The Grim Company

The Hero’s Journey





Cole woke some time after tenth bell. His head pounded and his mouth tasted foul. A glance at the vomit-stained clothes strewn over the floor of his cramped sleeping quarters confirmed his worst fears.

What hour had it been when he’d left the Gorgon to stumble home in the rain? He couldn’t remember the short walk back to his modest apartment. He could recall only fragments of the preceding four hours or so he’d spent drinking himself into oblivion. All in all, he was extremely lucky to have made it back in one piece. The Hive was one of the roughest parts of the city, and a man wandering drunk and alone in the middle of the night was a ripe target for thieves and cut-throats.

He hadn’t intended to end up in such a state. After his dramatic exit from the temple of the Mother, Cole had entertained some vague notion of attempting a daring robbery on one of Dorminia’s powerful magistrates and returning triumphantly to his shamefaced comrades. ‘Witness!’ he would have declared. ‘A king’s ransom in gold and jewellery, enough to fund a strike at the very heart of Salazar’s power!’

As it happened, his ribs had begun to ache fiercely a few hundred yards from the temple and he’d decided that such valour would have to wait for another night. He had chosen to head home, only to become unaccountably sidetracked along the way.

Cole frowned. Somewhere in the hazy recesses of his mind, fragments of memories began to unveil themselves: a pair of women laughing at him; a kindly old man with his arm around him, calling him ‘boy’ and telling him everything would be all right. He looked at his clothes again. He hoped he hadn’t embarrassed himself.

Cole thrust his blanket away and slid gingerly from the straw mattress. He rose unsteadily to his feet, remaining perfectly still as the room swam around him and a wave of nausea threatened to heap further agony on his ribs. He breathed steadily for a few moments and the sensation passed.

He walked from the small bunk room into the main quarters, and then caught sight of his reflection in the mirror propped in the corner.

Cole stared in horror. His nose was hideously swollen and coloured an ugly shade of red from the bridge almost to the tip. He had a large purple bruise under his right eye and his cheeks were scraped and scabbed from thrashing around on the floor during yesterday’s exploits.

He felt a flash of rage. What had he done to deserve this? He reached for Magebane, half intending to hurl it at the foul visage staring back at him from the mirror. Too late he remembered that he no longer had the weapon. That only made him angrier.

Storming across to the armoire on the wall opposite the mirror, he quickly selected some fresh clothes and pulled them on. Then he strode over to the opposite corner of the room and knelt down, feeling around for the loose floorboard. He levered the board up slightly to hook a hand under and remove it.

He examined his hidden stash. He selected a plain dagger and a handful of copper crowns and silver sceptres, which he stowed away in his trousers. A tiny container at the very back of the shallow recess contained a dozen pale green pills. He placed one in his mouth and swallowed it down. He was just about to move the floorboard back into place when he noticed the small leather bag in which he had often stored his pendant. He felt a sudden pang of regret at having tossed it into the fire last night. Despite the disgraceful way they had treated him, he was still a Shard.

In a sudden burst of charitable feeling, Cole decided that after he had purchased what he needed at the market he would seek out Garrett and give him the chance to apologize. Other men might hold a grudge, but not him. His heart was just too big.

With one last mournful look in the mirror at his battered face, Davarus Cole exited his home in the western half of the city and headed south towards the market.



The sun was high in the sky by the time he arrived at the Bazaar, a sprawling collection of tents and stalls that operated all year round and brought folk from all over the Trine together to gossip, trade and otherwise interact in a relatively peaceful confluence. Goods from Shadowport were currently forbidden, as were merchants from that city. Two had been apprehended and dragged to the Hook in the last fortnight. They now hung in gibbets, their ample girth serving only to prolong their suffering inside the tiny cages.

The lengthy walk had given Cole time to clear his head. He had calmed down and examined the situation from every angle and had concluded that, in truth, there was only one person to blame for last night’s unpleasantness.

Brodar Kayne. The Highlander had stolen Magebane, his precious heirloom. Not content with undermining the respect he enjoyed among his fellow Shards, he had then sat idly by as Garrett announced that Cole had no place on the mission. He had expected the old warrior to speak up for him, to proclaim that, despite his youth, he possessed exactly the kind of courage that could aid their quest. Instead he had simply stared into the fire and continued picking his teeth.

And what right did an over-the-hill barbarian have to even borrow a weapon such as Magebane? He was no hero, unlike Davarus Cole, whose own legendary father had passed it to him on his deathbed.

The young Shard smiled sadly, as he often did when remembering his father’s tragic death. Illarius Cole had been a great rebel leader, and it had taken three of the Magelord’s best Augmentors to best him during a vicious and lengthy battle. Illarius had killed two of them before escaping, mortally wounded, to find young Davarus and deliver his final words.

‘Take this weapon, son,’ his father had said, choking back blood. ‘One day you will lead the city to freedom. I have seen the spark in you. Listen to Garrett and try to be a better man—’

Illarius had died before finishing his sentence, but he hadn’t needed to hear the rest. He knew Garrett’s limitations. While he loved and respected his mentor, he could not deny that his father’s wish for him to be a better man than Garrett was wise. For all his resourcefulness and organizational skills, the merchant lacked the ambition to ever achieve a truly significant victory for the Shards.

Cole tried not to blame his foster father. Greatness was a gift bestowed upon few, after all, and Garrett had done the best he could. It was up to Davarus Cole to lead the Shards to new heights when the time was right.

He heard his stomach growl and sudden hunger overwhelmed his ruminations on future glory. A food vendor was hawking his wares just ahead. Cole handed over four copper crowns for a chunk of pale goat’s cheese, a crust of hard bread and an overripe pear. He bit into the fruit and almost gagged when he saw the trio of tiny white worms twitching around inside.

He hurled the spoiled pear to the ground in front of the vendor’s stall and crushed it with his boot; then, on an impulse, he grabbed hold of the large basket in which all of the seller’s fruit was presented and upended it on the street. Let that be a lesson to you, he thought. Satisfied he had made his point, he strolled away from the stall, the outraged merchant’s curses following him down the narrow aisle.

He was feeling in better spirits now. The clouds that had blanketed Dorminia for the past week had finally dispersed and the sun was shining. In fact, it was unusually warm for a late spring morning. The pear aside, the hasty breakfast he’d just eaten had settled his stomach. Most important of all, he had a purpose.

That was the thing about being a hero. When you took a knock, you got right back up and came back stronger.

A bellman’s cry abruptly split the air, coming from somewhere on the other side of the Bazaar.

‘Attention, good people of Dorminia. Your glorious master has cast down the treacherous Marius and cleansed his city of sin with the very waters of the Broken Sea. The war is over. All praise Lord Salazar!’

It took a moment for the crier’s words to sink in. When they did, Cole hurried as fast as he could towards the man. A crowd was already forming around the crier, who repeated the announcement and ignored the flurry of questions darting at him from every angle.

‘This can’t be true,’ a gap-toothed farmer said numbly as Cole drew closer. ‘I got a daughter in the City of Shades. What does he mean by “cleansed”? I wish this bloody lockdown would end.’

Cole didn’t bother to reply. He shouldered the man aside and pushed deeper into the unwashed mass of citizenry chattering in alarm over the news. One woman in particular seemed anxious to air her views to as many folk as possible. He watched her for a time. Eventually her eyes met his and she wandered towards him. He was about to turn his back and pretend to have pressing business elsewhere when he noticed her swaying hips. Although she wore the drab clothes of a goodwife, her bosom, too, was impressive.

As she approached, Cole saw that she wasn’t as old as he’d initially thought. Her strawberry-blond hair caught the sun and glimmered prettily. All in all she was quite pleasant to look at. Worth a minute of his time, he supposed, though he couldn’t help feeling a bit self-conscious about his bruises.

‘I take it you’ve heard,’ she said, standing in such a way that her cleavage seemed to drag his eyes downwards with irresistible force. ‘Shadowport’s no more. The City of Shades has been destroyed by Salazar himself.’ The tone of her voice changed slightly, a hint of sarcasm creeping in. ‘Strange that he waited to act until after our navy was crushed.’

Cole said nothing, settling instead on a non-committal shrug. He wasn’t about to voice treason against the Tyrant of Dorminia in the middle of a crowded market. He wasn’t stupid.

The woman leaned in close to him and her voice became a whisper. ‘I lost my husband to the Black Lottery four years ago, you know. He was a brave man.’ Tears welled up in her eyes. ‘There aren’t many like him around these days. Men prepared to take a stand.’

Cole puffed out his chest and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. If only you knew, he thought. If only you knew.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he lied. ‘I’m sure your husband and I would have had much in common.’ He gave her a winsome grin, and was rewarded with a shy smile in response.

‘How did you come by those bruises?’ she asked, placing a gentle hand to his face. He felt his body respond and shifted uncomfortably.

‘Let’s just say the Watch and I don’t always see eye to eye,’ he replied. He couldn’t resist giving her a conspiratorial wink. She looked thoughtful and bowed her head.

He noticed abrupt movement in the corner of his vision. One of the tradesmen the woman had been speaking with was suddenly grabbed from the back. His surprised face was visible for a split second before he disappeared behind the mass of humanity. There was a yelp, cut off as suddenly as it had begun, and then a young woman was also forcibly removed from the throng, her arms flailing before she faded from view.

A worried murmuring spread. Faces glanced left and right and behind them. Two more people were suddenly pulled from the crowd: an old woman and a man of middling years.

A dark foreboding seized Cole. He stared at the woman opposite him. She frowned as if trying to figure out some puzzle. Her eyes had changed. The wetness was gone. There was no tender recollection there, no earnest longing. They were as hard as stone.

‘I can’t work this one out,’ she said, and it took Cole a second to realize her words had been directed at someone behind him. He spun around to find a large man dressed in commoner’s garb looming over him, preparing to grab his arms. He was about to go for the dagger concealed in his sleeve when he felt a prick on the back of his neck and suddenly his body refused to listen to his brain. He was completely paralysed. Even his chest protested at drawing breath.

Cole listened to the sound of air whistling through his nose as the woman moved to stand in front of him. She held a hairpin in one hand, its pointed tip glistening red. With her other hand she removed a stud from her right ear, which had been hidden underneath her hair. Both adornments glowed softly.

‘Magic!’ he tried to exclaim, but nothing issued from his frozen mouth save for an unintelligible moan.

‘What shall we do with him, Goodlady Cyreena?’ the burly male asked.

The woman stared at Cole as she might an insect that had performed an interesting trick. ‘My earring could not read his thoughts,’ she said. ‘This has never happened before. Carry him to the safehouse on Kraken Street. I would experiment.’

Davarus Cole struggled with all his strength, but the best he could manage was to close his eyes. The day had suddenly taken a turn for the worse.



‘Look at me. Look at me or I’ll tear your prick off and feed it to you.’

Cole opened one eyelid a fraction. His whole body ached from being thrown across the shoulder of the disguised goon and carried like a sack of potatoes. He appeared to be lying on a stone table in an abandoned warehouse. A small torch provided the only illumination.

The woman who had instigated his kidnapping, Goodlady Cyreena, hovered next to a table covered in evil-looking metal instruments. Her face was as passionless as death. She regarded him with those pitiless eyes. There was something vaguely familiar about them, he thought, but he couldn’t quite work out what it was.

‘Can you feel the sensation creeping back into your muscles?’ the goodlady asked. ‘It will be hours before you can so much as walk unaided. Don’t think about escaping.’

Cole tried to work his mouth and found that his tongue had loosened enough to form mangled words. ‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked. ‘I’m innocent!’

Goodlady Cyreena pushed her hair back from her face, revealing the silver stud gleaming softly in her ear. ‘Words weren’t necessary,’ she said. ‘I could tell by the way you reacted to my mummer’s show that you harbour treacherous appetites. Usually, my bondmagic’ – she tapped the glowing metal at her ear – ‘confirms the intentions of those I suspect of treason.’ She walked over to him and placed one smooth hand on his brow. ‘You, however, refused to yield anything. No thoughts at all. That should not be possible. You are going to explain to me why I cannot read your mind.’ She looked down at him expectantly.

‘I don’t know,’ slurred Cole. ‘I was drinking last night. Maybe—’

The woman looming over him grabbed a handful of his hair and slammed his head down onto the table.

‘You will tell me how you are immune to thought-mining,’ the Augmentor said calmly, ‘or I will cut open your skull.’ She crossed back over to the table and picked up a wicked-looking scalpel. ‘I can send part of your brain for analysis,’ she said. ‘You would not survive the process. Alternatively, you can save us both some unpleasantness and tell me the truth.’

Cole felt dazed and nauseous and his mouth was suddenly as dry as a desert. He hacked up phlegm from the back of his throat to moisten his mouth. ‘I took a soporific,’ he managed. ‘A friend gave it to me.’

Goodlady Cyreena said nothing for a time. Finally, she nodded. ‘I will require a urine sample.’

‘Yes,’ Cole hastily replied. ‘I’ll need help with…’ His voice trailed off as the woman reached down to the table and picked up a huge needle connected to a tube, which in turn was affixed to the bladder of an animal. She walked over to him and began to untie his breeches, tugging them down over his boots and ankles. For the second time in two days, Davarus Cole’s flaccid manhood was subjected to a humiliating inspection.

The Augmentor’s lips pursed. ‘Do you find me attractive?’ she asked. Her face betrayed no emotion. She simply waited for his response.

Only the spot right between your eyes, Cole thought. He wished he had Magebane to hand. Not that it would have done much good, since he couldn’t even move his hand. ‘Yes, very much so,’ he said. He licked his lips nervously.

Her face melted into a smile. His own lips twitched upwards in response. She might be an Augmentor and quite possibly a sadist, but when it came right down to it a woman was a woman and he was Davarus—

‘Argh!’ he bellowed as her balled fist smashed him right between the legs. An explosion of pain surged upwards through his entire body. He could hardly breathe for the agony. She hit him again, even harder, and bright lights danced in front of his eyes. He wanted to curl up and die, but his body simply wouldn’t respond. He was helpless.

The goodlady raised the unfeasibly long needle she held and positioned it just above his groin. Sudden horror filled him. ‘Wait!’ he gasped. ‘You don’t need to do that! I can—’

White piercing agony reduced his words to a whine as the Augmentor pushed the needle through his skin and deep into his bladder. Tears streamed down his cheeks and he prayed desperately for Garrett and the Shards to storm in and rescue him. Whenever he had been in trouble in the past, the fat old merchant had always been there to bail him out.

‘Does it hurt?’ Goodlady Cyreena asked in a mocking tone. She had a faint smile on her face as she steadily leached the piss from his body and listened to his shrill screams. ‘Consider yourself fortunate. You won’t die on this table. Lord Salazar has a need for healthy young men.’

To his relieved gasps, the Augmentor finally removed the needle. ‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘Rest now. You have a taxing voyage ahead of you.’

Her final words seem to drift towards him, as if floating from some great distance. ‘Tonight you set sail for the Swell…’





Hearts of Iron





Barandas adjusted his sword one last time and surveyed the street before him. The Hook had emptied almost immediately once he and the other Augmentors arrived on the northern edge of the plaza. A horse and cart trundled away towards the east gate, heading towards one of the farms or villages dotting the fertile stretch of land beyond Dorminia. With the city under lockdown, however, the cart’s owner would not be going anywhere fast. Further down the Tyrant’s Road, small crowds stared up at them, fear and curiosity warring on the faces of young and old alike.

All in all it was a pleasant morning. The storm had broken during the night, leaving the streets smelling of damp. There was something else in the air too – something aside from the sour, slightly rotten stench that was always present when one passed the gates of the Noble Quarter. It was the smell of death.

He looked up. The gibbets in the centre of the square hung sullenly, their occupants in varying stages of desperation, madness or decay. One of the cages was empty: Admiral Kramer had been released by the Watch earlier that morning, a development with which Barandas was quietly pleased. He’d always respected the erstwhile admiral of Dorminia’s navy, who was loyal and forthright if somewhat uptight. Kramer would need all of his experience to handle a crew comprised mainly of convicted criminals, especially out on the Swell. The corpse of the god Malantis corrupted the waters of that dreaded stretch of the Broken Sea. Mining the region for magic was so fraught with peril that it had never been seriously attempted in the past. Still, desperate times called for desperate measures. Barandas supposed anything was better than dying in a gibbet.

He turned to the three men he had chosen to accompany him on this bloody assignment. In truth, there wasn’t a great deal of choice in the matter. Most of his Augmentors were still recovering from the siphoning. Goodlady Cyreena was a notable exception, but her skills did not lend themselves to the nature of the black work the four of them were about to undertake. He cleared his throat.

‘You know why we’re here. One of the most powerful merchants in the city has been secretly funding a terrorist group for the last decade or more. It is time they faced justice.’

He stared at the dilapidated old temple across the way. Whoever this rebel leader was, he had succeeded in evading discovery for longer than most. He had to admire the cunning of the man, to have chosen a base so conspicuous and yet so widely shunned that few ever gave it a second thought.

‘Our informant told us to expect a dozen rebels.’ Barandas paused for a moment. It was unpleasant, but it couldn’t be helped. ‘We are to execute them all. Including the girl.’

‘There’s a girl? Huh. First we get to kill. Then I get to f*ck.’

Although they were standing in the morning sun, the looming presence of Garmond the Black seemed to sap the very colour from the world. Fully seven feet tall and as wide as two normal men, the huge Augmentor wore a suit of enchanted plate armour that devoured nearby light. As a result, he resembled a gigantic shadow. The horned helmet that enclosed his entire head only added to his nightmarish appearance.

Garmond carried no weapon – his reinforced iron gauntlets and terrifying strength were enough to shatter a man’s spine or collapse a skull with a single punch. Behind his enchanted armour the huge Augmentor was near invincible.

Legwynd, on the other hand, wore very little protection save for a leather vest. His belt bristled with daggers of all shapes and sizes, and his boots glowed with the faint blue that signified magic. ‘I’m ready,’ he said. As if to prove it, his legs suddenly began vibrating in a blur too fast for the eyes to follow.

‘Enough,’ ordered Barandas. ‘You’re going to draw attention to us.’

‘So?’ demanded Thurbal. He was a burly middle-aged man with close-cropped grey hair and chainmail. His sword hand fell to the pommel of the terrible weapon at his belt. ‘We’re Augmentors. It does these peasants good to fear us.’

‘I said enough.’ Barandas dropped a hand to his own weapon.

Thurbal might be a bastard and a killer and a murderer rivalled only by Garmond the Black, but he knew better than to challenge the Supreme Augmentor. ‘As you say, Commandant,’ he conceded.

Barandas relaxed and drew a deep breath. ‘There’s our target,’ he said, nodding at the ruined temple of the Mother. ‘Ready yourselves. They won’t be expecting us, but if any manage to get away… Legwynd, you know what to do.’

The wiry Augmentor flashed an almost beatific smile and licked his lips. Barandas shook his head and sighed.

Time to get this over with.

There was no response to their careful knocking at the door, so Garmond put his shoulder to it and literally tore it from its hinges. The massive warrior stumbled up into the sanctum of the old temple, holding the door out before him as a shield. Crossbow quarrels thudded into the wood and bounced off his armour, but not one of them managed to find flesh. With a roar, Garmond hurled the door across the room into a small group of the rebels, sending them scattering in all directions.

One of the men, calmer than the rest, took aim, his weapon locked on Barandas’s head. There was a blur, and suddenly the man was staring down in confusion at the dagger buried in his neck. His crossbow bounced off the floor and he sank to his knees, blood welling up around his fingers as he clutched at his throat. Legwynd grinned and drew another dagger.

Two men ran towards Barandas, both clutching swords. The Supreme Augmentor parried one and then reversed his grip, thrusting behind him to skewer the third man who had tried to sneak up on him.

Thurbal sidled into view, his jagged scimitar raised in a defensive posture. The rebel who had swung at Barandas launched a diagonal downward swipe at the grey Augmentor, who casually raised his glowing weapon to parry. There was a screeching sound, and suddenly the rebel was missing the top half of his sword.

Thurbal took advantage of his opponent’s confusion to launch a swing at his neck. The blow was almost desultory, lacking any real power, yet the scimitar sheared through flesh and vertebrae as easily as it had steel. The head lolled horribly for a second before tumbling to the ground. The body toppled down next to it and proceeded to pump blood all over the ruined floor of the temple.

Legwynd had closed the distance with the crossbowman lurking in the nave, and now they fought hand to hand, dagger against dagger. Almost too late, Barandas noticed another man targeting him from behind a pillar. The crossbow clicked. Time stood still.

The bolt bounced off his longsword and ricocheted harmlessly off a wall.

The Supreme Augmentor had devoted countless hours to studying every text on the art of combat that could be found in the city. He had regularly spent entire nights practising his swordsmanship, performing routines of such tedium and precision they would drive most men mad. It had cost him much, but Barandas had not achieved his current position by luck. He stalked towards his attacker. The crossbow clicked, and again his sword was there, deflecting the quarrel. He leaped forwards and came up in a roll just before the pillar. The rebel discarded his crossbow and went for the mace at his belt, but he fumbled it. Barandas waited for him to pick the weapon up off the floor. It would make no difference to the outcome.

A quick exchange of blows and the rebel was sagging back against the pillar, his punctured heart leaking blood down his chest to pool around his lifeless legs. The sight gave Barandas pause.

Battle cries split the air, and two large men burst into view. One wielded a hatchet, the other a wooden club spiked with iron rivets. Garmond, gore dripping from his bloodied gauntlets, immediately focused his attention on them. ‘Mine!’ he growled. The two rebels circled him warily.

The brother with the club – they were twins, Barandas realized – swung at Garmond, a powerful blow that would have flattened a lesser man. Garmond the Black raised an arm and deflected it with his vambrace. At the same time, the other brother yanked a loaded crossbow from where it had been hidden underneath his cloak and fired it. The bolt flew true, hitting the steel gorget around the Augmentor’s neck. It should have snapped it, damaged Garmond’s windpipe at the very least, but the enchanted metal held and the quarrel bounced away.

With incredible speed for a man of his size, Garmond launched himself forwards and unleashed a right-handed hook at his would-be killer, who had dropped the crossbow. The man twisted to avoid the full impact, but the gauntleted fist caught him a glancing blow and sent him flying to the ground.

Suddenly Garmond stumbled and went down to one knee. The other brother was attempting to tackle him from behind. The rebel was himself large by any normal measure, but Garmond the Black could not be compared to other men.

The Augmentor reached behind him with one arm, dragging his opponent away from his legs and along the ground towards him. With his other hand, he shoved his fingers into the rebel’s eyes, pushing down with terrible strength. Screams erupted from his unfortunate victim and rivulets of blood welled up beside Garmond’s fingers as they probed ever deeper.

A hatchet suddenly crashed into the back of the Augmentor’s helmet with enough force to jolt his head viciously forwards. Barandas thought Garmond might be in serious trouble, but the giant stumbled to his feet in time to catch the follow-up blow in his open gauntlets. Blood dripped from his hands where the hatchet had made its mark.

Garmond didn’t seem to care. Snarling from behind his horned helm, he tore the hatchet from the rebel’s grip and sent it hurtling across the temple. The twin reached desperately at his belt for another weapon, but he was out of time. Garmond was upon him, his mighty fists shattering the man’s cheekbones, then his jaw, and finally opening his skull with a sickening crack.

‘Enough,’ Barandas commanded. Garmond let the corpse drop to the floor. The other brother twitched once nearby, and then lay still.

Taking stock of the situation, Barandas saw that Legwynd had got the better of the rebel he’d been fighting. Bodies were strewn everywhere. He counted eight corpses. ‘Do we have their leader?’ he asked.

‘Over here, Commandant,’ Thurbal shouted. Barandas walked over to the shadowy alcove where his fellow Augmentor was waiting. He stared down at the grisly sight on the floor. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he demanded.

Thurbal gave an insolent shrug. ‘I thought he might try to make a run for it,’ he said, ‘so I cut off his legs. Then he tried to pull a crossbow on me, so I cut off his arms.’

The twitching mess of flesh at his feet moaned weakly. With the amount of blood he’d already lost, it was a miracle the rebel leader still lived. He was trying to say something, red froth spilling from his mouth down over his double chin. ‘I can’t understand you,’ Barandas said. He put his ear close to the man’s mouth.

‘Who…’ he croaked weakly. ‘Who betrayed us?’

Barandas shook his head. ‘It’s not important now. I regret what this man did to you, but you knew the price of treason. Go to your peace now.’ With those words, he placed the edge of his sword against the rebel’s fleshy neck and slit his throat.

He glared at Thurbal. ‘You and I will have words. Your conduct is unacceptable.’ He frowned suddenly. He could hear a faint ticking noise. He raised a questioning eyebrow, but his surly grey-haired colleague pointedly ignored him.

Before Barandas could press him further, a glint near the dead man’s severed leg suddenly caught his eye. It was a small crystal, likely quartz, of a pretty green hue. Like Lena’s eyes, he thought. It was slightly smudged with ash, as if it had been in a fire. He rubbed the grime away and put the stone inside one of the pouches hanging at his belt.

There was a slight sensation of wind brushing against his face and suddenly Legwynd was standing next to him. ‘No sign of anyone else alive,’ said the cherub-faced killer with a smile. ‘But I found this.’ He thrust a map at Barandas, who took it from his hands. It illustrated Dorminia and the surrounding region in impressive detail. A hastily drawn circle immediately got his attention. It outlined a specific location east of the city.

‘The Wailing Rift,’ Barandas muttered under his breath. Nine corpses, none of them female. Our informant said there were twelve. Sudden comprehension dawned. ‘Legwynd,’ he said. ‘You will go to the Wailing Rift immediately. I believe these rebels were plotting to take advantage of our sojourn at the Obelisk.’

Legwynd grinned and threw a salute. ‘I’ll be there before midday. If I find any rebels at the Rift, they’ll be in for a surprise.’ He patted the daggers at his belt and then sped away almost as fast as the eye could follow.

Barandas looked around at the temple. He had been born into a godless world, yet the sight of so much bloodshed in this once holy sanctuary made him uneasy.

‘Thurbal,’ he commanded. ‘Finish searching this place, and then burn these corpses.’

It was an unpleasant business, but a man did what was necessary.