The Grim Company

An Unexpected Message





The depository was a shambles.

Eremul wheeled his chair slowly forwards, circum-navigating the ruined piles of books and soggy reams of paper that had congealed together, becoming little more than clumps of worthless pulp. A soft squelching noise accompanied his slow circuit of the ruined archives. Most of the water had retreated back into the harbour, but the carpeted floor of the depository remained flooded.

He slumped in his chair. The project he had worked on for the last thirteen years was in danger of becoming a literal washout. Thirteen years. That was how long he had persisted in this farce, trying to build some wretched facsimile of a life for himself after his mutilation and exile from the Obelisk. The depository had been a welcome diversion, something to take his mind off the truth of his wretched existence.

Eremul fought back the urge to wheel himself out into the streets and rain fiery death down on anyone stupid enough to wander within his immediate vicinity. Why not go out in a blaze of fury? Why not give the slack-jawed fools a taste of the shit they had so gleefully flung at him over the years?

Come, one and all! Come and gawk at the legless cripple. Go ahead. It’s not as if I’m a real person, after all.

The answer to his own question was, of course, staring him in the face. To abuse the gift of magic would make him no better than that monstrous shitstain Salazar – the bastard who had torn his life apart and taken his legs in the process. And what the Magelord had done to him was but a speck of dust compared with the avalanche of horror that was his latest crime.

The Tyrant of Dorminia had dropped a billion tons of water on a living city and instantly created the biggest mass graveyard since the Godswar five centuries past. Forty thousand men, women and children had died in an instant. One second they were alive; the next they were gone. All those lives, extinguished with the same callous lack of regard a farmer might show for an ant’s nest as he drowned it in boiling water.

The ineffable wrongness of that act had shocked Eremul in a way he had not thought possible. That any man should have the audacity, much less the capacity, to enact such judgement on so many unknowing souls… why, it would be an affront to the gods, if the gods weren’t already dead.

What use for boundaries, when a man has already cast down his makers? Salazar and the other Magelords know nothing of what it means to be human. They forfeited that right long ago.

The destruction of the City of Shades had caused ripples that would be felt for a long time to come. The most immediate was the tsunami that had surged north across the Broken Sea, hitting Dorminia earlier that morning. It had lost most of its energy by the time it reached the harbour, but even so it had destroyed several of the city’s battered fleet and flooded the docks as far north as the Tyrant’s Road. The homes, shops and taverns that clustered along the harbour had been damaged, some irreparably, and an entire community of Dorminia’s poorest families had simply been washed away, along with the ramshackle huts that had sheltered them.

And what of brave Isaac and his companions, trapped out on the water?

Eremul couldn’t help but feel a certain amusement at the irony of the situation. The enchantment he had placed on the cutter guarded it against capsizing, but he had no idea how the boat would fare in the grip of a tsunami. Would it be dashed against the coast? Would its passengers tumble out and drown in the hungry waters of Deadman’s Channel before it hit the rocks?

Much as he hated to admit it, Eremul hoped neither was the case. He needed his assistant. Why, his arms were already starting to ache from the effort of wheeling around the cumbersome contraption Isaac had designed for him. If only he could float up off his chair and drift serenely through the air, like a noble genie riding an invisible steed from the stables of the heavens themselves.

Alas, that was the stuff of fairy tales and Magelords. His own powers didn’t extend to being able to wipe his own arse effectively, and Creator knows he’d tried. No, if you wanted a party trick, some minor deceit or frippery to amuse the children, the Halfmage was the man for the job. Anything more substantial required a real wizard.

During his lowest moments – which tended to occur roughly four times on any given night – Eremul had pondered why it was that, in spite of the terrible suffering he had endured, his magic remained so pitifully weak. Surely losing his legs meant he should be compensated in other ways? If reality worked the same way as those awful stories he kept buried in the depository, he ought to wield power to rival the mightiest Magelords.

The truth was a very different matter. It seemed the Creator had decreed that if Eremul was to be a man, he would be the most pitiful of men; and if he was to be a mage, he would be the most pitiful of mages. The injustice of it all made him snigger for a second, until the strain set his haemorrhoids to throbbing once again. He shifted around on his chair, searching in vain for a position that would ease the discomfort. Isaac possessed an ointment that helped considerably when applied, but it seemed the bastard had taken it with him – most likely out of spite.

A fine way to reward years of gainful employment. In his experience, if a man extended a hand to you, it was probably intended as a distraction while he cudgelled you around the back of the head with the other. The most sensible solution was, therefore, to ignore the hand altogether.

Or else simply to steal the cudgel and scramble the bastard’s brains before he did the same to you.

He stared around at the wreckage of the depository one more time. He needed some air. Pushing open the sodden door of his ruined archive, the Halfmage inhaled deep the smells of his beloved city.

Saltwater. Rot. Shit? The city’s ageing sewer system had been hit by the deluge and had leaked its contents onto the streets above. The late-afternoon sun had barely begun to dry out the abused lanes of the harbourside sprawl, and the incessant sound of trickling water formed an almost pleasant background to the sight of turds floating down the flooded avenues.

Ah. Dorminia in all its glory.

Squelching footsteps suddenly caught his attention. He wheeled his chair around, startling the boy who had been approaching behind him. With his threadbare clothes and grime-covered face, Eremul judged him to be one of the homeless urchins who operated in the city’s markets and ran errands for those too savvy or dangerous to pickpocket. Most of them failed to make it to their adult years, desperation driving them to reckless deeds that earned a public execution. Some, the comely ones, were sold in clandestine auctions to powerful men in government. Their fates were the most tragic of all.

This particular orphan gawked at him in amazement, the sealed scroll in his grubby hands forgotten as he stared at the man with no legs.

‘What is it?’ Eremul asked irritably. He wasn’t in the mood for this.

‘Got a message for you, sir,’ the boy responded, his eyes still glued to the spot where most men sprouted additional limbs. Eremul snapped his fingers and the urchin suddenly seemed to remember where he was. He proffered the scroll. ‘A lady asked me to find you and hand you this. Gave me six copper crowns. Said you’d give me the same when I delivered it,’ he added hopefully.

Eremul narrowed his eyes. ‘What did this lady look like?’ he asked.

The boy’s brow creased in confusion. ‘I can’t rightly remember,’ he admitted. ‘She was mighty strange. Made me nervous. Olly wanted nothing to do with her, but he’s a p-ssy.’

‘Indeed. Six crowns is more than generous for a brief jaunt across the city. As you can see’ – he pointed to the interior of his ruined depository, then at his ruined body – ‘I’m hardly Gilanthus the f*cking Golden himself. Hand me that and run along.’

‘Who’s Gilanthus the Golden?’

Eremul sighed. ‘The Merchant Lord. God of wealth and commerce. Not one of the Primes, and besides, he’s been dead these last five hundred years.’ He reached across and took the scroll from the lad’s unresisting fingers. ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ he added. ‘Piss off.’

The urchin blinked and suddenly began to cough. He raised his hands to his mouth and hacked into them. Eremul rolled his eyes.

‘Ah, that old chestnut,’ he said. ‘Let me just reach into my robes and withdraw a nice big bag of f*ck-all to hand to this poor afflicted youth, whose sad lifeless corpse I will surely encounter at some point in the near future…’ He trailed off as the boy continued coughing. He was bent over now, his body convulsing in wild spasms. When the urchin finally recovered enough to stand up straight, Eremul saw that blood flecked his chin and stained his small hands.

The boy would, in fact, be dead within the year.

The Halfmage slipped a hand inside one of his pockets and withdrew a silver coin. ‘Buy yourself something to eat,’ he mumbled. ‘And drink plenty of honeyed tea. It will help with the cough.’ He tossed the coin at the lad, who didn’t react quickly enough. It struck him on the side of the head and rolled into a puddle. The urchin picked it up off the muddy ground, his eyes wide with disbelief.

‘Thank – thank you,’ the boy stammered, but Eremul had already turned his chair around and wheeled himself back inside the depository, slamming the door shut behind him.

The scroll was blank. He had known it would be. Only a fool would entrust an unencrypted message to a street urchin. The Crimson Watch was known to employ street rats for the sole purpose of diverting literature meant for the eyes of malcontents and using it to track them down.

He ran his fingers down the parchment. The enchantment was faint, absolutely undetectable to anyone not skilled in the arts of magic. In this post-Culling era, when mages were about as welcome in Dorminia as the plague, that meant there were precisely two people in the city capable of discerning its message: himself, and a certain genocidal Magelord.

Muttering an incantation, Eremul summoned forth the latent energy that hummed within him. Every wizard was born with a certain capacity for the harnessing of magic. Salazar and the other Magelords possessed a veritable ocean of power to draw from. For Eremul, it was more like a puddle. Raw magic – the essence of the gods – could be siphoned to replenish or augment a wizard’s strength, but it was consumed by the process. Without such external help, a wizard was restricted to the limits of the power they were born with. While that tended to increase with age, the speed with which it recovered once spent slowed at a similar rate.

Of course, Salazar and the other Magelords controlled the distribution of raw magic with an iron grip. Already possessed of power that dwarfed mortal wizards, they widened the gap further still by maintaining exclusive access to the corpses of the gods.

Magic was fading from the world, and as soon as the last divine corpse was sucked dry, there would be nothing left, unless further discoveries like that of the Celestial Isles were made. The murder of the gods had broken something fundamental in the world: the land was slowly dying, refusing to rejuvenate itself as it had prior to the Godswar.

Eremul finished his evocation and then waited. Slowly but surely, spidery words of glowing white energy seeped up from the blank page to float a fraction of an inch above the parchment. The message was starkly simple: Attend us at the abandoned lighthouse north of the harbour two nights from now. Be there at midnight precisely. Do not be late.

And that was it. Eremul hissed in frustration. The lighthouse in question was a good mile to the north, situated on top of a large bluff overlooking the harbour. It was an uphill slog most of the way. He hoped Isaac had returned by then.

The cryptic note bore all the hallmarks of the enigmatic individual whose attention he had been seeking for many months now.

The White Lady.

And if there was one individual in the Trine capable of deposing the Tyrant of Dorminia, it was the enigmatic Magelord of Thelassa.





No Brother of Mine





He could hear footsteps. Torchlight flared, and it seemed to burn as brightly as the sun. He squeezed his eyes shut immediately, blinking away tears and the crust accumulated from countless days spent in impenetrable darkness. A harsh voice reached his ears.

‘The Sword of the North. Huh. That’s a fancy f*cking title for a man as wretched as this old greybeard.’

The footsteps slowed. Sounded like three of them, though he couldn’t be sure. Another voice.

‘He ain’t seen the outside of that cage for nigh on a year. It’s a wonder he ain’t as mad as a wolverine.’

Silence. One of the men coughed. He opened one eye a fraction. How long had it been since his last meal?

The first voice again. ‘F*cker’s awake. Listen up, Kayne. The Shaman wants you brought to the Great Lodge. Guess who the Brethren found holed up in a cave up in the Devil’s Spine?’

Sudden terror. Had they discovered her? He wanted to scream. Bracing himself on the fouled floor of his prison, he pushed himself up, willing his atrophied muscles into life. The weeping sores covering his body chafed agonizingly with his every movement. He didn’t care. He squeezed the bars of the cage, trying desperately to force them. They didn’t move an inch. He remembered exhausting himself attempting to escape when he’d first been imprisoned. He had no chance now, not after a year of wasting away, yet he grunted and redoubled his efforts.

The harsh voice again, this time amused. ‘That got your attention. Your wife. What’s her name, Mhaira? She did well, evading the Brethren for all this time. And she ain’t a young thing either, though that didn’t stop the Butcher having his sport.’

His teeth ground together. His eyes felt as if they were going to explode and he tasted blood. Still the bars wouldn’t budge.

A third voice, this one known to him. ‘That’s enough. Let’s just get the cage on the platform.’

He stopped struggling. Stared at the speaker, met his eyes. Saw shame there. Shame and regret.

‘My son?’ he managed. His voice cracked; it sounded like a foreign thing to his ears after all this time. ‘Where is my son?’

The man who was known to him looked down at the ground. ‘You’ll learn soon enough,’ he said, and his tone was apologetic. ‘Don’t struggle, Kayne. You can’t change what’s coming.’

He sank back to the floor of his prison. Covered his face with his hands. He’d suffer a thousand agonies, embrace an eternity of torment for the chance to avert the atrocity he knew would be committed at the Great Lodge.

But it was no good. He couldn’t change what was coming.



‘Kayne.’

The rasping voice dragged him awake and into a world full of misery. His body hurt all over. He opened his eyes to be confronted by the unpleasant sight of Jerek’s scowling visage staring down at him. The Wolf had a few bumps and bruises but otherwise appeared unscathed.

‘Shit,’ Brodar Kayne muttered. ‘Help me up.’

Jerek reached down, grabbed hold of his wrists and then hauled him roughly upwards. He tottered for a moment, a hundred little niggles assailing him like a pack of wolves trying to bring down a bear. The old Highlander breathed deeply. His knees ached like buggery and his chest felt as if it had been bludgeoned by a giant’s club, but he could tough it out. You had to, when you were stupid enough to keep doing this kind of shit at his age.

‘The others?’ he asked. Jerek nodded over his shoulder in reply, and Kayne turned gingerly to survey their surroundings.

They stood on a mushy grass slope overlooking the coastline hundreds of yards distant. A little further down, Vicard lay motionless on the edge of a wide shingle beach covered in pools of saltwater. Sasha was kneeling over him. He couldn’t tell if the alchemist was alive or dead.

The wreckage of their boat littered the hill around them. The upturned hull rested a mere dozen yards away, its keel broken and sagging in the middle.

‘Isaac?’ he asked, fearing the worst. Jerek said nothing, simply shook his head and spat. Kayne sighed and began to make his unsteady way down the slope towards the other survivors. ‘Evil luck to lose one of the group so early on this expedition,’ he said. ‘Don’t bode well. The Halfmage ain’t going to be best pleased—’

‘Bastard’s over there,’ Jerek interrupted. He pointed down the coastline to a rocky outcrop that marked the beginning of a promontory in the distance. Kayne could just make out a figure sat perched over the edge.

‘Is he… fishing?’ he wondered aloud. The blurred shape seemed to notice him staring and waved an arm in greeting. ‘I’ll be damned. He’s tougher than he looks.’ Or maybe I’m just old and brittle.

The two Highlanders climbed down the sodden hill until they reached the girl and the figure at her feet. The alchemist was still breathing. He was also making pitiful whimpering sounds, much to the disgust of the Wolf.

‘How’s he doing?’ Kayne asked. Sasha had a nasty cut on her forehead, but aside from that she didn’t seem too much the worse for wear.

‘Bruised ribs,’ she replied. ‘Twisted ankle. One of his shoulders popped out of its socket but Isaac managed to tease it back into place. I didn’t know he was a physician.’

‘And an angler,’ the old barbarian replied. He was beginning to understand why the Halfmage kept the man around.

Sasha held a strip of wet cloth and was wiping at Vicard’s brow. He made a soft moaning sound and reached weakly for her hands, taking them into his own and holding onto them as if for dear life. Jerek shot him a baleful glare. Even Sasha pursed her lips in distaste.

‘Wolf, go fetch our talented friend,’ Kayne said, thinking it best to give Jerek something to do before he ended up throttling the alchemist where he lay. His friend grunted his assent and stalked off towards the distant crag.

Kayne glanced up at the sky. How long had it been since they’d washed up on the pebbly coast? He reckoned two, maybe three hours. The sun still rode low in the scattering clouds, bleeding golden light into the newborn day and reflecting serenely in the now-calm water of Deadman’s Channel. All in all, the morning was shaping up to be a glorious one. It reminded him of another morning, many months past. That had turned out to be the darkest of days.

‘Do you still have Magebane?’ The girl’s question brought him back to the present. He felt around at his belt.

‘Aye, it’s right here. That wave knocked us a few miles off track. I figure we head north and east until we see the Tombstone.’

Vicard whimpered again. Sasha looked down at him doubtfully. ‘He’s going to struggle on one leg. We can’t leave him here.’

The alchemist pushed himself up so that he rested on his right elbow, moaning all the while with the effort. ‘My bag,’ he panted. ‘Where is it?’

Sasha walked over to where Vicard’s pack rested next to the handful of possessions that had survived the wreck. ‘You’re lucky,’ she said. ‘I’ve already checked inside. Most of it is intact.’ She brought the pack over to the alchemist and dropped it down beside him. He rifled through it with his good arm, becoming increasingly frantic as he failed to locate what he was looking for. Pouches and strange containers were cast aside as his hand probed deeper. A sheen of sweat appeared on his face. Sasha watched him anxiously.

Eventually Vicard found what he’d been searching for. With a delighted yelp, he tugged a small brown leather pouch from the bottom of the pack. The alchemist fumbled with the cord for a moment, then lifted the pouch to his face and buried his nose inside, snorting deeply. When he finally removed it from the pouch it was covered in a white powdery substance. He sighed in satisfaction and grinned stupidly.

Brodar Kayne observed the scene with a deep frown on his lined face. He’d seen Highlanders become hopelessly addicted to jhaeld, the fireplant found in the most desolate reaches of the mountains. The powdered resin of that rare plant could cause a man’s blood to feel as though it were on fire, inciting his passions and lending him the courage to smite his enemies as if he were the Reaver, the Lord of Death himself. Such men inevitably died young, attempting feats beyond their true prowess. Overconfidence could get a man killed.

The powder Vicard was snorting was white rather than the rustred of the jhaeld, but the ecstasy on his face was the same, and unmistakable. Kayne cleared his throat. ‘I reckon that’s enough of that for the moment. Can you stand?’

Vicard carefully replaced the pouch in his pack and retied the straps. With another unctuous smile, he stuck his uninjured arm out towards Sasha. ‘Pull me up,’ he ordered. She gave him a dirty look but complied, heaving him to his feet. He hopped around for a bit before risking some weight on his dodgy ankle. It seemed to hold.

‘Don’t look like too much damage has been done,’ said Kayne. ‘But you might want to wipe that smirk off your face. The Wolf’s returning and you don’t want to get his dander up unnecessarily.’

From the looks of it, though, Jerek’s dander was already at neck height and rising. Isaac followed behind him, a faint smile on his insipid face. A rod was hung over his back and in his arms he carried a net teeming with fish. A few still twitched every so often.

‘I caught us some fish,’ he said, stating the obvious. ‘Most of our provisions were lost in the wreck. I thought you might be hungry. No, don’t look at me like that. Of course I don’t expect you to eat it raw! I found some kindling untouched by the wave, and there’s plenty of flint on this beach. We’ll set forth on full bellies. Correct nutrition is essential to any endeavour, as so adroitly articulated in Gnoster’s Food for the Soul.’

Kayne looked at his companions. ‘I don’t know about you, but I won’t pass up the opportunity to get some grub down me. We have a dozen miles to cover before midday. Get your hand out of that pack,’ he added, noticing that Vicard was once again rummaging around for his mystery pouch.

‘The pain!’ the alchemist protested. ‘It’s unbearable! Just one more sniff and I’ll be able to walk on my own. I wouldn’t want to slow you down…’ Kayne fixed him with his best icy glare and the man hesitated and finally withdrew his empty hand. ‘Fine!’ he said petulantly. ‘I’ll need someone to lean on.’

‘I ain’t touching the faggot,’ Jerek growled.

Kayne rubbed at his temples with callused thumbs. ‘Throw an arm around me,’ he said. ‘I’ve travelled with worse baggage.’ Vicard looked at Sasha with a hopeful expression, but she was having none of it.

‘Fine,’ he said sullenly.



They’d been walking for a little over an hour. The sun had cast off its wispy shackles and was well on its way to fulfilling its earlier promise. Brodar Kayne wiped sweat from his brow and tried to ignore the incessant sniffling from the man limping alongside him. He could just about see Jerek in the distance, stalking along by himself. The group had become strung out, with Isaac ambling happily along some way behind Jerek and the girl following a similar distance behind the manservant. Kayne and Vicard brought up the rear.

Hardly the merriest of companions. He glanced at the alchemist beside him. Vicard had been eager to engage him in conversation at first, babbling about all manner of topics until it became clear Kayne wasn’t interested in talk. Now he dragged himself along in miserable silence, his good arm thrown around the Highlander’s neck and the other held uselessly at his side. Snot dribbled from his nose and hung in slimy threads from his chin. The barbarian was beginning to regret offering the man a shoulder to lean on.

The monstrous wave of water had flooded the coastline for miles inland. With every step his boots sank into the saturated turf. They’d held a consistent line just above the flooded shingle, but the land rose at a steady pace and it made navigation awkward, especially with Vicard clinging to him like a limpet.

It don’t get any easier. He couldn’t recall a time when he had felt so old. His body protested with every step. In all likelihood, he needed a physician to tend his injuries. Still, there was no point grumbling. You had to grit your teeth and get on with it.

Where did that damn wave come from? He had never seen anything like it. Truth be told, he’d almost pissed himself when he first set eyes on the wall of water barrelling towards them. He couldn’t remember the actual impact, but the terror he’d felt was clear enough in his mind. It was a miracle they’d all survived.

Jerek had stopped far ahead. Kayne saw him glance back at the rest of the group, point to the north, and without further ceremony begin climbing the shallow promontory that overlooked the coast. The ascent was difficult, but the headland rose up sharply a little further on and if they delayed any longer it would become impassable. Vicard groaned when he saw the path they had to take.

‘Chin up,’ the old barbarian said. ‘Once we’ve made it to the top, it’ll be easy going until we reach the Rift. I hope whatever it is you’ve got in store for the mine ain’t been spoiled by damp.’

Vicard managed a weak smile. ‘The powder’s still dry,’ he said. ‘They won’t know what hit them.’

Brodar Kayne nodded in satisfaction. Bringing down the mining operation would be a mighty kick to Salazar’s balls. He didn’t have anything personal against the Tyrant of Dorminia, but a job was a job.

Sudden movement caught his eye. Thirty yards ahead, behind those boulders. He halted, pulling Vicard back behind him. The alchemist looked at him questioningly and he raised a finger to his lips. Isaac and Sasha were well ahead of them and Jerek was out of sight. Damn.

‘Wait here,’ he ordered. He inched slowly forwards, hands poised to reach behind him and draw his greatsword at any moment.

‘I’m Brodar Kayne,’ he said loudly. ‘Once named the Sword of the North. That’s in the past and I ain’t one to live on old glories, but the title might mean something to you. I don’t like killing but I’ll be damned if there was anything I was ever half as good at. If you want to walk away from here, and I’m guessing you might, best show yourselves now.’

He waited. A hawk burst from a clump of bushes near the largest boulder and screamed loudly before soaring off towards the sea. Maybe I was mistaken. Bloody eyes. He shook his head in disgust. Spooked by a bird.

And then they emerged from behind the rocky outcrop. A tangle of furs and shields, bristling with weapons of murder. Faces as hard as the stone of the High Fangs, five of them. His breath caught for a moment. He recognized one of the men.

Borun.

He drew his greatsword slowly, rested it point down on the moist earth and leaned upon it. ‘It’s been a while,’ he said evenly.

The largest of the five men raised his hand and the others halted, hands on their weapons. They eyed him warily. He could hear Vicard’s breath quicken and smell the alchemist’s fear.

‘It has,’ Borun replied. ‘Two years, I reckon. You look much better than the last time I saw you, though age gets to us all.’ He had more grey in his beard and a few more lines on his face, but Borun looked as hale as ever. He was younger than Kayne by a good handful of years, the same height but plenty broader.

‘Ain’t that the truth.’ He drew deep, even breaths. Borun was one of the finest warriors in the High Fangs. He should know, he’d fought alongside him often enough. His palms tightened on the pommel of his greatsword. ‘How long you been watching us?’

Borun shrugged. ‘Half an hour. I see you got the Wolf with you. He marched right on by us. The two of you make strange companions.’

It was Kayne’s turn to shrug. ‘Funny thing, that. You never really know a man until he’s called upon to keep his word.’

Borun had the decency to look ashamed. ‘It was nothing personal, Kayne. You know that. I got a wife and three daughters. Krazka—’

‘Raped Mhaira so bad she couldn’t walk, then grinned as the Shaman burned her alive. My wife, Borun. The woman you gave away during our joining.’ He paused. He could remember their wedding ceremony as if it were yesterday, every detail. Proudest moment of his life, with maybe one exception.

‘I called you brother,’ he said. He tried to keep his voice level. As well try holding back a river with his bare hands.

‘Aye, you did. Don’t think it ain’t a weight I carry about my neck every moment of every day.’ The two men stood in silence for a time. Borun’s men shifted uneasily. Probably expected to be knee-deep in blood by now. Not listening to a couple of old men reminiscing about the past.

Borun blinked and then hefted his great two-handed battleaxe. Its oak shaft was covered in notches. ‘You gonna try and add one more to that?’ Kayne asked, nodding at the brutal weapon.

‘Aye,’ Borun replied. ‘The deepest cut of all, I reckon.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘Only one of us can walk away from here.’

One of the warriors next to Borun, a young heavy-browed fellow Kayne didn’t recognize, jabbed his spear in the air and spat. ‘We’re gonna f*ck you up good, old man. Don’t expect any help. Not unless that streak of piss knows how to handle a blade.’ He leered at Vicard, who had slowly begun backing away. In the distance Kayne saw three more Highlanders emerge from behind rocks and shrubbery to cut off Sasha and Isaac.

Borun gestured and his men moved forwards, weapons raised and eyes eager for blood. ‘You still got it after all these years, Kayne?’ he taunted, his massive axe glittering cruelly in the sun.

Brodar Kayne didn’t respond. He simply waited, hands on the pommel of his greatsword, his body perfectly still. ‘You’ll want to run, I expect,’ he hissed to the cowering figure of Vicard behind him. No sooner had the words left his lips than he heard the alchemist break into a scrabbling half-hop, half-sprint punctuated by pained gasps.

The ugly fellow with the spear suddenly thrust the weapon at Kayne’s head. He shifted his neck, felt it brush past his ear. The jagged edge of a half-rusted longsword slashed at him from the right and he swivelled, watched the blade whistle through the empty air. All right. Now it gets serious.

He forced a smile onto his face. ‘That the best you got?’ he said. ‘I might be old, but I ain’t dead. Put some effort in. Come at me.’

The spear-wielder duly obliged, lunging forwards and aiming for his chest. With lightning speed, Kayne thrust his body to the right to avoid the jab, grabbing hold of the shaft with his left hand and pulling it towards him. He glimpsed the surprised look on his attacker’s face a split second before his head shattered the man’s nose.

Still with one hand on his greatsword, he grabbed the stunned Highlander by the neck and pulled him to one side, positioning the warrior between his own body and the descending blade of his other opponent. Blood spurted as the rusted blade tore into the spot right between the neck and shoulder of his human shield and then stuck there.

Silently thanking his luck, Kayne raised his greatsword and buried it in his shocked opponent’s sternum as he struggled to free his snagged weapon from the other man’s body. It burst through his back in a splatter of gore. He slid the blade free and watched as the dying Highlanders sank to the earth in a tangle of limbs and iron.

Borun stared at the carnage with a look of consternation. His two remaining men suddenly seemed a great deal more wary, the eager looks on their faces draining away with the lives of their comrades. ‘You told me age had caught up with you!’ Borun said accusingly.

Kayne shrugged. ‘I ain’t what I used to be. Can’t piss in a straight line, if at all. I got aches in places I didn’t know could ache. But if there’s one thing I still know how to do,’ he added, moving towards the three men, ‘it’s killing. You never really lose the instinct for it.’ He nodded at Borun’s axe. ‘There was a time when I thought to record my kills,’ he said quietly. ‘When I ran out of room on one weapon, I’d choose another, a different kind. It’d be rough going for a while.’

He was opposite the three Highlanders now. They spread out and moved to surround him. He met the eyes of each in turn, and then focused his attention on Borun. ‘You remember me back in the day. All fire and thunder and fury. Fact is, a year spent caged like an animal changes a man. Seeing your wife get burned alive changes a man. You learn to accept what can’t be undone and bend so you don’t end up breaking. You adapt.

‘For example,’ he said, as Jerek finally reached them and his axe split the head of the Highlander to his left, ‘you don’t pass up an advantage when it presents itself. What’s honour to the kind of men who’ll rape a woman and then burn her alive? The Code ain’t worth two shits as far as I can see.’

Borun and the remaining Highlander had spun the instant they became aware of Jerek among them, but it was too late. The Wolf was already stalking towards the warrior on Kayne’s right flank, twin axes raised.

Borun snarled in anger. ‘Coward’s tactics that, distracting us for your dog to sneak up behind.’

‘Like I said, the Code don’t mean anything. I reached that conclusion long before the Shaman stuck me in a cage. Couldn’t stomach the hypocrisy no more. Course, I was stupid enough to tell him that to his face. Just goes to show that it don’t matter how well a man thinks he understands something. He never really does, not until he’s taught the lesson at first hand.’

‘I’ll teach you a f*cking lesson,’ Borun bellowed, and he pounced. His axe came flashing down. Kayne raised his greatsword and caught it, turned it aside. The two men came together in a flurry of feints, parries and clashing steel. Borun was every bit as good as he remembered. Unlike him, Borun hadn’t spent a year in a cage, his muscles withering away to nothing. He hadn’t spent the best part of two years running from the Brethren, giants, and even worse things. He hadn’t just survived a damned shipwreck.

The haft of Borun’s axe caught him a glancing blow on the face and he stumbled backwards. He felt blood dampen his right cheek, trickling down to his chin. His body hurt all over and his heart hammered. Borun feinted, punched forwards with the head of his huge axe and then brought it swinging around in a devastating overhead slash. Kayne ducked and rolled out of the way, his body screaming in protest. No sooner had he finished his roll than Borun was upon him, his axe swinging downwards in a fierce overhead chop. He caught it with his greatsword, but the effort sent pain jarring through his neck and shoulders. He was on his knees, the weight of the muscular warrior pushing down on him.

Ten years ago, maybe even five, he would have summoned up the strength to push back. Borun might be the larger man, but he was Brodar Kayne, and his strength had been legendary.

That was then. This was now. Try as he might, he could not overpower the huge, stinking warrior looming over him. Fact was, he wasn’t the man he used to be.

You have to adapt.

He dived to the left, heard the heavy steel head of the axe thud into the turf an instant later, missing his head by a hair’s breadth. There was an angry grunt and then Borun was on him again. Still on his knees, Kayne parried the first blow. He dropped a hand to the magical dagger at his belt and parried Borun’s second slash one-handed, his arm almost buckling with the effort.

With his free hand, he drew the blade and slammed it hard into Borun’s stomach.

The big Highlander gasped and stumbled backwards, staring down at the hilt quivering in his midriff. Blood seeped around it, dribbling between his legs.

Brodar Kayne clambered back to his feet and stalked forwards. ‘I reckon that’ll about do for you,’ he said, swatting aside a diagonal chop aimed at his neck. Borun was already weakening. The dribble of blood had become a steady patter. ‘I should leave you here to die a slow death. Ain’t like you don’t deserve it.’

Borun drew a shuddering breath. ‘Couldn’t rightly blame you for that,’ he said. He wavered and suddenly his axe tumbled from his grasp into the mud with a squelch. He placed both hands around the hilt of the dagger, where they hesitated.

‘Lost count of the times I dreamed of killing you,’ Kayne said. ‘Sometimes it was all that kept me going. I guess I should be feeling mighty satisfied right about now. Truth is, though, I don’t. You can’t change what’s been done.’

‘Aye,’ said Borun. He rocked on his feet again. His hands had begun to tremble. ‘And sometimes you can’t change what’s coming.’

Kayne closed his eyes for a moment. Memories came back to him. Swimming down the Icemelt on his twenty-first naming day, his skin so cold it had turned blue. Borun laughing his arse off, little more than a boy. He had swum to the shore and hauled the younger man in, to much laughter from them both.

Hunting in the Long Pikes together, Borun bringing down his first boar after they’d spent the best part of a day fleeing an enraged mountain lion.

The look of pride on Borun’s face when Kayne asked him to be Spirit Father for his bride-to-be.

The same face staring at the ground while he scraped his arms raw on the Shaman’s cage.

Mhaira’s screams.

He raised his greatsword high above his head. The sun bathed it in a red glow, the colour of blood. ‘Sometimes you can’t change what’s coming,’ he said, staring down into Borun’s eyes. ‘But a man who looks away and accepts it without as much as a whimper, he’s no man. And for damn sure he ain’t no brother.’ The sword flashed down. Borun’s head thumped onto the ground and rolled for a good few yards before coming to a stop against an outcrop of granite.

Jerek walked over, his twin axes dripping red. ‘You told that cunt,’ he said simply. Specks of blood dotted his face and short beard.

Kayne glanced at the bodies of the two Highlanders the Wolf had killed. It wasn’t a pretty sight. ‘You could have stepped in,’ he said. ‘Borun almost had me.’

Jerek snorted. ‘That’s some f*cking gratitude. You’d never have forgiven me, Kayne, and you know it.’

The old barbarian thought about it for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Aye, you’re right. The others?’

‘Isaac and the girl are fine. He ain’t bad with a sword. Held them off until I got there. As for the faggot, f*ck knows.’

Brodar Kayne shook his head. The Halfmage’s manservant was full of surprises. ‘Vicard fled. I expect he’s hiding under a rock somewhere.’

‘Up here,’ called a strained voice. They looked up. The alchemist knelt on a narrow ridge some distance above them. He had a stupid smile on his face. ‘I found a path,’ he exclaimed. ‘I was preparing a little something for those brutes, but it turns out it wasn’t necessary.’ He tossed the small ceramic ball in his hand into the air to demonstrate. The barbarian winced as he almost fumbled it.

Vicard wiped his nose with the back of his hand and grinned again. Kayne could see the brown leather pouch on the ground near his satchel. ‘Pack your things and get down here,’ he bellowed. ‘If I see you snorting that shit again, the whole pouch goes up your arse and that’s a promise.’ The adrenalin was wearing off and his whole body was aching worse than before. He glanced down, saw Borun’s sightless eyes staring back at him. He grimaced.

It don’t get any easier.