting to restore some sanity to the room. ‘Back to business. I can’t say I’m fond of magic of any sort, but if you can get us out of Dorminia without being seen, I reckon I can live with it.’
Eremul abruptly stopped laughing, or at least making the noise that passed for laughter. ‘You’ll leave shortly,’ he said. ‘You will sail east into Deadman’s Channel for sixty miles, following the coast. You will put in to shore when you see the Tombstone in the distance. From there, the Rift is a couple of hours’ trek to the north.’
Vicard didn’t sound happy at the prospect. ‘In this weather?’ he protested. ‘We’ll be washed away! And how will we get out of the harbour? There are ships patrolling everywhere.’
Eremul gave the alchemist a scornful look. ‘I’ve enchanted your craft so that it is quite impossible to submerge,’ he said. ‘As for the patrolling ships, your boat is also cloaked in a spell that will conceal your passing. The charms will hold until you return, so long as you do not tarry. My personal reserves of power are small, and I have no raw magic to siphon.’
Brodar Kayne sat back and sighed. Out in the rain once more, except this time they’d be on a small boat in choppy waters with only a lunatic’s magic keeping them afloat. It didn’t get any easier.
‘Get your stuff together, Isaac,’ Eremul said to his manservant. His mouth twisted into a mockery of a smile. ‘You’re going too.’
Despite Kayne’s reservations about the man’s sanity, Eremul proved true to his word. The sailing boat they boarded at the docks drifted right past the huge galleons guarding the harbour. A half-hour later and they were out into Deadman’s Channel, where they hugged the coast in a trajectory that proved strangely unwavering. Brodar Kayne wondered if the Halfmage hadn’t placed some additional spell on the small cutter to ensure it maintained its course.
The rain continued to assault them. Sasha and Vicard huddled at the stern of the boat and rested their heads on their packs, which had been coated in wax to protect them from the elements. Isaac stood at the tiller nearby, watching the passing coastline. He was a strange one, Kayne reckoned. He hadn’t complained at being sent on such a dangerous mission. In fact, he’d seemed vaguely excited at the prospect of adventure. His enthusiasm reminded the old Highlander of the lad he’d rescued from the Watch.
He’d felt some sympathy for the youngster back at the temple, but it wasn’t his place to interfere with the decision of his gaffer. Certainly Davarus Cole had displayed unusual courage for a Lowlander – even if the boy was clearly obsessed with self-glory and winning a reputation.
Kayne couldn’t blame him for that. He’d been young once. While his motivations had been similar, his deeds hadn’t been anywhere near so noble.
The Wolf ambled over and sat down next to him. ‘Fucking weather’s doing my head in,’ he complained. ‘Wetter than a whore with gold in her sights, and just as evil.’ He spat over the side of the boat.
A short silence passed. ‘This is almost pleasant, compared to what we faced fleeing the Fangs,’ said Kayne. ‘The world seems a great deal smaller down here. Apart from all the people, I mean. I reckon you could fit the Grey City and this entire hinterland into the East Reaching and still have room to spare. You got any thoughts about how we approach our mission at the Rift?’
Jerek snorted. ‘We get in there, kill who we can, fuck up that mine and whoever gets in our way.’ He rubbed at his beard and his voice became a low growl. ‘I don’t like the alchemist,’ he said.
Kayne sighed softly, though the words came as no surprise. He’d known Jerek a long time.
‘Something about him rubs me up the wrong way,’ the Wolf continued. ‘Always playing with his nose. I reckon he might be some kind of faggot. Better not look at me funny or I’ll tear his nose right off his face. Prick.’
‘Best you ignore him,’ the old barbarian replied. ‘We’ll need his alchemy later. Don’t go causing no trouble.’
Jerek shrugged. Kayne thought about saying more but decided it wasn’t worth it. The Wolf could be relied upon when it mattered.
The girl had risen and was walking towards them. Jerek got to his feet as he saw her approach and turned his back, strolling over to lean against the mast. Kayne shook his head. The Wolf had a peculiar way with women.
‘Not long now,’ said Sasha. The rain had created a sopping mop of her pretty brown hair, but she seemed in better spirits than she had at the start of their journey. Her dark eyes looked big in the light of the torch she carried. ‘Do you know the history of the Wailing Rift?’ she asked.
‘Can’t say I do,’ he replied. ‘Never been one for books, though I got some skill with letters. There ain’t many Highlanders that can say that.’
‘The Rift was formed during the Godswar,’ Sasha explained. ‘A minor goddess called Alundra was cast from the heavens and sent crashing down to earth, where the impact created a gigantic fissure. Her corpse still leaks wild magic. Some of it crystallizes into the surrounding rock, which the miners extract and transport to Dorminia. The stuff that doesn’t crystallize… Well, there’s a reason there’s such a large Augmentor presence at the mine. Abominations are physical m
anifestations of chaotic magical energy. They appear randomly and without warning.’
Kayne nodded. ‘Saw my share of abominations up in the High Fangs. Demons, too – more and more as the years passed. They come from the Devil’s Spine and kill without mercy until someone put ’em down.’
‘Demons?’ Sasha asked. ‘I thought they only existed in legend.’
‘Maybe in these parts they do. Up north, they’re as real as the sword on my back.’ He was quiet for a time, remembering. ‘This mine we’re headed to. How did it get its name?’
‘It turns out gods take a very long time to die. Alundra sometimes cries out in agony. Apparently she can be heard from miles away.’
The old Highlander stared far into the distance. ‘The world’s full of wonder,’ he said. ‘Or at least horror that looks wondrous from afar.’
Sasha looked at him curiously. ‘What were the two of you doing in Dorminia anyway? What happened in the High Fangs?’
He sighed. Bad things, lass. The kind of things that, once I told you about ’em, you’ll wish you hadn’t asked. He was about to reply when Isaac suddenly turned to them and pointed to the south-west. His forgettable face was rendered momentarily more interesting by his intense look of concern.
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
Kayne turned to where the man pointed and squinted, tried to force his eyes to make sense of the blurred nightmare before him. The horizon looked as if it had risen somehow – and it was getting bigger. ‘Shit,’ he swore.
Jerek had noticed the disturbance too. He took one look at the disaster heading towards them and raised his hands in a gesture that expressed his complete disgust at this unlikely turn of events. ‘This is bullshit,’ he said. ‘One thing after another. Fucking unbeliev—’
He was interrupted as the wall of water hurtled into the cutter and lifted it into the air, tossing it with alarming speed towards the onrushing coastline.
Smoke Ceilings
The sudden cacophony of animal noises from outside told her the Brethren had arrived.
Yllandris rose hastily, brushing ash from the purple silk shawl straining against her breasts. Sweat moistened her bronze skin, running in beads down her perfectly flat stomach. Her hair was so dark as to appear almost purple, complementing the violet paint she wore on her lips and under her eyes. She gave it a shake and it fell almost to her waist, an impressive mane of hair that resembled that of the great Highland cat: a regal, graceful creature, yet utterly vicious when provoked.
Yllandris smiled, revealing perfect white teeth. Regal, graceful and deadly was exactly how she would describe herself.
She kicked dirt over the embers of the dying fire. The modest wooden hut that was her home disgusted her, but she wouldn’t have to suffer it for much longer. Yllandris was the favoured paramour of Magnar, King of the High Fangs, and, if the spirits were good, before the year was over she would sit beside him in the Great Lodge as his queen and consort.
She pushed aside the bearskin that covered the entrance to her hut and stepped out into the early-morning air. The freezing wind buffeted her immediately, depositing snowflakes on her skin and causing it to prickle where moments ago it had perspired. Snow blanketed Heartstone as far as the eye could see. The capital and largest city of the High Fangs was a sea of white, dotted by mounds and hills that were all that remained of the huts and longhouses buried beneath the night’s snowfall. The tall wooden wall surrounding the town rose menacingly from a thick fog that obscured the frozen surface of Lake Dragur beyond.
Yllandris could feel damp cold on the bottom of her bare legs. The snow had swallowed her boots and now reached almost to her knees. She paid it no mind – she was a sorceress and a daughter of the Highland people. The soft fops in the Lowlands might quail at such hardships, but she was made of sterner stuff. Besides, she would not appear weak in front of the Brethren.
There were eight of them. Gaern had led this hunt; he sat on his huge haunches at the front of the pack, panting heavily. Frozen blood clung to his snout, though whether it belonged to him or another Yllandris could not be certain.
She narrowed her eyes. A massive silver boar lay with his head resting on the snow. The animal’s breathing was shallow and a jagged wound ran down the length of his left flank. It looked deep. It was a small miracle he had made it back to Heartstone.
It took her a moment to remember the beast’s name. Thorne. He had been with the Brethren for twenty years. Already greying when he had transcended, he was old even by the standards of the most grizzled warriors in the High Fangs. For a boar, the animal the Highlander had merged with during the Shaman’s ritual, he was positively ancient.
‘What did this to you?’ she snarled. Thorne measured eight feet from the tip of his snout to the end of his tail and weighed close to half a ton. Even a pack of Highland cats would shy away from attacking such a formidable beast – especially when they saw the human intelligence shining within those gimlet eyes.
Yllandris placed a hand on Thorne’s boulder-like head. Thought-mining was next to useless when attempted on a Highlander, but the Brethren were no longer human. The natural resistance her people possessed towards mental intrusion evaporated when they transcended.
Images formed in her mind. She saw giants, ugly hulking creatures half again the height of a man, wielding crude clubs and axes of wood and stone. The Brethren had fallen upon them on a ridge overlooking a pine-crowded valley. Despite their size and strength, the giants had been outnumbered and overwhelmed by the speed and cunning of their foes. She witnessed Gaern take a club to the face and then rise up with a mighty roar to wrap his arms around the giant that had struck him. The transcended bear closed massive jaws around the giant’s neck and tore out its throat in a shower of blood.
Some of the Brethren had taken minor wounds, but the encounter with the giants had proved to be little more than a distraction. It was not giants they hunted.
Yllandris mined deeper and concentrated. Scattered recollections came to her: visions of snow-encrusted vales and frozen streams; a herd of elk scattering in alarm as the Brethren passed by. Then she saw it and she could not stifle a gasp. It was impossibly tall, towering over even Gaern: a lithe, black-skinned reptilian monstrosity with bat-like wings and claws resembling scythes. It had ambushed them as they crossed the surface of a frozen lake, plummeting down out of the sky to rend Thorne with its enormous talons. The others had immediately surrounded the demon, but it had dodged their attacks with terrifying speed. One of the pack, a white cougar unknown to her, leaped onto its back and sank its claws into the fiend’s scaly skin. The creature took to the wing again, pulled the transcended great cat from its back and disembowelled it while those below looked on.
The Brethren had retreated then. This was a fight they could not hope to win. Thorne had somehow kept pace with the others, leaving a sticky red trail across the snow for miles. Now, though, his strength was all but gone. His fading mind had become hazy, the images indecipherable.
Yllandris quickly withdrew her hand and listened to the final exhalations rattling from that great chest. They had lost two of the Brethren. The King would need to be told.
She spun around to face the small crowd that had gathered to watch. Fur-clad men and women stared back, all much paler than she. The men wore their hair loose and long, and their beards were flecked with snow. The women had their hair braided. Many wore small trinkets of bone and copper around their necks and wrists. Not a few of them regarded her with barely disguised hostility.
Go ahead and hate me, she thought, sneering back at them. I’m young and beautiful, a sorceress high in the favour of the King. I could have any one of your husbands in my bed in an instant, and you all know it. I will be a queen. None of you will amount to anything, you sour-faced pack of bitches.
‘Find a healer,’ she ordered the greybeard closest to her. ‘The rest of you, fetch a pallet. Thorne must be brought to the Great Lodge. Move your feet before I light a flame under them.’
The snow continued to fall. Yllandris made sure no one was looking and then pulled her thin shawl tighter around her shoulders.
In marked contrast to the vast majority of the structures in Heartstone, the Great Lodge was a huge and sprawling edifice. It occupied the centre of town where it rose higher than any other building, gazing down on its domain like one of the great alpha wargs that roamed the highest peaks. The Shaman would be up there, she knew, unless he was off hunting. Their Magelord had become less and less a part of the world of men, preferring to dwell alone under the stars when he was among them at all. Whatever ancient tragedy had driven him to isolate himself so far from his peers had slowly stripped away his humanity.
Yllandris paused for a moment to stare up at the Great Lodge before entering. She always felt a shiver of excitement when she approached the massive building. It represented the pinnacle of power among her people here in the secluded north of the world.
She had always admired strength. Ever since she had stumbled across her mother’s broken body on the floor of their hut as a child, had met her father’s eyes and saw what he had done, that terrible, irrevocable moment when he had pushed things too far, she had sworn to achieve power at all costs. It was the only thing that mattered.
Her father had been exiled for his crime. She had become a foundling, hunting for scraps and shelter where she could find it. The High Fangs were a hard and unforgiving country, and her life might have taken a much darker path had she not come into her magic shortly after her first blooding. The circle of sorceresses in Heartstone had seen her potential and taken her under their wing. They were a bitter and spiteful brood of old hens, but their teachings had proved invaluable. What they didn’t realize was that one day their prodigal daughter would become queen, and their precious hierarchy would be turned on its head.