The Grim Company

Ghosts

Kayne sucked in great gasps of air. Sweat stung his eyes, making it harder to track that deadly blade flickering at him from all angles. His arms were stinging with the small nicks and cuts his opponent’s sword had inflicted. They were scratches, nothing that would slow the Sword of the North. No, exhaustion would take care of that.

This blond-haired bastard was one of the best he had ever faced. Maybe the best. Even so, he was managing to hang in there — except that the man didn’t seem to tire. He grimaced as his opponent’s longsword scored a shallow wound across his chest and redoubled his efforts, although his heart was hammering so hard he thought it might burst.

They’d been fighting for he didn’t know how long. Bodies littered the ground all around them, not only red-cloaked Watchmen and dark-skinned Sumnians but all those poor sods who’d been handed a rusty blade and shoved out here to die: young and old, farmers and craftsmen and common labourers lying dead or groaning and weeping for their wives and mothers. He’d cut down no small number of them himself. When a man comes at you with murder in his eyes the tragedy of it all makes no difference. You kill or you get killed.

His opponent wasn’t even breathing hard. The man’s jaw was set in a grim line, brow furrowed in concentration. Kayne parried a thrust and then tried to take a step back; he cursed as he almost tripped over the body of a mercenary. The golden virtuoso was on him in an instant.

Concentration. That was the key. You had to note how your opponent moved, every detail, every expression. Every man had a pattern, an angle that showed in his eyes, the way his muscles twitched.

The dancing longsword missed his neck by a fraction. Kayne watched it closely, waiting for that one opening. He saw it then, the barest hint. His opponent had overreached by maybe half an inch. The old Highlander turned the greatsword around in his hands and then spun the blade in a full circle, felt it cut deep into his opponent’s arm where the interlocking plates of his armour met.

This time it was the blond-haired warrior who fell back. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. Blood welled up from the deep cut in his arm.

‘Just a man doing a job,’ Kayne replied. He seized on the opportunity — any opportunity — to catch his breath.

The answer didn’t seem to please his opponent. ‘You’re a mercenary like the rest of them? I’m disappointed.’

The barbarian shrugged. ‘When it comes right down to it, gold’s as good a reason to fight as any. And more honest than most.’

There was anger in those blue eyes now. ‘Is gold all that matters to you? What about loyalty? Honour? Duty?’

Brodar Kayne stared right back into that scornful gaze. ‘Loyalty, honour and duty, eh? I reckon I know a bit about them. Great things, to be sure, as long as you’re on the right side of ’em. They can make a man feel right good about himself, even as he’s doing the most terrible things. The weak, now, they can’t afford such lofty ideals. Too busy bangin’ on the door while men like you sit at your high table and admire your honour and reflect on how much worthier it makes you.’

Much to his surprise, his words seemed to cut the swordsman as deeply as his blade had. There was doubt on that chiselled face, sadness in those blue eyes. ‘And what about love?’ he asked quietly. The fighting continued on around them, but out of sheer happenstance or just unthinking deference to the skill of these two men facing off against each other, they found themselves alone on the battlefield.

Brodar Kayne blinked sweat from his eyes. ‘Love? Well now, there ain’t no shame in a man fighting for that.’ He stared across at the troubled face. ‘And I reckon if that’s the case, you’re a better sort than I gave you credit for.’

The golden-armoured warrior nodded slowly. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and he sounded as if he meant it.

Kayne glanced up at the sky. The sun was starting to go down. It would be evening soon. He sighed heavily. ‘Getting late,’ he said.

‘Then I suppose we had better hurry up and finish this.’

It was his turn to nod. As his opponent closed, though, Kayne noticed with growing alarm that the man’s wound had already stopped leaking. It had been a nasty one, ought to have worked in his favour the longer the fight wore on — but it seemed that not only did this Augmentor not tire, he didn’t bleed either.

The old barbarian uttered a silent curse. He had the feeling this wasn’t going to end well.

He held his own for a good few minutes longer before his body started to betray him. He wasn’t a young man, that was the truth of it, and he couldn’t keep this up. The greatsword started to feel like a lead weight in his hands. He twisted, dodged, parried, and with every second that passed he came a fraction closer to being just that little bit too slow.

And then it happened. He stumbled and his attacker was on him, and this time he knew he couldn’t react fast enough.

This is it, he thought, watching the blade descend. You had a good run, all things considered. He braced himself for the inevitable.

The swordsman wavered. A confused expression spread across his face. Not about to question his good fortune, Kayne tensed, preparing to press home the advantage. Suddenly, far in the distance, the very top of the Obelisk exploded in golden light. He shielded his eyes and watched in amazement as brilliant rays the colour of dawn suddenly streamed up towards the heavens.

A choking sound snapped his attention back to his opponent. He was clutching at his chest, his eyes wide in shock. The longsword tumbled from his grasping fingers and he fell to his knees, rocking back and forth, gulping desperately as if unable to swallow enough air.

Kayne hesitated and then lowered his greatsword. All around the battlefield men had ceased fighting and were staring up beyond the city walls in astonishment. Could it be the lad actually succeeded? he wondered.

He caught movement at the edge of his vision and bent his neck slightly to see a mindhawk tumble out of the sky. It crashed into the ground in an explosion of feathers. Further away, another mindhawk abruptly ceased its patrol and plummeted straight down to disappear out of view behind a stand of trees.

There was a thud just ahead of him. His opponent had collapsed onto his face and was tearing up great tufts of grass in his hands, trying to drag himself along the ground. Kayne met his eyes for a second, saw the agony in those blue orbs and had to look away. Whatever had befallen the fellow, it was no way for a man so astonishingly skilled with the sword to die.

Thinking to end his suffering, Brodar Kayne walked over to the tragic figure and raised his greatsword. The man looked up at him and reached for something at his belt. Then he turned his head to stare in the direction of the city. With a final, tortured gasp, he whispered a woman’s name and shuddered, his eyes closing. He exhaled once and then lay still.

There was something clutched in his hand. Kayne knelt down, examining the strange item. It was a strip of fine cloth, probably silk. It smelled faintly of jasmine and was likely worth a fair few sceptres. He hesitated for a moment, and then saw the band of gold on the man’s finger. He slipped it off, gasping at the size of the emerald jutting from the ring. It had a large ‘L’ inscribed on the inside and was doubtless worth a small fortune.

He hesitated again. Then, very carefully, he placed the ring back on the dead man’s finger and wrapped the handkerchief around it. He positioned the warrior’s hands over his chest and laid his longsword down beside him. It wasn’t much of a gesture, and it might not stop a mercenary from discovering the ring if and when the looting started, but it was the best he could do.

He leaned on his own greatsword, sucking in deep breaths, and surveyed the battlefield. The losses on both sides were appalling. He reckoned there were more bodies on the ground than there were still standing. All around him, combatants were starting to take notice of the fallen swordsman. He saw shocked expressions, sudden fear and uncertainty on the faces of the remaining Watchmen. The militia looked as if they were fit to piss themselves.

Kayne realized then that the man must have been some kind of commander — but it wasn’t just his death that seemed to be swinging the battle. Fifty yards away, General D’rak faced off against the big fellow who had wreaked untold havoc with his glowing hammer. The Augmentor was staring at the now-dim weapon with a perplexed expression. He swung it at the Sumnian general, who caught the maul between his khopeshes. Like a whirling dervish, he spun away from the larger man only to close in again with frightening speed, his wicked curved swords slicing and chopping. The Augmentor went down in a spray of blood, the great hammer clattering uselessly from his hands. A loud cheer went up from the Sumnians nearby.

Brodar Kayne scanned the battlefield, noting how small gains were being made everywhere he looked. You developed a sense for these things, once you survived enough fights. The tide was about ready to turn, he reckoned. They’d take the city by nightfall.

He searched around for Jerek and Sasha. He couldn’t remember when he had last seen either of them, but then, a life or death struggle can do weird things to a man’s sense of time.

There was a sudden commotion to the north. Yet again, the fighting was temporarily stalled as both sides stared out at the rising hills in the distance. Kayne squinted, cursed his poor vision, and then plucked his sword up from where it stood in the dirt and moved closer for a better look.

The hills were heaving with dark shapes, and they were getting closer. The ageing Highlander stood there for a time, at first confused, then concerned, and finally unable to believe what he was seeing.

A horde of savage animals was descending upon the battlefield. It could only mean one thing.

The Brethren. Brodar Kayne’s scarred hands gripped the hilt of his greatsword so tightly the blood drained from his fingers.

The Shaman’s here.

He pounded across the battlefield, paying no heed to the pain in his knees. Panicked shouts were already echoing from ahead of him: Sumnian voices shouting foul curses or screaming for aid. In moments the Brethren were among them, falling upon the mercenaries in a snarling, slavering avalanche of fur that showed no mercy.

Stunned by the arrival of these unlikely allies and fearful for their own lives, the city’s defenders initially fell back. When it became clear the animals were attacking the invaders, they grew bold and waded back into the battle.

As quickly as that, the city’s liberators were once again on the back foot.

Kayne scanned the field wildly as he ran. His heart would have sunk if it hadn’t been threatening to burst out of his chest. Everywhere he looked Sumnians were under assault by the menagerie that had suddenly appeared among them. They were hardened warriors, some of the finest soldiers in the world, but the Brethren were unknown to them. They had no idea what they faced.

To the right of him, near the city wall, three Sumnians stabbed at a bear with sword and spear while a trio of huge transcended wolves padded silently up behind them. The animals pounced, each set of massive jaws locking around a southerner’s throat and dragging him to the ground before crushing his windpipe.

They think they’re fighting animals, Kayne thought grimly. But the Brethren aren’t animals. They’re beasts with the intelligence of a man and the Shaman’s will behind ’em. If there was one thing he’d learned in all the years spent fighting alongside the Brethren, it was that twelve inches of steel was rarely a match for razor fangs capable of crushing bone and armour — or claws sharp enough to cut through leather and flesh as easily as parchment.

A huge elk suddenly reared up before him, blood dripping from its right antler. The Transcended intended to crush him, but he rolled to the left and sliced sideways with his greatsword. He felt the blade connect, cut through muscle and bone. The elk made a high-pitched whining noise and crashed over onto its side.

Kayne was back up and running immediately. Roars, howls and shrieks filled the air. He leaped over the savaged bodies of dead mercenaries, ducked as a great eagle swooped overhead and then launched itself at him, talons clawing at his face. It screeched suddenly and tried to wheel away, a crossbow bolt protruding from its tawny feathered breast. It rose above the battlefield, careered wildly a few times, and then tumbled back down to earth, twitching spasmodically.

There was a commotion twenty yards to the right of him. He glanced over and saw the southerner who’d fired the crossbow desperately trying to reload as a monstrous grizzly closed on him, trailing gore from its gigantic jaws. With a swipe of one clubbing paw it tore open the soldier’s chest, sending droplets of blood splattering across the faces of the Sumnians behind him. The bear unleashed a mighty roar and reared up on its hind legs, ten feet of savage bulk and deadly claws driven by insatiable bloodlust.

Gaern. Kayne finally recognized the Transcended. There were many bears among the Brethren, but none were as huge as the great old grizzly about to fall upon the unfortunate mercenaries.

There was the flash of something golden emerging from the cowering southerners, and suddenly Gaern roared in agony, a colossal spear buried deep in his hide. The Sumnians parted and General Zahn strode forwards, both hands clutching the shaft of the spear, driving Gaern back. Half a ton of furious bear snarled and writhed, tried desperately to free itself, but Zahn had him pinned. His men quickly recovered from their shock and raised their weapons, falling upon the helpless Transcended in a flurry of chopping swords and axes.

Kayne looked away, feeling an odd sense of sadness. He’d known Gaern before the warrior transcended. He’d been a solid sort. Even after his transformation, Gaern had fought alongside him a few times — as recently as the abomination attack on Glistig in the East Reaching a scarce four years back.

He shook his head angrily. That was in the past. The Brethren had chased him and the Wolf all over the High Fangs for the best part of two years.

Kayne gritted his teeth and began running once more, his eyes narrowed on the spot where the hills began rising five hundred yards ahead of him. The hulking presence of the Magelord was unmistakable even from this distance, even with his bad eyes.

The Shaman had not bothered to keep any of the Brethren back to guard him. Neither had he shifted shape in order to watch safely from the clouds high above, or assumed his most favoured form, that of a great woolly mammoth, a near unstoppable creature. That wasn’t the Magelord’s style. Whatever else a man might say about him, the Shaman was no coward.

Even as he watched, the Shaman plucked a spear out of the air and snapped it between his arms with a mighty grunt. Kayne glanced at the two Sumnians facing off against him and knew instantly they were dead men. There was nothing he could do about it. Chances were he’d be joining them soon enough.

He had no idea what the Shaman was doing in the Trine, or why he had unleashed the Brethren against the city’s liberators. Being honest, he didn’t much care.

He had a score to settle.

Panting, filthy, covered in sweat, he arrived just as the Shaman was finishing off the two mercenaries. They’d lasted a good deal longer than he expected they would. Both men now flopped uselessly on the mud, necks broken and swords shattered. He slowed to a walk, breathing deeply, his gaze locked on the immortal he had once served. The immortal he had considered a friend.

The Shaman finally noticed him. His glacial blue eyes widened slightly in surprise. ‘Kayne,’ he stated in his low, rumbling voice. His muscles seemed to tense. ‘You’re a long way from the High Fangs.’

Brodar Kayne stared at the man who had kept him locked in a cage like an animal for a year. The man who had had his wife burned alive while he watched on helplessly.

‘I ain’t the only one,’ he growled. He leaned on his greatsword, staring around at the chaos. The Sumnians were desperately trying to regroup, but they were fighting a losing battle. ‘You here for me?’ he asked.

The Shaman snorted. ‘Your question is telling. I see your imprisonment did not change you.’

‘I’m old and stubborn.’

The Magelord’s square jaw twitched. ‘I sent Borun to hunt you down.’

Kayne shrugged. ‘He found me.’

The Shaman scowled in response, and then stared up at the sky. ‘The ruler of this city came to me and requested my aid,’ he said eventually. ‘I could not refuse him. I owe him a great debt.’

Brodar Kayne fingered the hilt of his greatsword. ‘Know a bit about debts myself,’ he said, his breath coming harder as he readied himself for what was coming. ‘You and me, I reckon we’ve got one that needs settling just about now.’

He lifted his greatsword, turned it slightly so that the red sun behind him reflected off the blade and into the face of the Shaman. It was a small gesture, probably wouldn’t matter a damn to the eventual outcome, but he would take any advantage he could get.

He was down and rolling away before the Magelord had left the ground. A second later the Shaman landed in the precise spot he had been standing, his fists hammering down with enough force to send mud and turf exploding out in all directions. He rose, shaking dirt from his fists. ‘I gave you everything,’ he growled.

‘Got yourself a strange definition of everything,’ Kayne replied. He took a step towards the Shaman. ‘I was your tool, and that’s the truth of it. A tool you grew tired of.’

‘A tool that is no longer useful must be discarded. Or reforged.’

‘You destroyed my life.’

The Shaman’s eyes narrowed suddenly and Kayne heard someone approaching from behind.

It was the Wolf. He looked worse than hell, his face a bloody ruin and his breathing laboured. Still, he limped over to stand beside Kayne and faced the Shaman with no more fear than he had ever shown any man alive. ‘Need help with this prick?’ he growled, raising his axes.

Kayne could have embraced Jerek at that moment, or at least given him a manly pat on the shoulder. Instead he made do with a nod. ‘I reckon so,’ he said. With the Wolf beside him, he figured his chances had gone from near impossible to merely highly unlikely.

The Shaman’s teeth were grinding together. ‘This dog still follows you around? So be it. I will kill you both.’

Kayne gave Jerek another nod. His friend grunted, began circling to the Magelord’s left as he circled around to the right. The Shaman glared first at one man and then the other, his prodigious muscles bulging out like knotted steel.

‘Come at me,’ Kayne whispered. He fully expected to die, but he was done running. It ended now.

Suddenly the Shaman cocked his head to one side, his great shaggy mane tumbling over a shoulder as wide as a blacksmith’s anvil. He appeared to be listening to something only he could hear. Both Highlanders crouched low, weapons raised, expecting some terrible magic to be unleashed. Instead the hulking Magelord unleashed a roar of utter rage that seemed to shake the very earth around them. ‘I must return to the High Fangs,’ he growled savagely. ‘Heartstone is in grave peril.’

‘You ain’t going anywhere,’ Kayne replied.

The Shaman clenched his fists, his bare chest heaving. ‘You care not for the fate of your son?’

‘Magnar let his mother burn.’

The Magelord stared at him, his mouth working silently. ‘It was not Mhaira on the pyre,’ he said at last.

Brodar Kayne could not have been more shocked if the Shaman had struck him full in the face. ‘What did you say?’

‘Magnar bargained for his mother’s life. She was escorted to the furthest reaches of my domain and told never to return. Her cousin took her place on the pyre.’

‘I saw her die!’ His hands were shaking now.

‘Magic,’ the Shaman grunted in response. ‘It was my intention to deliver you a harsh lesson. Nothing more.’

‘You’re lying.’ Even as he said the words, he knew they weren’t true. The Shaman did not lie.

‘I was wroth. You betrayed me, Kayne. You knew the price of treason.’ The Shaman’s voice grew a fraction softer. There was something strange in his eyes, something he had never before seen in all the years he had served as the Sword of the North. ‘Despite your betrayal, I still held some measure of respect for you. You were to be given another chance. An allowance I have never afforded any other man.’

Kayne’s vision had begun to blur and he realized there were tears in his eyes. All the pain he’d kept locked away for the last two years threatened to burst out of him then and there. Mhaira’s alive. Mhaira’s alive.

The Shaman sighed heavily. The words seemed to crawl from him, as if he was unsure whether or not he wanted to speak them. ‘I once watched a woman I loved die on a pyre. I would not have let you suffer the same. Even after your betrayal.’

With a sudden grunt, the master of the High Fangs threw his arms into the air and then began to shimmer. The outline of his body flickered, and then he began to shrink, growing smaller and smaller until he was a dark speck at the centre of a ball of blinding energy. Kayne watched, unmoving, barely seeing. He had witnessed the Magelord shift many times before.

The magic finally dissipated to reveal a large black raven. The Shaman took off into the air and circled the battlefield a few times. With a final caw, he soared off towards the north, leaving the two Highlanders standing alone.

Brodar Kayne sunk to his knees, the greatsword slipping from his trembling palms. Jerek watched silently. A few moments passed. The numbness began to recede.

Mhaira’s alive.

Finally it sank in. He looked up to meet the Wolf’s eyes. ‘Mhaira’s alive!’ he croaked.

Jerek nodded in reply. ‘Aye,’ he said simply. ‘Mhaira’s alive.’

Before either man could say anything more, the ground beneath them began to vibrate. Kayne turned his head to see the Brethren thundering past, stampeding towards the Demonfire Hills in the direction their master had flown. Back towards the High Fangs, where ghosts he thought buried had just risen from the dead.

Sasha came stumbling over. She looked like a ghost herself, all covered in blood and ash, her pretty hair singed and blackened and her eyes telling the story of the horrors she’d witnessed. ‘Zolta’s men breached the east gate an hour ago,’ she said, in between gasps for breath. ‘They’ve taken the city. Someone gave the order for the militia to stand down. The Watch has surrendered.’

‘Salazar?’ Kayne managed to ask, though he reckoned he already knew the answer, and at that moment he wasn’t much for caring either way.

‘Dead,’ replied Sasha. ‘General Zolta confirmed it. He saw the body. What’s left of it.’

There was a short silence while the news sunk in. It was Jerek who eventually spoke.

‘Well, fuck me,’ he said. ‘The boy’s a hero after all.’