✥
DAVARUS COLE STEPPED off the Caress and took a deep breath. He turned back to the caravel and gave a small wave to those aboard. No one so much as nodded in acknowledgement. The captain blamed him for the loss of four of her crew, he knew, and no sooner had his boots touched down in the port of Ro’ved than she was making preparations to depart. Ed and the other dead would be taken back to Thelassa for burial. Cole wished he could be present to bid his friend a final farewell, but the urgent mission he had been entrusted with could allow no delays.
The streets of Ro’ved were little more than mud. The dockhands glared at him as he passed. He ignored them and made his way towards the stables as he’d been instructed. The writ of passage he carried was signed by the White Lady herself and requested that he be given whatever he needed, with the promise of full recompense in future. If the frowns on the faces of the Tarbonnese who were watching him were any indication, they weren’t likely to take kindly to a foreigner turning up and making demands.
It can’t be helped. I’m here on a mission of utmost importance. The future of the Trine could depend on my success.
He wandered narrow streets, looking for any sign of a stables. The wooden buildings were crowded tightly together and he soon became lost. The smells of baking bread assaulted his nostrils and hunger stirred in his gut; the right kind of hunger. He entered a bakery and was about to hand over some coins for a fresh loaf when he remembered the White Lady’s writ. He presented it to the gap-toothed old woman behind the counter. ‘My name is Davarus Cole. You see this? It’s an official document signed by the White Lady of Thelassa. She requests you render me whatever aid you can.’
The woman squinted at the parchment. ‘Who’s a white lady?’ she asked, in a strong Tarbonnese accent.
‘Not who. The. The White Lady. You know, the Magelord.’
The woman shrugged. ‘Never heard of her. I never cared much for politics. That was more Sebastian’s thing, before he was lost to the dreams. I miss my husband.’
Cole blinked. He knew a little about dreams himself. ‘What do you mean? What happened to him?’
The woman’s eyes grew moist. ‘After our son died in the wars he became depressed. He started muttering about a three-eyed demon that haunted his nightmares. Soon he wouldn’t talk except to mutter about the blessed embrace of the Nameless. One morning I woke up and he was gone.’
‘Gone? You mean he’s dead?’ A tear rolled down the baker’s cheek and Cole felt vaguely embarrassed, standing there waving a note in the old woman’s face.
‘Not dead. That might’ve been easier to bear. No, he’s gone.’
‘Right.’ Cole very carefully placed the note back in his pocket and stepped back. The last thing he wanted was to get involved in whatever strangeness was going on with this old woman. He put the bread down and turned to walk away.
‘Wait,’ said the baker. ‘Take that. Don’t worry about payment. You remind me of him. My son, I mean. Times are hard since he and his dad left me alone here, but you look like you could use something in your belly.’
Cole hesitated. He took in the shabby building, the cracks in the walls that had been left unfixed. The deep lines of grief beneath the baker’s eyes. ‘How much is a loaf of bread?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Fifteen coppers. But you needn’t give me anything.’
‘A Dorminian always pays his debts,’ Cole said brightly. ‘It seems a little expensive, but I’ll make a note here in case I forget. Fifteen silvers to be owed to...’ He trailed off, waiting expectantly as understanding dawned on the woman’s face.
‘Why... it’s Renée. Look at you taking pity on an old woman! Are you some sort of hero?’
Cole winced at that. ‘Not a hero,’ he replied. ‘Definitely not that. Tell me, do you know where I can find a stables? I need a horse.’
*
You’ll be a great man one day. Like your father.
Garrett had uttered those words to Cole often when he was a boy growing up under his care. That simple truth had shaped young Davarus Cole’s formative years. Given him the confidence to be braver than anyone else. Better than anyone else. To be a hero.
‘I’m not a hero,’ he said bitterly to himself for the third or fourth time that morning. ‘My father was a killer. My mother was a harlot.’ He kicked his horse and it responded with a slight whinny. The road east to Carhein from the port town of Ro’ved had given him plenty of time to ponder his miserable life; a life that until recently had been built on a foundation of lies.
Cole tugged Magebane free of its scabbard and glared at the dagger. The winter sun gleamed prettily off the blade and caused the ruby set in the hilt to burn brightly.
Like the eyes of the bastard who attacked me on the Caress. The bastard who had killed his friend Ed. Cole fingered the golden key now hanging around his neck. He had no idea what purpose it served, but it was a tiny measure of satisfaction to have taken something from Wolgred after he died. Taken something from the assassin who had taken Ed’s life.
He stared at the glowing blade in his hand, disgusted. ‘I never had a choice, did I?’ he muttered. ‘This was the path laid out for me. All because of a stupid weapon.’ He was half tempted to toss Magebane in a bush and ride off without a backward glance. It would be practically impossible to find the dagger again if he did. Tarbonne was a lush and verdant country, even in winter. He rode past gently rolling hills covered in naked trees, gurgling streams and pastures of many shades of green that formed a pretty tapestry.
Cole glared at Magebane again. The truth was that he would be nothing without his birthright. Without the enchanted dagger that his father, Illarius Cole, had bequeathed to him with his dying breath.
Magebane is who I am, he realized with despair. Everything I am.
The terrible curse he carried meant that he would waste away and eventually perish unless he killed with the dagger, and killed often. The vitality he had stolen from the Unborn on the roof of the Tower of Stars had faded. Already his skin was pale and his hair flecked with grey. If he didn’t feed the divine hunger soon, it would feed on him.
Why am I even doing this? The only thing of any value in his life was Sasha. The day he finally summoned the courage to tell her how he truly felt would be the day all his hopes and dreams were forever shattered.
She’s smarter than you. More attractive than you. She doesn’t have a hopeless addiction that will eventually destroy her.
Sasha had always been the better of them, that was the truth. There was no chance she’d want anything to do with a whore-spawned killer; she deserved better.
He felt the lightest of touches and twisted his head slightly to see Midnight pawing playfully at his neck. The little black kitten was nestled comfortably inside the backpack thrown over his shoulder. He reached into a pocket and withdrew a tiny piece of fish he’d pilfered from the ship just before disembarking. He had no idea how to look after a kitten, but he’d made a promise to Ed to keep her safe and that was that.
His arse began to ache and he wondered how much farther it was to Carhein. Tarbonne’s capital was one of the oldest cities north of the Sun Lands. Reportedly neither as large as Dorminia nor as secretive as Thelassa, it had once been known as the Jewel of the Nine Kingdoms before the Godswar had changed the face of the region. Though it was apparently now only a shadow of its former glory, Carhein was nonetheless celebrated as a centre of art, culture and commerce.
Not that Cole would have time to sample any of that, particularly not the bordellos for which the Pink District was so famous. No, it was his lot to once again play errand boy for the powerful. He had no idea how he would go about gaining entrance to the palace and meeting with this Zatore. The White Lady had handed him a letter for him to present to the king’s advisor. That struck him as an artless means of communication when both were mages and could presumably send a message through a dream or magical familiar or some other arcane bullshit, but then who was he to question a Magelord?
I only kill them from time to time. When they’re bored enough of life to decide death might be worth a shot. Cole had the feeling that even with Magebane in hand, Salazar could have swatted him like a fly if he had really wanted to. Certainly the White Lady had not broken a sweat putting him in his place.
Without looking, he turned and spat and almost hit a passing rider on the other side of the road. The man shook a fist at Cole, who waved an apology. A few minutes later Cole spotted a wagon approaching. The teamster brought the wagon to a halt and beckoned Cole to do the same.
The wagon-master looked friendly enough, and Cole hadn’t spoken a word to anyone since bidding farewell to what remained of the crew of the Caress at Ro’ved. Curious, he trotted over to the man.
‘Well met,’ he said, bringing his horse around. ‘I’m Davarus Cole. Something you need?’
‘These are dark times,’ the wagon-master said, in a thick Tarbonnese accent. He was a wide man with a thick moustache. ‘Take care on the road. The Cult of the Nameless preys on unwary travellers. They have eyes everywhere.’ He cast a furtive glance around, as though they could be being watched at this very moment.
‘Thanks for the warning,’ Cole offered. The teamster was watching him expectantly and he felt obliged to continue the conversation, though he would just as soon be on his way. ‘Tell me more about this cult,’ he obliged. He recalled the baker woman back in Ro’ved mentioning something about this ‘Nameless’.
‘You know of the disappearances in recent years? Fathers, mothers leaving their families never to return. The wars that tore this kingdom apart before the Rag King won the throne have bred despair and that despair has found a voice. The Cult of the Nameless. They preach that love is weakness. That if we submit to the darkness we will know pain no more.’
‘Sounds like a bunch of shit to me,’ Cole said angrily. ‘I’ve been to some dark places this last year and trust me when I say the pain never goes away. You just learn to live with it.’
The teamster shrugged a thick shoulder. ‘I bring fair warning, is all. You are a foreigner in this land. Better to walk with your eyes open.’
‘I appreciate the advice,’ Cole lied. ‘How much farther to Carhein?’
‘Ride fast and you will be there by nightfall,’ replied the teamster. He looked around fearfully one last time before going back to his wagon.
Cole waved farewell and decided to follow the wagon-master’s advice and maintain a brisk pace. As his horse cantered down the road towards the capital, he passed only a few folk travelling the other way. Several wore fearful expressions. A few gave him curious glances. None were pretty or interesting enough to pique Cole’s curiosity and so he paid them little mind.
A few more miles passed before he became aware of just how thirsty he was. The conversation with the teamster had dried his throat and his waterskin was down to a few trickles. As luck would have it, he noticed a white brick building on the side of the road just ahead. The signage outside indicated a tavern: the Farmboy’s Folly.
Cole hesitated a moment. The White Lady had specifically told him to make for Carhein with all haste and not to become sidetracked. The insinuation that he couldn’t be trusted made him bristle with indignation. After all that bitch has put me through I’ll be damned if I’ll go thirsty because of her! He glanced at Midnight and reasoned she must be thirsty too. If there was one character flaw that could never be levelled against Davarus Cole it was a disregard for the welfare of animals.
At least that’s what he told himself as he handed his horse’s reins over to the stable boy and pushed open the door to the tavern. It was pleasantly warm within. A log fire blazed in the hearth and the smell of roasting meat wafted through the air. There were a score or so of locals lounging around the tables. In the time-honoured tradition of alehouses everywhere, they all turned to stare at Cole as he wandered in. A few of them were playing cards, while in the corner of the tavern a group of young men of a similar age to Cole were laughing and pointing at something on the wall.
‘Just some water,’ said Cole as he approached the bar. The barman looked slightly taken aback, and when Cole added ‘and a saucer of milk’, the disapproval in the man’s glare could have stripped paint off the walls. Over in the corner, the group of young Tarbonnese were jeering at Cole and joking among themselves. Something about that stung. After all he’d been through, he deserved more respect.
‘What are they doing?’ he asked the barman, pointing a finger towards the snickering men.
‘Playing knife toss,’ the barkeep replied, with a sniff. ‘It is a tradition in these parts. A game for real men,’ he added, casting a dark frown at Midnight. The kitten was perching on the bar, lapping up the milk from the saucer.
‘Real men, you say?’ Cole shot back, trying unsuccessfully to mask his indignation. He walked over to the group. One of the men threw a knife at the wooden board hanging from a rusty nail on the wall. Painted circles covered the board, one inside the other, getting progressively smaller towards the centre. The man’s throw landed in one of the outer circles. Despite his poor effort, his friends clapped him on the back as though that were some kind of impressive achievement.
‘Mind if I try?’ Cole asked. He took a nonchalant sip from his glass of water.
One of the men nudged another, who grinned and took a swig of his ale. He handed Cole a knife and gave him a wink. ‘It is simple,’ he said. ‘You aim for the brown hole in the centre. I am sure you are familiar, yes?’ His friend chuckled and made a gesture involving a finger and a certain part of the anatomy that filled Cole with anger. He lined up the knife and threw it, barely looking. It stuck in the board, far closer to the centre than the other knives.
‘You mean like that?’ he said sarcastically. He turned as if to walk away, but then plucked Magebane from its scabbard, twisted around and hurled it in one smooth motion. This time it hit dead centre, quivering there like an exclamation mark. ‘Or is that how a real man does it?’ he asked loudly, spreading his palms.
There was a stunned silence and then a chorus of cheers burst from the small audience that had gathered to watch the show. The men who were but moments ago questioning his masculinity were now patting him on the back and extolling his virtues. Cole unstuck Magebane from the board and thrust it inside its scabbard. He gracefully accepted the plaudits and went to fetch Midnight, who had finished her milk and was curled up around a bottle of Tarbonnese red wine, snoozing happily.
‘A toast!’ cried one of the knife-tossers. ‘To our new friend from the Trine!’
Cole grinned and shook his head. ‘I can’t,’ he protested. ‘I have somewhere I need to be.’
Besides. After what happened back in the Blight, I can’t allow myself to let my guard down ever again. The last thing he wanted with all this talk of a cult was to get careless. He had learned his lesson.
‘He throws like a man but he drinks like a girl!’ someone yelled. Cole couldn’t help but bristle at that. His drinking prowess down in Dorminia’s grimiest dives had been legendary. It hurt to have it defamed by a bunch of smelly foreigners.
‘Another time and I’ll drink you all under the table,’ he snapped back. He placed Midnight carefully in his backpack. She purred softly. ‘Some of us have matters of great importance that demand our attention. The fate of the world could well rest upon my shoulders.’
‘Oh, will you listen to him,’ said one of the serving girls. He hadn’t noticed her before. She had pretty eyes – but even those weren’t her most obvious assets. Somehow her alluring accent made her words all the more arresting. ‘If he wants a go under the table I’ve a mind to say yes!’
That brought a fresh chorus of laughs and Cole found himself stopping halfway to the door. Every instinct was telling him to leave, save for one. Unfortunately, it was a rather pressing instinct. ‘Oh, all right,’ he said, turning back to his new friends and giving them a big grin. ‘I’ll accept a toast. But just one drink,’ he added in a stern voice. ‘Just one.’
*
All was darkness.
Blinding pain assaulted his skull, as though there was a host of tiny men inside bludgeoning it with tiny hammers.
He could smell vomit. Sour and acrid. The smell was so strong that his clothes must have been covered in it. His eyes were open, but all he could see was blackness. Panic seized him. Panic, and fresh nausea. His mouth tasted foul – ale and wine and spirits mixed with the bitter taste of bile.
‘Where am I?’ he rasped. He could feel motion beneath him. He was lying on a moving object, being taken somewhere. He tried to move his arms, to reach up to his face, but his wrists were tied. He tried to move his legs, but they too were secured.
What happened? He struggled to piece together his memories. They were like shattered glass, confusing and incomplete. He had the mother of all hangovers, he knew that much. Even thinking hurt.
‘Where am I?’ he said again, louder this time, his voice cracking with desperation.
He heard movement nearby. Smelled the sour stench of someone’s breath as they leaned down. A sack was pulled from his head and then he was staring up into a hooded face. Dark eyes glittered with sinister fervour beneath the hood.
‘You are on a wagon. You and your friend from the tavern. The Cult of the Nameless has you now, child. Do not resist. Submit to the darkness. Soon we will reach our destination and then your pain will be gone.’
The cultist placed the sack back over Cole’s head. He closed his eyes and let his head slump back against the wagon. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he whispered.