The Grim Company

The Implacable Weapon





‘You may rise.’

Barandas did as he was commanded, shocked at the exhaustion in that ancient voice. The undisputed master of Dorminia and arguably the most powerful man in the north had never sounded so decrepit. It was an unsettling revelation, even for the city’s Supreme Augmentor.

He risked a quick glance at the men sitting before him as he straightened. Lord Salazar slumped forwards in his obsidian throne, his age-spotted hands clutching at the sides for support. Those voluminous robes of deep scarlet he always wore fell around his thin body like a shroud. The harsh lines of the Magelord’s dusky face were accentuated by fatigue, and his eyes were sunk even deeper than usual, shadowed by circles almost as black as the throne he sat upon. Even the beard and moustache he kept so meticulously well oiled, an ancient Gharzian custom he had never discarded, seemed to droop with weariness.

In contrast, Grand Magistrate Timerus, sitting to the left of Lord Salazar, positively glowed with satisfaction. Like the city’s ruler, Timerus was not of Andarran ancestry; though he had been born in Dorminia, the Grand Magistrate shared the unmistakable features of the men and women of Ishar to the east. The chief steward of the city’s affairs placed a long index finger to the side of his hawk-like nose and gave Barandas an appraising look.

On the other side of the Magelord, Marshal Halendorf of the Crimson Watch sat with his hands folded on his lap and a ghost of a smile on his corpulent face.

Go ahead and gloat, gentlemen, Barandas thought irritably. You won’t find it so amusing when the White Lady discovers the city’s Augmentor force has been shattered.

‘I trust you are sufficiently recovered,’ Salazar said eventually. As it happened, Barandas still felt weak, but he would never admit to such. Not in front of the Magelord and the city’s two most powerful magistrates.

‘I am fine, my lord. However, I regret to inform you that twenty-one Augmentors lost their bondmagic. Fortunately, none of them died in the process.’

Salazar pursed his narrow lips. ‘Over half my Augmentors,’ he stated, a hint of annoyance in his voice. Barandas felt a flutter of apprehension. The Tyrant of Dorminia might be exhausted to the point of tottering from his throne, but he could snuff out the lives of everyone in this chamber in the blink of an eye – and would, given reason to do so. Shadowport’s fate was a testament to that.

‘Yes, my lord. Mostly the new and inexperienced. We lost one or two veterans, but the core of your Augmentors remains strong.’

Timerus leaned forwards. ‘I expect your erstwhile colleagues will need something to lessen the discomfort. I understand that being parted from one’s bondmagic can be a traumatic experience.’ The Grand Magistrate’s beady eyes were mocking. He felt nothing but hatred and contempt for the Supreme Augmentor. The feeling was mutual.

‘They’ll suffer for a week or two. Most of them will survive it,’ Barandas replied. ‘After the worst has passed, I would like to see them given positions elsewhere. I’m sure their skills would be useful in the Watch.’ He gave Halendorf a pointed look.

‘I’ll consider it,’ the Marshal said. ‘I should say that the Crimson Watch has little use for addicts.’

‘Which is precisely why they won’t be swapping magic for narcotics,’ Barandas replied, narrowing his eyes at Timerus. The Grand Magistrate said nothing, simply smiled his lizard’s smile.

Salazar raised a hand for silence. ‘You will do as the Supreme Augmentor asks, Marshal. I will tolerate no further discussion on this issue.’ He snapped his fingers and a maid scurried over with a golden goblet full of the red wine the Magelord favoured. He swirled the blood-coloured liquid around in the chalice almost absently, staring into its depths as if seeing events and places long past.

‘Shadowport is gone,’ he said. ‘Though I won’t presume Marius is dead until I see his corpse. He was ever a superb strategist, plotting schemes within schemes. His cunning served us well, back when the Congregation began cleansing the lands of those with the gift.’ He sipped the wine and closed his eyes. For a moment Barandas thought Salazar had drifted off to sleep. Then his eyes shot open and his voice once again rang with the iron authority they were all accustomed to. ‘With Shadowport out of the picture the White Lady is certain to move against me. There will never be a better time for Thelassa to consolidate power in the Trine.’

Marshal Halendorf cleared his throat nervously. ‘My lord, is war with the City of Towers truly unavoidable? After what happened to Shadowport, the White Lady has every reason to be cautious.’

A hint of annoyance crept into Salazar’s voice. ‘The destruction of the City of Shades was no small feat, Marshal. The ritual lasted over a month – a month in which I have not slept. It cost me half my Augmentors, as well as the raw magic we have stockpiled over the last three years. My personal reserves are spent. Without raw magic to siphon, it will be months before my power recovers to what it once was.’

The commander of the city’s military looked very uncomfortable. Still, he ploughed ahead. ‘But, my lord, the Celestial Isles… can they not be divided between the two city-states? The White Lady would risk much going to war with us. Are the Isles so important?’

Barandas was mildly impressed. Halendorf was a brave man when he was speaking with a subordinate and backed up by his captains and lieutenants, but he was far less sure of himself when it came to proffering an opinion to the city’s forbidding Magelord.

This time Salazar’s eyes flickered dangerously. ‘The Celestial Isles are a fragment of the heavens themselves. There is more magic in those islands than anywhere east of the Fadelands. You suggest I hand the White Lady enough power to conquer the Trine and beyond.’

Halendorf sat back in his chair, his face pale.

Salazar took another sip of wine. Barandas and the other two magistrates held their breath. ‘We require more Augmentors,’ said the Magelord eventually.

It was the turn of Timerus to shift uncomfortably. ‘Lord Salazar,’ he began, ‘our mining operation at the Wailing Rift is proceeding as efficiently as possible. We cannot go any faster—’

‘Silence,’ Salazar commanded, interrupting the Grand Magistrate, whose narrow brow immediately moistened with sweat. ‘We will search further afield. Three days’ sailing west of here, on the edge of the Broken Sea, is a deposit of magic that will serve to replenish my power – both for the creation of new Augmentors, and to defend the city when the White Lady eventually shows her hand.’

Marshal Halendorf swallowed hard. ‘My lord, you refer to the Swell?’ His voice faltered on the last word.

‘Yes,’ the Magelord replied coldly. ‘Inform Admiral Kramer that he has a singular opportunity to redeem himself. He will captain a crew and sail to the Swell. There he will oversee a new mining operation.’

Timerus licked his lips. ‘My lord, the Swell is the very reason the Azure Sea is now named the Broken Sea. Even in death, the Lord of the Deep punishes those who would violate his resting place. Sane men will not venture near the Swell for all the gold in Dorminia.’

Salazar frowned. ‘Then we will send the insane, the desperate, those already condemned to death. I trust you will not fail me in this, Grand Magistrate.’

Timerus bowed his head obediently. Wise man, thought Barandas.

‘Fear not, Supreme Augmentor,’ continued the Magelord. ‘We will see your force restored. For now, however, there is a matter that requires your attention. The Grand Magistrate will explain the details.’

The Magelord rose unsteadily from his throne. ‘I must rest now. Ensure I am not disturbed.’ After draining the last of his wine, Salazar shuffled slowly from the chamber.



Barandas emerged from the Obelisk in the early hours of the morning. A fierce storm still raged, plastering his blond hair to his face and sending his crimson cloak dancing wildly behind him. Droplets of rain rolled down his golden armour and somehow worked their way into his boots. He gathered his cloak around him as tightly as he could and bent his head to the storm. If he hurried, he could catch a few hours’ sleep before sunrise. Tomorrow would be eventful, and besides, Lena would be waiting for him. He imagined the scent of her hair and smiled despite the foul weather and the squelching in his boots.

Barandas wasn’t blind to the suffering of those less fortunate than he was, and he knew the city could be a hard place for many – but at least it worked. Long ago, Salazar had taught him that a strong man does what is necessary and not always what is right. Barandas had reflected on this over the years. He had concluded that, as always, the Magelord had been correct. Who could understand the necessity for difficult actions as well as a man who had overthrown the very gods?

Mindhawks, the Black Lottery, the creative methods used to extract information from potential insurrectionists and traitors… these things were regrettable, but how else was a city to survive and prosper in the face of threats both from within and without?

A faithless population, Salazar had once declared, was like a leaf carried in the breeze, quick to twist and turn in whichever way the wind pulled it. Strange notions could be born and then spread like wildfire. In the absence of the gods a soul searches elsewhere for nourishment, and in such circumstances insurgency was but one determined demagogue away. Better to ensure compliance through fear than to see Dorminia torn apart.

When Lord Salazar’s justice needed to be imposed upon those wishing the city harm, the Supreme Augmentor was its implacable weapon.

Barandas approached his large estate in the south-east corner of the Noble Quarter and nodded at the doorman sheltering under the veranda. The man saluted quickly and unlocked the ornate entrance doors. Barandas strode through into the hallway and up the winding staircase, ignoring the muddy footprints his boots left on the new carpet.

A soft light flickered from beneath the bedroom door at the end of the corridor. He approached and knocked softly, not wishing to startle Lena if she was sleeping.

He needn’t have worried. The door opened almost immediately, and then she was standing before him, her beautiful face filled with worry. She pulled him into the room and threw her arms around him.

‘I was terrified, Ran,’ she whispered into his chest. ‘Kyla told me what happened. How could you agree to it? It’s different for you. You could have died!’

Barandas ran his fingers through her hair. It smelled of jasmine, as always. ‘I had no choice. What kind of commander would I be if I stood aside while my own men placed themselves in danger?’ He wriggled his arms free of Lena’s embrace and reached behind him, unfastening the buckles that held his breastplate in place. Lena pulled it away and lowered it gently on the floor, then helped him remove the padded jacket he wore beneath. She stared at his naked chest for a time, tracing a finger down the jagged scar that began just below his clavicle and divided his well-muscled torso down to the base of his sternum. Then she drew her hand away, as if afraid she might inadvertently harm him.

Barandas smiled at her. ‘Really, I’m fine,’ he said gently. He bent his head forwards and kissed her deeply. Her mouth tasted of plum wine. He glanced across to the dresser beside the bed where a candle illuminated a pitcher next to a half-empty glass. ‘You’ve been waiting up for me all this time?’ he asked.

‘You know I have,’ she replied. ‘I tried finishing the poem I’ve been working on for the last week, but it was no good. I was sick with worry.’ She seemed about to say something else, only to change her mind at the last moment. Her face became grave. ‘Tell me, Ran, is it true? About Shadowport?’

Barandas nodded grimly. ‘They were our enemies,’ he said, in response to her shocked expression. ‘Better to end this now than for yet more of Dorminia’s soldiers to die.’

Lena looked unconvinced, but she nodded and helped him with the rest of his armour.

‘I have a busy day tomorrow,’ he said. ‘But we’ll make some time for each other, I promise. I love you, Lena,’ he added, watching her undress. ‘I do what I do for you.’

‘I know,’ she replied. ‘I love you too.’ She blew out the dying candle and joined him under the blankets. He felt her warm body press up against his.

A man does what is necessary. For his lord. For his city. For love.





The Joys of Laughter





Brodar Kayne’s knees ached.

They’d departed the ruined temple just after midnight to find the storm hadn’t let up. An hour spent trudging through the sodden streets had caused all his old scars to chafe against his damp leathers, and to add to the discomfort his bones had started to protest.

It don’t get any easier, he thought ruefully. At least Jerek had calmed down now, retreating into a sulk after his little outburst. He splashed along sullenly at the rear of the group, cussing under his breath occasionally and shooting dark looks at the world in general.

The streets sloped gently downwards as they made their way south towards the harbour. They passed sagging groups of buildings that loomed in the darkness like gigantic beasts. Occasionally a flash of lightning would illuminate the night sky and render the individual buildings in ghostly shades of monochrome. He saw warehouses hard by tanneries, coopers’ establishments nudging chandleries, and apothecaries’ shops abutting brothels, the last no doubt by design. He’d never seen so many different trades packed so tightly together.

Vicard the alchemist had pointed out his shop as they passed nearer to the docks, but Kayne hadn’t been able to make out a damned thing. Fact was, his eyes weren’t getting any better.

The alchemist was just ahead of him now, having dropped slightly behind the girl at the head of the sorry band. The man’s nose was like a busted cistern and his long sleeves were covered in as much snot as water. Vicard was the sort of fellow Jerek would take an instant disliking to, so Kayne took care to keep himself positioned between the alchemist and his belligerent friend.

The outline of ships suddenly appeared and the sounds of the sea became audible above the persistent hammering of the rain. The girl – what was her name? Sasha? – slowed, and Kayne saw a cloaked figure emerge from the shadows. The small group drew to a halt. He shifted a fraction for easier access to his greatsword, should he need it. It always paid to be careful.

The stranger threw back his hood to reveal a face of devastating blandness. He looked to be in his mid-twenties and was of average height and build, but aside from those few details Kayne struggled to identify a single distinguishing feature about the man.

Sasha stepped forwards. ‘The night is black,’ she said carefully. ‘Yet hope burns in the darkness. Do you know where we may find succour?’ She made a complex gesture that involved lots of finger wiggling and ended with her hands locked together in front of her chest.

The man looked confused. ‘Are you here for the master?’ he asked. ‘He told me to meet some guests here. Well, he didn’t use the word “guests” exactly, but he’s in a dark mood what with his haemorrhoids playing up again and you shouldn’t hold that against him.’

Sasha’s mouth worked silently for a moment. ‘The merchant Garrett. Your master knows him?’ she finally managed.

The unremarkable fellow thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘The fat man? He’s been around a few times. Eremul always says he could give him gout just by looking at him. Or he could if… well, you know.’

Kayne had heard enough. ‘I ain’t one to grumble,’ he said, ‘but it’s pissing down something fierce and this conversation don’t seem to be going anywhere fast. I don’t suppose you could lead us to this Eremul fellow?’

The man blinked, and then gave a bland smile. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘The depository’s a bit of mess but that’s my fault. I’ve had no time to put everything back in its proper place yet. Let’s go.’ He pulled his hood back up over his head and set off west along the docks.

Kayne glanced around at everyone else, shrugged, and followed after him.



‘Really, Isaac. I don’t know why I put up with your incompetence. I swear, you’re a boil on the arse of humanity. If it wasn’t vaguely amusing to see you blundering around like a blind man in a brothel, I’d have turned your flesh to stone and had you tossed in the harbour years ago.’

Kayne stared in amazement as the venomous insults continued to drip from the tongue of the man sitting before them. Dark-haired and olive-skinned, he didn’t seem that much older than his manservant, except that his eyes were as cynical as the other man’s were cheerful. Oblivious to the torrent of abuse raining down on him, Isaac smiled and continued pouring steaming tea for each of them from a large pot.

‘Maybe he misunderstood my hand signals,’ Sasha said, sipping from her cup and watching their contact warily. ‘It was dark and raining heavily. I wouldn’t blame—’

‘Nonsense,’ the man seated behind the desk cut in. ‘Isaac is a cretin of the highest order. If I didn’t know better, I might think he was placed on this mortal plane simply to annoy me.’ He grimaced as he finished speaking and shifted uncomfortably on his seat.

Kayne watched as Sasha raised an eyebrow.

I can see why young Cole has a thing for you, he thought. You’re an attractive lass, though too sharp for my tastes. And far too young, he quickly appended, feeling somewhat guilty.

‘Garrett said you could help us reach the Wailing Rift,’ Sasha said. ‘Dorminia is under lockdown. How do you propose to get us out?’

‘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. ‘F*cking 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, f*ck 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 manifestations 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. F*cking 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.’

She strolled away from the crowd in the direction of the Great Lodge, confident that her orders would be followed. Many of the assembled Highlanders might desire or despise her, depending on what they had between their legs, but they feared her even more. Besides, the Brethren were their sacred protectors. None would dare anger the Shaman by dishonouring one of the beasts.

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.

The massive warrior stationed outside the entrance to the Great Lodge nodded as she approached and beckoned her to go on inside. She stepped past him through the huge gate, inhaling the pungent odours of ancient darkwood, smoke, fur and leather that hung in the air. This is what home will smell like, so very soon.

She followed the vast entrance hall down towards the throne room, practising a regal smile on the men standing guard on either side. The Six were among the finest warriors in Heartstone, sworn to guard the King with their lives. The weapons and shields of legendary Highlanders hung from the darkwood walls, glistening in the smoky light of the torches arrayed on sconces down the length of the hall. Some day she would have sons, and no doubt their own arms would have pride of place among these of heroes from ages past.

She paused for a moment before entering the throne room and adjusted her shawl one final time. With a nod to the guards on either side of her, she swept through the great double doors.

Magnar, King of the High Fangs, watched her enter from his mighty oak throne at the head of the long trestle table dominating the room. Eight of the ten smaller thrones positioned lengthwise down the table were empty. The Butcher of Beregund, Krazka One-Eye, watched her hungrily from the throne immediately to the King’s right. On Magnar’s left, Orgrim Foehammer scowled and crossed his meaty arms over his expansive paunch.

Yllandris slowed. She hadn’t expected Magnar to have company. Not these two men, at any rate. Krazka and Orgrim were the most powerful of the chieftains who ruled the ten Reachings under the King, who in turn answered to the Shaman – when the Magelord bothered to involve himself in matters of state.

‘Yllandris,’ drawled Magnar in his cultured voice. ‘What brings you here?’

‘A woman?’ interrupted Orgrim, distaste plain in his voice. He slammed a fist down on the table. ‘We’re here to discuss war!’

Krazka licked his lips. Yllandris wasn’t sure which made her more uncomfortable: the leering eye on the right of that cruel face or the dead, colourless orb staring blindly on the left. ‘This the one you spoke about, Magnar? Your pet sorceress, aye? No wonder you like to keep her close.’

The King beckoned her to approach. He was young compared with the chieftains beside him, only a few years past his twentieth winter. Muscular and exceptionally tall, he regarded her with eyes the colour of steel. It was said Magnar’s prowess with a sword matched that of any of the Six, his elite bodyguard. He had proved a shrewd ruler during his short reign.

A formidable man. One who deserves a woman to match. She gave him a small curtsy. ‘My king, a pack of the Brethren returned just moments past. They were attacked by a demon of a kind I have never before seen. Two of the pack were killed: Thorne, and a white cougar whose name I do not know.’

‘This is troubling news,’ said the King. He was an educated man; perhaps too educated for the tastes of certain of his chieftains. His personal prowess and the ruthlessness he had displayed during his rule had ensured their muttering went unvoiced in public, but Yllandris knew some of them bore Magnar a grudge, and not only because of his learned manner.

‘Describe this demon to me,’ the King commanded.

‘It was hugely tall and as black as the night. It flew with wings near as wide as this chamber. Its talons were the size of longswords, capable of rending a man apart with a single swipe. I saw all this from Thorne, before he passed away.’

‘The Devil’s Spine continues to f*ck us up the ass,’ Orgrim growled. ‘That accursed place spews up more demons by the day. How many of the Brethren have we lost this year alone? At this rate the High Fangs will be overrun.’

Krazka finally tore his gaze away from her breasts. He rubbed at his weeping dead eye with the back of his hand, where it left a trail of sticky slime. ‘It ain’t just the demons crawling out of the Devil’s Spine that’s the problem. They’re chasing out the giants and the wargs and f*ck knows what else. This latest attack is just the tip of the iceberg.’

The King frowned and leaned forwards. ‘This has come at a bad time. We plan to move on Frosthold in the next few days. I had intended to send the Brethren with our main force. With the Shaman’s approval, of course.’

Yllandris was confused. Frosthold? That was the principal town of the North Reaching under the rule of Mehmon, one of the oldest and most respected chieftains of the High Fangs. Why would they move against Frosthold?

The King noted her puzzled expression. ‘Mehmon has declared independence,’ he said. ‘He no longer wishes to honour the Treaty, claiming his own people are starving. If his mutiny is allowed to go unpunished, other Reachings will follow his lead. Mehmon must be brought to justice and Frosthold put to the sword as an example to the rest. Orgrim and Krazka will return to their Reachings shortly and ready their men.’

Yllandris noticed the eager look on Krazka’s face. The Butcher of Beregund had earned his reputation three years ago, when he had led the ruthless massacre of the town of the same name. The Green Reaching had rebelled and the town of Beregund had been slaughtered to a man. No doubt he was looking forward to a repeat of the bloody work that had made him infamous across the High Fangs.

‘This demon will wreak chaos if it is left unchecked,’ she said. ‘It is capable of destroying entire villages.’

Magnar nodded. ‘Then I will split the Brethren. Half will accompany the war party to Frosthold, while the other half will hunt down this fiend—’

‘No,’ said a deep voice from a dark corner of the chamber.

The Shaman stepped out into the torchlight. His tanned body rippled in the orange glow, naked save for a pair of tattered brown breeches. He wasn’t tall by the standards of the men in the room, but he was incredibly wide, three hundred pounds of muscle packed onto a frame a shade under six feet. Deep veins threaded his bulging biceps and heaving chest and shoulders. His straggly black hair ran down to his waist, which seemed chiselled as if from stone. He looked like a god, or some heroic figure of legend.

He is neither. He participated in the killing of the gods and the bringing about of the Age of Ruin. She wondered how long he had been in the chamber. The Magelord could have slipped unnoticed into the throne room at any time, wearing the form of any number of creatures – even that of an insect. There was said to be no greater Shifter in the known world than the Shaman.

‘I will hunt and slay this monster,’ the Shaman growled in his low, rumbling voice. ‘Send the Brethren to Frosthold. You will need them.’

‘As you command,’ said Magnar. Yllandris felt a tickle of disappointment at his easy deference. The Shaman rarely interfered with the governing of the High Fangs, except to place a new king on the throne when the previous one had passed away. Magnar’s obedience reminded her that no matter how high she rose, there would always be a ceiling to her ambitions. The King’s will would forever come second to that of the Godkiller standing before her. No mortal outranked a Magelord where he or she claimed dominion.

The Shaman crossed his massive arms. Even Orgrim Foehammer looked small when sat so close to the hulking figure. ‘Frosthold’s circle is powerful. Send as many sorceresses as you can.’

‘There are seven in Heartstone, including Yllandris,’ the King replied. ‘That gives us fifteen in total, including the circles from the East and the Lake Reachings.’ He glanced at the chieftains to either side of him. They nodded in confirmation.

‘Adequate,’ said the Shaman. He looked up at the ceiling and raised his mighty arms in the air. ‘Search the High Fangs. Find any man who possesses the spark of magic and bring him here. I will create more of the Brethren.’ And with that he began to shimmer, his body seeming to stretch and elongate. All of a sudden his shifting form imploded, condensing so that only a tiny ball of light remained floating above the ground.

The glow faded away, to reveal a large black raven hovering in the air. The transformed Shaman croaked once and flew upwards, disappearing through a smoke vent in the wooden ceiling above.

Magnar, King of the High Fangs, looked at Yllandris and pursed his lips. ‘You had best prepare yourself for travel. Tell the rest of your circle to do the same. The North Reaching is ten days away at the very least, and the journey is a hard one. I will see you when you return.’

Yllandris cursed silently, shooting venomous glances at the amused faces of Krazka and Orgrim. ‘Yes, my king,’ she said, slightly too sweetly. His eyes narrowed. She ignored his displeasure, dipped a perfunctory curtsy and turned on her heels to stride out of the throne room.

She had expected to find herself in his bed by now, as had been their routine for the past few months. Instead she must prepare herself for an unpleasant sojourn to the frozen North Reaching and a confrontation with a hostile circle.

One thing she did know. When Yllandris and King Magnar of the High Fangs finally underwent their joining and emerged as husband and wife, she would not sit quietly on her throne and be dictated to by a half-mad immortal.

A Magelord could die like any other man, of that she was certain.