The Grim Company (8 page)

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. ‘Fucking 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, fuck 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. Fucking 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.