The Grim Company

The Cleansing Fire





‘Shranree requests your presence, sister.’

Yllandris closed her eyes for a moment. It was time. She had not been looking forward to this. ‘I will be there shortly,’ she said, waving a dismissive hand in the mismatched face of Thurva. The short, girlish sorceress was the most junior member of the circle besides herself.

‘Shranree says you must come immediately,’ Thurva protested. She might have been irritated; it was hard to tell, what with the way her left eye seemed to be staring a hole in the side of her nose. Her appearance was almost comical, but Yllandris knew better than to doubt Thurva’s intellect. She had proved to be a shrewd and manipulative creature, ever eager to ingratiate herself with Shranree and the other senior sisters.

Yllandris sighed. ‘Very well. Wait a moment.’

The journey back to Heartstone had been considerably quicker than the trek in the opposite direction. They had lost close to a hundred men, many at the hands of the opposing circle, but overall the storming of Frosthold had been an overwhelming success. The proud town that had once straddled the edge of the Blackwater had been reduced to a blackened ruin scattered with the charred and butchered remains of its people.

Three nights had passed since the war party had arrived back in Heartstone. Each night, her dreams had been plagued by terrible images from the massacre: the face of the young sorceress from the Lake circle melting away to reveal her skull; Old Agatha’s brittle bones snapping under the clubs of furious rebels fleeing from the devastating magic Shranree had unleashed; three small pairs of eyes staring at her in abject terror, utterly helpless, while their mother perished nearby…

Yllandris felt her heart quicken and took a deep breath to calm herself. No one had seen her flee the ruthless slaughter that had followed their victory. At least, none of her sisters had learned of it. If they had, she would have been disciplined already. She remembered her momentary glimpse of the giant winged creature in the skies far above Frosthold, recalled the way its mere presence seemed to freeze the blood in her veins. Mentioning it to her sisters would only invite awkward questions. Better to say nothing.

The destruction of Frosthold had been a blood-soaked testament to the savagery of the Shaman’s will. An entire town of starving Highlanders had been put to the sword as punishment for rejecting the Treaty.

And for the chieftain who had made the decision to defy the King and their immortal overlord, the worst was still to come.

Yllandris followed a short distance behind Thurva as they made their way towards the Great Lodge, more out of a lack of desire to engage the woman in conversation than any respect for her slight seniority. Highlanders thronged around them, all moving in the same direction. Mothers clutched at children wrapped so heavily in furs that they waddled along in the snow like baby seals. Their faces were eager, matching the excitement of the warriors striding proudly alongside them. Some of the men bore scars from the recent battle. With their enemies vanquished, the surviving sorceresses were free to dispense their healing magic. The few unfortunates with injuries too grievous to heal were brought back to Heartstone for a proper burial.

The crowds grew thicker as they neared the great structure that dominated the centre of town. Yllandris caught up with Thurva and pushed her way through the press, ignoring the dirty looks and muttered oaths thrown her way. The anger soon faded once they realized she was a sorceress.

The rabble eventually parted and she stepped out to join her circle. They stood alone, just inside the wide ring of humanity that had formed before the Great Lodge. The sun was high in the sky, a brilliant white orb that reflected off the thawing snow to blind the pathetic figure at the centre of the ring. Mehmon was as thin as a skeleton, his emaciated body supported only by the rope that bound him to a thick wooden stake driven deep into the ground.

Shranree raised one fussy eyebrow when she saw that Yllandris had joined them. ‘I do believe you were summoned almost two hours ago. It is troubling that I needed to send Thurva to retrieve you. It behoves a sister to show some respect for her superiors.’ Her voice was sickly sweet and her chubby face wore a friendly smile, but there was no disguising the anger in her eyes. Yllandris drew back a fraction.

This is a woman who would hum cheerfully to herself while she burned you alive, she thought. She remembered the utter ruthlessness Shranree had displayed back at Frosthold. The senior sister had handled the task of massacring women and children as calmly as if she had been preparing dinner.

‘You have much to learn from your betters,’ Shranree continued. ‘It breaks my heart that Old Agatha was so cruelly taken from us before fully imparting her wisdom to you. I hope you will one day prove worthy of her tutelage.’

Thurva smiled in a manner that was possibly intended to be smug but merely looked ridiculous. Even so, Yllandris wanted to slap her irritating face. She was seething inside. You’re all a bunch of tools. Puppets of the Shaman, doing his bidding like a herd of sheep. Old Agatha got what she deserved.

She forced herself to look abashed and lowered her head slightly so that Shranree wouldn’t see the lie in her eyes. ‘My humble apologies, sister. I am still young and have much to learn.’

That seemed to satisfy the rotund sorceress. She brushed at some imaginary dirt on her robes. ‘Indeed you do,’ she huffed. ‘The road is going to be a long one, but we will get there eventually, I am sure.’

Yllandris gritted her teeth and nodded. She stared across to where King Magnar sat upon his mighty throne. His steely eyes met her for a moment and the ghost of a smile passed across his lips. Then it was gone as he turned his attention back to the chieftains either side of him.

Orgrim Foehammer and Krazka One-Eye would return with their men to their respective Reachings once Mehmon had been brought to justice, but for now they awaited the arrival of the Shaman. Orgrim appeared troubled, while the Butcher of Beregund’s lone eye positively glittered with anticipation.

Yllandris had been present the last time the Shaman ordered a public trial. She had been with the circle only a short time, and she still remembered the screams of the accused. The woman’s wails had been unearthly, like those of the banshees that were said to haunt the highest peaks. She recalled the poor old bastard in the wicker cage and the indescribable torment on his face as he watched his wife burn.

There was a sudden commotion behind her. Shranree jabbed a thick finger in the direction of the Great Lodge. ‘There he is,’ she whispered reverentially. ‘The Shaman comes.’

Yllandris looked up see a large black raven perched on the edge of the roof high above. It regarded them all with its beady eyes for a second and then leaped off, plummeting down towards the ground. Crash and die, she wished fervently, but the bird checked its fall at the last possible moment and hopped down to land unharmed on the snow. It shimmered and then began to stretch, first one way and then the other, unfolding like a sheet of parchment in an expansion of mass that made her brain hurt to watch. When the coruscation finally faded, the Shaman stood before them.

The assembled Highlanders went silent. As always, the Magelord was naked except for a tattered pair of breeches. His olive skin glistened with sweat despite the frigid conditions; he seemed not to feel the cold. That blunt, angry face stared across the open circle with blue eyes as harsh as a glacier. Yllandris felt herself wilting when his gaze passed over her, as if his stare was enough to bare her soul for the world to see.

The Shaman turned to the sagging figure that was Mehmon. Yllandris realized she had forgotten to breathe. Had she really considered plotting to kill this immortal? This Godkiller? The thought now seemed as absurd as reaching out and plucking the moon from the sky.

‘Mehmon,’ growled the Shaman. ‘I find you guilty of disobeying the will of your king and rejecting the terms of the Treaty under which all Highlanders abide. The penalty for rebellion is death by fire. Speak your last words.’

The old Highlander raised his head and coughed once. ‘Rebellion?’ he managed. ‘That’s a joke. I’m guilty of nothing but looking after my people.’

The Shaman crossed his massive arms over his chest. His muscles were like knotted steel. ‘You refused tribute. The fish that swim the Blackwater? The deer that roam the forests? This is my domain,’ he growled, revealing his teeth. ‘You rejected the Treaty and you stole from me. I care not for your excuses. The weak deserve only death. This is how it has always been.’

‘Crazy,’ Mehmon muttered. ‘You’re crazy. I should have thrown my sword in with Kayne when I had the chance.’

There was a collective gasp from her sisters and those townsfolk close enough to hear Mehmon’s words. The Shaman said nothing, but Yllandris could see the vein throbbing in his neck as his jaw clenched. All in Heartstone knew the subject of the Sword of the North was taboo. The miraculous escape of his infamous champion still gnawed at the Shaman, for it was his failure that the man had got away. Weakness was something the Magelord would not tolerate – most especially, it seemed, in himself.

‘How many of the Brethren did you send after Kayne?’ Mehmon continued. He forced an ugly chuckle out from between parched lips. ‘I heard he led them a merry chase. It’s a shame that bloodless puppet on the throne never inherited any of his father’s balls.’ He spat in the direction of the King, though it was a weak effort and most of the frothy saliva dribbled down his chin.

There was another gasp from the crowd, who as one turned their gaze to Magnar. Magnar Kayne, the youngest man ever to rule the High Fangs in the name of the Shaman. He had sided with the Magelord against Brodar Kayne, the Sword of the North.

His own father.

Magnar’s loyalty to the Shaman had won the respect of the ten chieftains of the Reachings. Respect as well as fear – for if he could condemn his own mother and father to death, what would Magnar Kayne do to a chieftain who betrayed him?

The anguish Yllandris had seen in both father and son’s eyes the day the woman Mhaira burned would haunt her forever. She remembered the terrible shame on Brodar Kayne’s face as he pleaded with the King to refuse his immortal master and end the horrible spectacle of his mother being burned on the pyre.

Magnar had not done so. He had watched in silence as she was consumed by flame.

At the time, Yllandris had admired him for his pragmatism. He had done what was necessary. He had passed the Shaman’s test. After what she had witnessed at Frosthold, however, she was no longer certain Magnar had done the right thing.

There was a scraping sound. It was the Shaman’s teeth grinding together. The Magelord gestured at one of the Six standing beside the King. The warrior had a torch in one hand. ‘Burn him,’ he ordered. The bodyguard moved forwards to ignite the kindling beneath Mehmon.

‘Another one put to the fire, eh? Heard a funny tale about that, from a Lowland trader no less.’ Mehmon’s words came quickly as the flames began to take hold. ‘See, as the story goes there was once a powerful wizard who fell for the daughter of another. He loved her more than anything in the world. The Age of Strife had never seen two stars shine so brightly together—’ He gasped suddenly as the flame licked at his boots.

Yllandris watched her sisters turn to one another in confusion. What is he doing, she saw Thurva mouth to Shranree. When she looked back at the Shaman, however, she knew. His face had grown ominously dark, like a towering thunderhead in the moments before an epic storm was unleashed.

‘So the tale goes, the Divine Inquisition eventually got hold of the girl. They did things to her no man should bear witness to. Urgh.’ He gasped again. His feet had caught fire. The pungent smell of burning leather drifted through the chill air.

Agony filled Mehmon’s voice as his words poured out in a torrent. ‘The wizard couldn’t do a damned thing. The Inquisition blocked his magic somehow. The experience f*cked him up good. He exiled himself to the mountains, far away from his peers, burned everything that reminded him of the man he had been and how he had failed— F*ck, f*ck—’

Mehmon’s curses turned into incoherent screams. The smell of burning flesh reached her nostrils and Yllandris felt as if she was going to gag.

There was a blur of motion followed by the sound of tearing and suddenly the Shaman was directly before the pyre, clutching Mehmon’s detached head in one hand, the top half of his spinal cord trailing out like a glistening white snake. Blood gushed from the neck of the headless body and sizzled down into the flames.

Yllandris turned away and this time she was sick, heaving her breakfast onto the thawing snow. She heard others doing the same. Even Shranree had gone pale. The Shaman raised Mehmon’s head up near his face and stared into its lifeless eyes.

She suddenly felt very scared.

‘Are you done, Mithradates?’

There was a collective gasp from the sisters beside her, as well as those at the front of the crowd just behind. An old man had appeared near the King’s throne, seemingly from nowhere. He wore crimson robes that were overly large for his slight frame and his thin beard and moustache made him look like an elderly fop. He supported himself on a slender cane, and was the very picture of weariness.

One of the Six immediately sprang towards the intruder, his longsword raised high to smite this strange Lowlander.

The elderly man raised one eyebrow and suddenly the warrior’s sword was plucked from his hands. It floated up into the air and rotated slowly around so that its tip was pointing down at the man. The bodyguard grimaced but did not move, keeping his body between the sword and Magnar.

There was movement to the side of Yllandris. ‘Sisters, attend me!’ cried Shranree, and she spread her hands towards the interloper. Golden light leaped out from her outstretched palms, raced towards her target – but then, instead of striking him, the arcing light bent around him to dissipate harmlessly. The old man crooked a finger and suddenly Shranree was clutching her throat. Her ruddy face turned purple as she struggled desperately to breathe. The other sorceresses prepared to launch their own magic as some Highlanders went for their weapons and others turned to flee.

The Shaman finally spoke. ‘Enough, Salazar. Release her.’

Salazar? Yllandris recognized that name: the Magelord of Dorminia, one of the original champions of the Godswar uprising and perhaps the most powerful man in the north.

The crimson-robed figure did as he was asked. Shranree dropped to her knees, sucking in deep breaths, tears rolling down her face. ‘Sheathe your weapons,’ ordered the Shaman. ‘All of you.’

Those Highlanders who had pulled steel put their weapons away, though the King’s guards kept their hands close to their hilts. The hulking form of the Shaman walked slowly across to the crimson-garbed man. Yllandris watched, filled with awe. Despite his frail appearance, if this wizard really was Salazar, he possessed enough power to collapse the very mountains around them.

‘Why have you come here?’ the Shaman asked. His voice was unusually quiet, almost apprehensive.

The old man stared down at his counterpart’s hand in distaste. The Shaman saw the look, grunted and tossed Mehmon’s head backwards into the fire which now blazed behind them. The chieftain’s body was already engulfed in flame. Mehmon had saved himself several minutes of intense agony with his desperate story. Whatever one might say about the former chieftain of the North Reaching, he was wily until the end.

Salazar leaned on his cane and tried to blink the tiredness from his eyes. ‘You once made me a promise,’ he said simply. ‘A promise to repay a vow you broke. The time has come to honour it.’

The Shaman narrowed his eyes. ‘What do you need of me?’

‘You know of events in the Trine?’

‘I care not for the outside world.’

‘I destroyed Shadowport. I believe Marius perished within.’

‘Marius,’ the Shaman muttered. ‘He was ever the slyest among us. I would not consider him dead until I saw proof.’

Salazar nodded. ‘Be that as it may, Thelassa now moves against Dorminia. The White Lady has three companies of mercenaries from Sumnia in her employ. They plan to invade. Without help, we cannot hope to win – and my magic is near spent. I lacked the reserves even to Portal here. My journey has taken the best part of a week, using what little power I have available to me.’

The Shaman growled low in his throat.

Salazar stared boldly back. ‘We once fought side by side, Mithradates. United in our tragedy. United in our desire for vengeance. Do you remember that much, at least?’

‘I remember. There are some things I cannot forget. I try – but I cannot forget.’

‘It is our curse, Mithradates. Our curse and our blessing. I would speak somewhere more private.’

The Shaman shot the King a glare and Magnar rose from his throne. ‘Go back to your homes,’ he ordered loudly. ‘Anyone still here in the time it takes a man to piss will spend a night in the stocks.’

At once relieved and disappointed to be dismissed, the assembled Highlanders began to depart. Yllandris was preparing to follow her sisters when a strong hand seized her firmly by the shoulder. She spun around to stare into the steely gaze of King Magnar himself.

‘Walk with me,’ he said softly. He seemed uncertain – and, Yllandris thought, at that moment, very young.

‘Of course,’ she said. Her smile couldn’t quite reach her eyes, however.

How can a son watch his mother burn?





Grim Tidings





‘Hurry this up. I have things to do.’

Eremul shot the hard-eyed woman a look of undisguised anger. She smirked slightly in response.

You believe you can read my thoughts. I see that glowing bauble beneath your ear. Well, you conceited harpy, I have ways to guard against unwelcome intrusions.

The effort of maintaining a mental shield to defeat the Augmentor’s probing had given him a splitting headache. In fairness, that was almost a welcome distraction from the throbbing lump protruding from his arse, which had swollen to the size of an orange. All in all, he had seen better days.

Recent events in the city had done nothing to improve the Halfmage’s mood. The Tyrant of Dorminia had been absent for a week, leaving that damnable Supreme Augmentor to assume temporary command of the city while Grand Magistrate Timerus regained his strength. The golden-haired commander of Salazar’s elite enforcers had wasted little time in putting Eremul to work, employing him in the dual role of both adviser and errand boy. His latest task was to gather every book he could find containing information about the distant nation of Sumnia. At first he had been secretly pleased with the assignment, thinking he might get a few hours’ respite back at the depository. He had not counted on being shadowed at every turn by Goodlady Cyreena, whose company was about as welcome as a poker up the arse.

Still, much as he despised the malevolent bitch glaring at him from across the room, the true depths of his loathing were reserved solely for himself.

He had held Salazar’s very life in his hands. He could have liberated Dorminia and its people from the grip of its tyrannical, murderous lord and ushered in a new age of justice and prosperity for all. Oh, the city would have been seized by Thelassa in short order, he had no doubt, but life under the White Lady’s banner would surely be better than the random executions and systematic terrorization that were part of everyday life in this festering heap of shit.

He could have been a hero, or at the very least an unsung martyr. Instead he had chosen to save his own skin, as befitted the coward he undoubtedly was. He only hoped the Magelord of Thelassa never learned of his actions. In one fell swoop, he had ruined the White Lady’s plan for liberating the Grey City without the need for a bloody war.

Preparations for Dorminia’s defence were well under way. The Crimson Watch had already begun sweeping the poorer districts and conscripting young men into the makeshift army that would defend Dorminia from Thelassa’s hired mercenaries. Eremul doubted the forced enrolment of the city’s dregs would prove to be of much benefit. When given a choice between a known tyrant and a potential saviour, only a fool would fight tooth and nail for the former.

The Halfmage had seen enough of the White Lady’s agents up in the abandoned lighthouse to predict a swift end to the conflict – especially with half the city’s Augmentors forcibly retired and probably suicidal. Dorminia was slipping from Salazar’s grasp, and there was little the ruthless old bastard could do about it. Even a Magelord has limits, and Salazar had exhausted himself destroying Shadowport. And no one knew quite what the White Lady herself was capable of.

‘What do we have so far?’ he asked irritably. There was a small stack of books on a table next to Goodlady Cyreena. She glanced at the spines.

‘Before the Fall: A History of the Events Leading up to the Godswar. A Grand Tour of the Sun Lands. The Soaring Spires: An Examination of Thelassan Society. The Warrior Princes of Sumnia. What’s this one?’ She picked up a small tome covered in purple leather. ‘Staring into the Abyss: The Planar Convergence. What does this have to do with the war?’

‘It doesn’t,’ he snapped in response. ‘It’s something I’m studying in my spare time. That book shouldn’t be in the pile.’

The Augmentor flicked through the pages, her lips pursed in concentration. He had thought her pretty, he recalled – until it became clear she was a barely functioning sociopath. That had killed any latent desire he might have felt.

Not that my passions amount to anything worth a damn. He hadn’t been intimate with anyone except his right hand for longer than he cared to remember.

‘You believe this? All this nonsense about demons and bogeymen?’ The woman’s voice was scornful.

Eremul sighed in irritation. ‘My wizardly forebears stormed the heavens themselves, did they not? It follows that there is a dark counterpart to the celestial plane.’

‘Your time would be better spent researching how to protect our northern borders from the abominations that plague us. Those are real threats – not childish nonsense.’

He couldn’t resist giving the goodlady a scornful look. ‘I am led to understand it is your duty to combat these menaces when they threaten Dorminia. Perhaps it is difficult to find the time. After all, you are so very busy terrorizing the populace.’

Cyreena stared back at him. There was something vaguely familiar about that face, but at that moment all he could focus on was the seething hatred burning behind her eyes. ‘I do as I am commanded,’ she said. ‘Nothing more. As should you.’

‘Oh, don’t you worry about my dedication,’ he spat back. ‘After all, did I not save Salazar’s very life? I ought to be posing now for a sculptor. I deserve a statue somewhere in the city, surely. Why, it would barely count as half a job. Ardling could surely negotiate a discount.’

The Augmentor’s voice softened. ‘You sound bitter. I would not blame you for hating our master.’

Her words surprised him. He narrowed his eyes. ‘This is what you do, isn’t it?’ he said accusingly. ‘You tempt the gullible into treacherous thoughts so you can arrest them for treason later on. You f*cking succubus.’

She stared at him and said nothing.

‘You’re worse than the rest of them,’ he continued. He knew he should probably keep his mouth shut, but recent events and his subsequent treatment as some kind of skivvy for that perfect golden-haired bastard lording it up at the Obelisk had enraged him. ‘How many careless fools have you led to the noose with your tastefully exposed tits and serpent’s tongue? How many families have you destroyed? Do you take some kind of sick pleasure from this?’

Goodlady Cyreena sneered in response, a look of such utter contempt that Eremul was impressed in spite of himself. ‘That’s rich coming from you, Halfmage. You’ve been informing for his lordship for years. The only difference between us is that I do this willingly – not because I’m too much of a coward to choose otherwise. You’re like an abused dog that still tongues his master’s arse hoping for a pat on the head.’

The woman’s words cut him like a blade. She had struck him right where he was weakest. He felt the blood pounding in his head, closed his eyes and gripped the sides of his chair so hard his fingers hurt. You bitch. You ruthless, perceptive bitch.

His magic burgeoned inside him. He was a hair’s breadth from evoking and unleashing it at the Augmentor when he felt a prick on his hand. He looked down.

There was a tiny speck of blood on his palm. The woman had crossed over to him and stabbed him with her hairpin, which had been hidden underneath her hair. He had forgotten it was there. He felt himself go numb. When he tried to wriggle his fingers they refused to respond.

Goodlady Cyreena watched him like a hawk, her hairpin poised to stab him again. When she was certain he was fully paralysed, she relaxed and placed the pin back in her hair.

He tried to summon his magic again. It was useless. The enchantment that numbed his body also dampened his ability to channel his own magical reserves. He was as powerless as a newborn babe.

Wonderful. The day just gets better and better. He couldn’t even move his mouth to hurl an obscenity at the damned woman.

‘I want to show you something,’ the Augmentor said. She grabbed his chair and spun him around to face the door, then pushed him outside. A child was kicking a stone down the street. The boy looked up curiously as they emerged into the afternoon sun.

The clouds that had hung over Dorminia like a shroud for the last few days had finally dispersed. Now a new problem faced the city. Bodies were beginning to wash up, hundreds of them, bloated corpses floating in on tides that had travelled all the way from the flooded remnants of Shadowport. The City of Shades was slowly regurgitating its dead.

Eremul watched the clean-up operation in the harbour as the goodlady wheeled him slowly down towards the docks. He had no idea what the woman planned to do with him, but he suspected it would not be pleasant.

Maybe she’s going to throw me into the harbour. Will my chair carry me straight to the bottom like a stone, or will I float free to enjoy a more leisurely drowning? I can hardly decide which I prefer. Perhaps a net will sweep me up and deposit my corpse on one of those trawlers.

He felt strangely calm. If he was going to die, drowning probably wasn’t such a bad way to go.

As it turned out, it appeared his tormentor had other intentions. They stopped short of the harbour and took a left turn into a narrow street piled high with stinking rubbish on either side and peopled with rough-faced men and women. Whether it was Goodlady Cyreena’s demeanour or just the sheer absurdity of an attractive woman wheeling a legless cripple around in one of the scummiest parts of town, no one bothered to molest them as they made their way down the alley. Eventually they stopped in front of a run-down house, little more than a shack, with a broken door and a roof that sagged in the middle and was coated in bird shit.

The Augmentor stood there for a time, staring at the decrepit little building. ‘This is where I was born,’ she said. Her voice was carefully neutral but the words shocked him nonetheless. He found that he could move his eyebrows now. One of them arched up in surprise.

‘You won’t remember the riots that took place during the Culling,’ she continued. ‘I imagine you were indisposed at the time.’

What gave you that idea, he wanted to say, but his lips still refused to form the words. He made do with a frown.

‘The city was in chaos. The mages fought back, as you might expect, which gathered support for an uprising. This particular area was a hotbed of unrest.’ She looked up and down the dirty streets. ‘I was one of the loudest calling for change. I was in my early twenties then, in love with one of the ringleaders of the rebellion.’

She stared at the busted door hanging off its hinges. This time there was a hint of emotion in her voice. ‘My parents were loyalists. They wanted no trouble. When the revolt was in full swing and there was fighting out on the streets, out here’ – she gestured, sweeping her hand around to take in the filthy row of houses – ‘my lover convinced me to let his gang into my home. He knew I was sympathetic to the rebellion and assumed my family were the same. They demanded my father and brother join them in fighting the soldiers.’

Eremul sat and listened in silence. It wasn’t as if he had much choice in the matter, but hearing this cold-blooded Augmentor reveal her past was oddly compelling. Besides, she seemed to be finding the experience cathartic. He hoped that boded well for his continued existence when she got around to deciding what to do with him.

‘My family… exchanged harsh words with the rebels. My brother took a knife in the throat. That set my father off. He, too, was murdered while my lover held me back. I screamed and kicked but he wouldn’t let me go.’

Goodlady Cyreena went silent for a time. There was a strange glint in her eyes now. ‘My lover dragged me from the house as his friends raped my sister. She was little more than a child.’

Eremul fancied he saw a tear, though it could have been a trick of the light. I suppose I should be grateful I’m paralysed, he thought. I might be expected to rise from my chair and give her a supportive hug. That would be awkward for both of us.

The Augmentor blinked and suddenly her momentary vulnerability was gone. ‘My lover was cut down by soldiers barely a second after we stepped out of the house. I was arrested and released a few weeks later. When I returned, I found my mother had committed suicide. My sister was nowhere to be seen. I never learned what became of her.’

She turned to him and crossed her arms in front of her ample chest. ‘Civilization functions only because strong men do not permit weaker men to indulge their baser instincts. Freedom and liberty are the means by which anarchy reigns – and anarchy is the natural state for men to freely express the evil that lurks within them. Within all of them. Within you,’ she added, staring down at him with an expression that froze his blood.

This woman is insane.

‘I was young and naive. I am no longer that person. I no longer answer to the same name. There is but one man I believe in, and he is no man at all. He is a god.’

She bent down so her face was close to his. ‘Feel no sorrow for those you betray,’ she said softly. ‘Embrace what you do. You serve Salazar, whose wisdom is beyond reproach by the likes of us. Do not lament the loss of your legs. Instead, celebrate the fact they have liberated you from the evil you would have otherwise committed. You are half a man – yet by virtue of that simple fact, you possess only half the evil of a man.’

She turned away from Eremul and so, fortunately for him, didn’t see the look of pure poison he shot her. Batshit insane. She’s batshit insane.

The Augmentor looked up at the sinking sun. Evening was near. ‘I will bring the books we gathered to the Obelisk,’ she said. ‘You can make your way home in your own time. The paralysis shouldn’t last much longer.’

Goodlady Cyreena walked away without a backward glance.



It was growing dark by the time he recovered enough feeling in his arms to begin wheeling himself up the side street and back towards the depository. This was the worst day he could remember since the Obelisk dungeons had changed his life, and that was no small feat – there was the time he had fallen out of his chair while taking a shit and wallowed in his own excrement for six hours waiting for Isaac to return, to name but one possible contender.

He wondered what had become of Isaac and the rest of the small band that had set off for the Wailing Rift two weeks past. The ship sent up Deadman’s Channel to investigate the collapsed mine had failed to discover any sign of the saboteurs. That gave him hope they were still alive. Despite his maddening enthusiasm and annoying knack for effortlessly picking up new skills, Isaac had proved a loyal assistant.

Lost in sudden melancholy, he didn’t realize how close he had come to the harbour until he heard the sound of lapping water below. His curiosity got the better of him and he wheeled his chair out until he overlooked the vast expanse of water. The cleaning operation was winding down for the night. Crew were disembarking all around him. He gazed out, amusing himself with the thought of Isaac and the others slipping furtively through the detritus of floating corpses on their tiny sailing boat, wondering what disaster had befallen the city in their absence.

An odd noise suddenly caught his attention. It almost sounded like a baby crying, and it came from somewhere below him. He peered down into the murky water.

There. A tiny bundle fidgeted pathetically on a small piece of flotsam bobbing towards him. He glanced around to make sure no one was watching and then, with a brief unveiling of magic, he levitated the twitching figure up to drift slowly into his arms.

It was a dog – a scrawny little thing with patchy grey fur and drooping ears. It watched him nervously with watery brown eyes.

Eremul felt something strange stir within him. This poor creature had somehow lived through the absolute destruction of its city. Even more miraculously, it had survived a voyage across the Broken Sea clinging to a fragile piece of furniture.

The dog leaned forwards and licked his nose. He flinched away, then reached forwards and patted its head. We’re the same, you and I, he thought. A pair of mongrels, cast adrift, clinging to whatever we can to make it through the day.

He remembered what Goodlady Cyreena had said to him. You’re like an abused dog that still tongues his master’s arse hoping for a pat on the head.

The Augmentor had been wrong about that. He had saved Salazar’s life only because his own had depended on it. He would have his vengeance when the time was right, when the old bastard least expected it. He wasn’t like her – a broken, vicious, evil thing. All right, perhaps he was broken and occasionally vicious, but evil? He patted the dog on the head again.

Would an evil man rescue a stranded animal from certain death? I’m taking you back to the depository with me. Hopefully that crazy bitch has left by now. There’s some offal in the larder if I can get it out. I might even have a tasty leg of pork down there. If you’re a really good boy you can—

‘Argh.’

He jerked back as a warm stream of piss spurted from between the dog’s legs and splashed onto his face, dribbling down his chin and then his robes. Instinctively he thrust the animal away. It slipped from his grasp and he heard the splash as it hit the water below. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and squinted down, searching for any sign of the animal.

It was gone.

He sat there for a time, staring at nothing in particular. Then, very slowly, he turned his chair around and began the lonely journey back to the depository.