The Grim Company

The Final Test

‘Left. Right. Thrust. Good.’

He turned aside the assassin’s curved dagger, this one thankfully devoid of venom, and stepped back.

His training had been intense, harder than anything he had ever known. Day and night were meaningless in this dark place — it felt as though no sooner had he collapsed on his bedroll than he was being prodded awake again for more countless hours of sparring. He had learned the best spots to stab a man so that he died quickly and quietly. He and the Darkson had stalked each other through the ruined streets of the holy city, both seeking to avoid detection and take the other by surprise. While Cole had yet to get the better of the Shamaathan, the Darkson had commented frequently on his progress.

‘You were a tool,’ the dark-skinned man was telling him now. ‘Rough-edged, unfocused, and yet not without a certain promise. Now you are becoming a weapon.’

‘A weapon,’ Cole repeated. ‘An angel of death.’

The Darkson frowned. ‘That remains to be seen. Your final test awaits you before we are done here. It will test everything you have learned.’

The assassin led him across a wide avenue of collapsed buildings, holding a torch in one gloved hand to light the way. Eventually they came to a jumble of leaning walls that formed a narrow passage. Darkness lay within.

‘The section of ruins ahead is a veritable maze of alleys,’ the Darkson explained. ‘Somewhere within is your target. You are to hunt him down. When you find him, you are to kill him.’

‘Kill him?’ Cole repeated, somewhat uncomfortably. ‘What has he done to deserve death?’

The Darkson paused. ‘Does it matter? He is an enemy of Thelassa.’

Cole thought about this for a moment. He had sunk the boat that had been pursuing the Redemption, but that had been full of Watchmen intent on harming him and his fellow escapees. Besides, that had been an almost impersonal act. He had never actually killed a man face to face. Not with steel in hand.

‘What kind of enemy?’ he persisted.

The Shamaathan narrowed his eyes. ‘The worst kind. The kind who would see Thelassa put to the sword.’ He paused for a moment. ‘You told me you were an angel of death.’

‘I’m a hero,’ Cole replied.

The Darkson sighed. ‘The difference between a hero and a killer lies only in the ability of the former to justify every dark deed they perform to anyone who cares to listen. Even themselves. Especially themselves.’

‘My father wasn’t like that,’ Cole said. ‘He always did the right thing. He stood up for the weak and oppressed.’

‘As will you,’ the assassin replied. ‘Once you’ve planted Magebane in Salazar’s back and freed Dorminia from his tyranny, then you will have earned the right to call yourself a hero.’

Cole took a deep breath. I’ll show him I have what it takes. He drew his dagger and entered the maze.

It was dark, so dark he could see no more than a few feet in front of his face. There was the sound of running water nearby. He continued on down the corridor, took a left turn and then a right. He moved as the Darkson had taught him, on the balls of his feet to avoid making any noise. He heard rats scurrying past him, but he paid them no mind. Somewhere in this sprawling labyrinth was a man who deserved to die.

He had to believe that.

There was a slight flicker of light ahead. He crouched low in the shadows, hugging the wall behind him. He waited. Another slight flicker of light, and then it was gone. He rose and padded softly towards the spot where he had glimpsed the illumination.

He listened. All was silent now, save for the sound of running water, rats squeaking… and yes, there it was, the slight clank of an armoured man moving carelessly some distance ahead of him.

He clutched his dagger tighter, following the sound as quietly as he could. The light returned and then grew stronger. Finally, at an intersection where two alleyways met, he located his target.

The man was a good few inches taller than him. He wore bronze chainmail armour and a full helm that covered his head, and carried a longsword in his right hand and a lantern in his left. He was heedless of the racket he made as he turned one way and then the other, holding his blade out before him and raising the lantern to inspect the shadows that surrounded him on all sides.

Cole waited until his target was facing away from him and then crept forwards. He was only a dozen feet away when the armoured warrior suddenly turned and raised the lantern in the air. The young Shard rolled away from the light, concealing himself behind a broken wall that barely rose to his waist. He could hear the warrior moving closer. He held his breath and cursed inwardly. If it came down to a direct confrontation, he would be in a whole lot of trouble.

The light drew nearer and then halted abruptly. The footsteps ceased. He could hear ragged breathing from behind the helm. He tensed, preparing to dive out of the way the instant the warrior charged around the wall.

The light flickered and then suddenly began to recede, the footsteps carrying his target away from him. He released his breath. That had been close.

When he was certain he had not been spotted, he slunk out of his cover. The armoured figure was facing in the opposite direction once again. Cole padded forwards, inching closer and closer. He positioned himself behind his target, so close now he could smell the man’s sweat. There was no margin for error. If he missed his chance the warrior would likely shake him off and run him through. Images from his disastrous confrontation with the Watchmen reminded him of the terrible consequences of failure.

I’m Davarus Cole, he reminded himself. This is what I do.

He steadied himself. In one smooth motion, he wrapped an arm around the man’s head and tilted it upwards. With his other arm he slid the dagger underneath the helm and tugged it across the man’s neck. He felt it cut through flesh. His target let out a wet gasp and struggled weakly. Cole held him close, felt the warmth and the wetness soak his arm.

In moments it was over. The man jerked once and then stopped moving. Cole lowered the body gently to the ground. He felt strange. There was nothing noble in this act. No sense of pride or achievement. This wasn’t what a hero was supposed to do. He reached down and grasped the helm. With a tug, he pulled it free of the corpse.

He froze in shock. The fallen lantern illuminated the weather-beaten face of Admiral Kramer. The man’s tongue appeared to have been cut out, and his blue eyes were wide in death. They seemed to stare at him accusingly.

He remembered their time together back on the Swell. Kramer had been a harsh captain but also a fair one, a man who commanded respect. He was no criminal, just another of Salazar’s puppets who had become caught up in events over which he had no control.

And I killed him.

‘You did well,’ came that whispering voice from behind him. Cole didn’t bother turning around.

‘A decent enough death,’ the Darkson said. There was no gloating or amusement there, just a statement of fact. He was grateful for that, at least. ‘Ask yourself what the Tyrant of Dorminia would have done, had the tables been turned and this man had been his hostage. Worse than this, no?’

‘I killed him.’

‘Yes,’ agreed the Shamaathan. ‘And so, too, you will kill those who stand between you and Salazar. Men no better or worse than this one. Men who are simply doing their duty.’ The assassin sounded tired, almost melancholic.

The lantern burning on the ground suddenly winked out, plunging them into utter darkness. Before Cole had a chance to react it flared back to life. Standing before him was one of the White Lady’s pale servants. He stared at her in shock. Who are these women?

‘It is done?’ she enquired emotionlessly.

The Darkson nodded. ‘He’s ready.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Or as ready as he can be. This kind of training usually requires months.’

The pale woman turned to him. ‘Davarus Cole, it is time for you to fulfil your destiny. A ship has been prepared to sail you around the coast to Deadman’s Channel. The Darkson, Lady Brianna, and several of my sisters are to accompany you. You will seek out Brodar Kayne and reclaim Magebane.’

‘How?’ asked Cole. ‘He could be anywhere by now.’

‘Some manner of disaster befell the mine at the Wailing Rift,’ the woman replied. ‘If the Highlander perished there, Brianna will help you locate and recover the weapon. If this Brodar Kayne still lives, we will hunt him down.’

‘It is imperative that you recover your birthright,’ the assassin explained. ‘Thelassa cannot liberate the Grey City while the Tyrant of Dorminia draws breath. The longer we delay the greater the threat posed by Salazar becomes. Only the unique power of Magebane can get you close enough to kill him.’

‘What should I do once I have it in my possession?’ The thought of going up against Salazar was thrilling, but Cole couldn’t shake the feeling there was something he wasn’t being told.

‘Brianna will send a message back to Thelassa. Our army will then attack from the west and draw Dorminia’s defenders. You will infiltrate the Obelisk during the chaos and do what you have been trained to do.’

Cole thought about this for a moment. ‘What will happen to Dorminia and her people after Salazar’s gone?’

‘You will be free,’ the pale woman replied. ‘Of course, Thelassa will demand certain concessions in return, such as sole ownership of the Celestial Isles. That is fair, is it not?’

Cole nodded. ‘I guess so,’ he said. ‘I would like to take Three-Finger with me.’

‘You mean the rapist?’

‘He’s not a rapist. Three-Finger’s a bit coarse sometimes, but he has a heart of gold. Besides,’ he added, ‘he’s my henchman.’

The pale woman’s expression was, as always, unreadable. ‘I will communicate your wish to the White Lady. In the meantime, I must insist that you wear this while you are escorted from here.’ She reached down under her white robes and produced a collar.

Cole grimaced. Being a hero was a much more complicated business than he had thought.

He stared again at the corpse of Kramer. A decent man, forced to do evil things by the bastard up at the Obelisk. I will avenge you, Kramer. You, my father, and everyone else who has suffered because of the Tyrant of Dorminia.

He looked at the bloody dagger in his hand.

I really am very sorry about that.