✥
‘GOT ANOTHER SCAR to add to that pretty face of yours,’ rasped the Wolf in a sardonic tone. ‘Carn almost had you. You’re getting slow, Kayne.’
Brodar Kayne rubbed at his chin with a rueful wince. Oathbreaker had given him a nasty nick on the jaw and he’d only just escaped with his head attached. Carn was as strong as an ox and as quick as a snake. A better fighter than his father Targus had been, by some distance.
In the end, he’d still lost.
It hadn’t felt good, helping the beaten chieftain up off the ground. Sparing his life in front of his men. No small part of Kayne had wanted to allow Carn to run him through and be done with it. To give the sons of the West Reaching the vengeance they craved. But Kayne’s father had always taught him that a victory that wasn’t earned was no victory at all, and the lesson had stuck with him. Carn had accepted Kayne’s mercy with good grace, all things considered. One day the Bloodfist would challenge him again and the result may well be different. That was a worry for another time, though. First, they needed to survive the journey south.
‘We all get slow eventually,’ he said in answer to Jerek’s gibe. ‘Age never did no one any favours, excepting maybe the Magelords.’ He remembered the Shaman’s final words to him. All things die. ‘Maybe not even them,’ he amended.
Suddenly the Wolf stopped in his tracks and stared up at the sky with eyes like flint. ‘What d’you reckon that is?’ he growled.
There was something floating far above them – a round, metallic object the size of a man’s head that turned slightly as they passed below it, as though it were tracking their movements. Every so often a red light flickered on the strange object.
Kayne turned to Brick behind him. ‘Reckon you can hit that?’
The youngster pursed his lips in concentration, measuring the distance. ‘Not without wasting a lot of arrows. Maybe one of the sorceresses could toss a fireball at it.’
Kayne thought about it and shook his head. ‘I reckon they got better uses for their magic.’
Rana and the small handful of sorceresses who had made it out of the Fangs were kept busy treating the sick and injured. They’d lost more Highlanders crossing the Badlands, some to animal attacks, others to disease and a few to mishaps no one could for account for, like one old fellow who had fallen down a ditch and broken his neck. The food had run out yesterday afternoon and everyone was marching on empty bellies, but they’d made it nearly to the Trine without any more disasters on the scale of the river crossing. All things considered, the great migration of Highlanders had gone smoother than Kayne had dared hope. Now his thoughts turned to how they would be greeted once they reached the northernmost of Dorminia’s vassal towns. If not with open arms, then Kayne at least hoped they might settle on a wary truce with the Lowlanders while Brandwyn negotiated on his countrymen’s behalf. Then again, the recent coup against the tyrant Salazar may well have thrown the entire region into chaos.
The world never stops changing. Who knows what we’ll find once we reach the Broken Sea.
‘There’s fucking ash everywhere,’ Jerek grumbled, interrupting Kayne’s thoughts. The Wolf kicked up a cloud of the black material. ‘Where’d all this shit come from?’
They’d begun encountering clouds of ash days ago. The stuff got everywhere, dirtying their clothes and spoiling what little water they had available to them. As they drew nearer to the Demonfire Hills it became even more of a nuisance, coating everything like a blanket and half-choking those near the back of the great winding line of Highlanders.
‘Not much further now,’ Kayne said hopefully. He turned to Brick again. ‘Where’s Corinn?’
‘Down the line,’ the youngster replied. ‘She’s looking after the foundlings.’
‘She’s a good lass,’ Kayne said. ‘You’re a lucky man. She’ll make a fine wife, I reckon.’ He tried to keep the grief out of his voice. Even so, Brick must have heard it.
‘I’m sorry,’ the youngster said. ‘I know you miss her.’
Kayne clapped Brick on the shoulder and nodded his thanks. The three men said nothing for a time, each lost in his own thoughts.
‘How’s Magnar?’ Brick asked, breaking the silence.
‘Better. They reckon he’ll be walking soon.’
‘I’d like to meet him, when he’s well enough to take visitors.’
‘I reckon he’d like that too,’ Kayne lied.
Corinn joined them, placing a hand in Brick’s. ‘Tiny Tom keeps asking after Grunt,’ she said sadly. ‘I told him he wouldn’t be coming back.’
‘He was a good man,’ Kayne said. He thought about it for a moment and then added, ‘or whatever he was.’
‘Aye,’ Jerek rasped. ‘He was all right.’
‘I wonder what happened to Jana,’ Brick offered. Kayne saw the mischievous twinkle in his emerald eyes. ‘I hope she got home safe. Do you think she made it back to the Jade Isles, Jerek?’
‘Don’t give a shit,’ the Wolf grunted. ‘She can choke on one of her nana fruits for all I care.’
‘You don’t mean that.’
The Wolf shot Brick a glare. Jerek was in a foul mood. A fouler mood, at any rate.
Suddenly the great line of Highlanders came to a grinding halt. ‘Trouble ahead?’ Kayne asked the fellow in front of him – one of Carn’s sworn swords, who eyed Kayne like a man might eye a foul-smelling turd. He spat and shook his head, clearly in no mood to talk. Kayne sighed and picked his way over the carpet of ash to stand beside Carn Bloodfist and Brandwyn the Younger. The two chieftains were staring south. Kayne squinted, following their gazes. There was a sickly green glow on the horizon.
‘I don’t like the look of that,’ he volunteered. Something else was troubling him too. There was an odd but familiar sensation in the air, the indescribable feeling of wrongness that sometimes crept over a man when a demon was nearby.
Brandwyn’s mouth twitched nervously. ‘The air feels poisoned,’ he said, reaching up and wiping sweat from his brow. ‘It is warm. Too warm.’
‘We cannot turn back,’ Carn rumbled. The big chieftain gave no indication that he was ashamed of his defeat on the southern bank of the River of Swords. The same couldn’t be said for his followers, like the warrior Kayne had just passed. In particular, young Finn seemed to spend half his days glaring a hole in Kayne when he thought the older man wasn’t watching.
‘If it’s a choice between starvation behind us, or the unknown ahead of us,’ Kayne said slowly, ‘I know which I prefer.’
Carn nodded his agreement. ‘For the time being, we will set up camp. I will send men to the forest west of here in search of food and dispatch a small group to investigate the land that lies ahead.’
‘I’ll go,’ rasped the Wolf. The three men turned to regard him. Jerek’s axes were in his hands, his dark eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of danger.
‘You are one man,’ Carn said. ‘Besides, I have my own scouts.’
‘You gonna stop me?’ Jerek growled. He took a step towards Carn, fire-scarred face darkening in anger, jaw clenched. The two men stared at each other. Though Carn was easily the bigger man, it was he who eventually looked away.
‘Your life is yours to risk as you see fit,’ he rumbled. ‘Report back here before midnight. I plan to be moving on again by then.’ Carn stomped off to relay his instructions to his men. The Wolf spat and then set off south without a backward glance, stalking alone towards the malevolent green glow in the distance.
Brandwyn shook his head. ‘Your friend is brave to stand his ground against the Bloodfist,’ he said. ‘Brave or stupid.’
Kayne blinked. ‘Eh?’
‘Your friend,’ Brandwyn explained. ‘Carn usually shows no mercy to those who defy him.’
Kayne watched the diminishing figure of the Wolf in the distance. ‘What do you know about Jerek?’ he asked quietly.
‘Only that he served in the Forsaken for many years. That he was exiled for an unspecified violation of the Code, and that he later rescued you from the Shaman’s cage.’
‘That’s all true,’ Kayne said. ‘But there’s something else you need to know about the Wolf. You can’t control him. You try to tell him what to do, you make him angry. Carn might not be one for mercy, but Jerek, he don’t know the meaning of the word. Those two ever come to blows, it won’t be the Bloodfist leaving alive.’
*
Magnar’s grip was stronger than it had been the last time, but it was still woefully weak. Kayne put an arm around his son’s waist, supporting him as subtly as he could manage. ‘One foot in front of the other,’ he said. ‘Slowly, now. Take your time. There ain’t no rush.’
The dancing flame of the torch cast silhouettes on the tent that mirrored Magnar’s tottering efforts. He took another step and wobbled.
‘Easy. That was good, son. Let’s try that again.’
‘This is a waste of time,’ Magnar said angrily. ‘How long has it been now? A month?’
Brodar Kayne shrugged helplessly. ‘You almost died, son. Jerek dragged me through the Fangs for the best part of an entire winter after he freed me from the Shaman’s cage. The sorceresses can only do so much. It’s up to you to build up your muscles again.’
‘Build my muscles how? When I cannot hold anything?’ Magnar flexed his mangled hands as if to demonstrate and Kayne had to look away. His son’s suffering was too much.
Fat lot of good I am, he thought bitterly. He wished he were a smarter man. Then he might know what to say to ease his boy’s pain, to show him a path back to a life worth living. But his talent had always been in taking a life, not giving it.
‘We’re almost at the Trine,’ Kayne ventured. ‘Maybe there are physicians in the big cities who can help.’
‘Can they restore my fingers? Erase the memory of my imprisonment? Bring back Yllandris?’
‘I... I don’t reckon they can. But maybe they can fix your body well enough so that you can fight—’
‘I don’t want to fight.’ The strangled fury in Magnar’s voice stopped Kayne dead in his tracks. ‘I’m tired of this, Father. Always striving to be the man you expect me to be. Always trying to live up to your legend. I didn’t want any of this. I didn’t want to be king. I did it because you wanted it. And now look at me. Look at me.’
Brodar Kayne didn’t look. Instead he stared at the floor and swallowed the lump in his throat. ‘I—’ he began, but Magnar cut him off again.
‘Get out.’
Shoulders sagging, Kayne turned and left the tent. He paused outside for a moment, staring up at the moon and stars, wondering how everything had turned out like this.
He remembered when he’d wanted to be a hero. Perhaps he had been, for a time. Serving at Watcher’s Keep, helping to keep the demons at bay. He was a long way from a hero now. There weren’t many things in this world more pitiful than a broken-down barbarian who couldn’t move for the weight of his regrets. Several campfires away, Finn chose that moment to look up and met his gaze. The younger man’s lips twisted in a sneer.
Head bowed, suddenly longing for a friendly face, Kayne set off thinking to find Brick, only to stop when he realized how pathetic that was.
My only friend aside from the Wolf. A lad of fourteen winters. Brick was probably enjoying some alone time with Corinn. The last thing he’d want was Kayne slinking into his tent desperate for some company.
He was about to go and sharpen his greatsword for the umpteenth time that night when a familiar figure stormed into camp. Jerek’s bald head was shiny with sweat, and he was covered head to toe in foul ichor. The axes in his hands were dripping with the stuff. ‘Demons,’ he rasped. ‘A fucking valley full of ’em heading our way. Rouse the camp.’
With anyone but Jerek, Kayne might’ve been inclined to ask questions. Instead he stumbled through the encampment, yelling at warriors to ready their weapons and for women and children to take shelter before the fiends came boiling over the hills. They were supposed to be coming from the north.
He didn’t have time to ponder the injustice of it all. Before the Highlanders were even half-organized the first of the demons appeared in the night. It was like nothing Kayne had ever seen. The legs and abdomen of a giant spider sprouted a humanoid torso covered in madly staring eyes, while its two arms ended in vicious pincers. Behind the spider demon flowed a tide of gibbering demonkin, as well as blink demons, the latter disappearing and reappearing elsewhere amidst the great throng of horrors surging towards the Highlanders.
Words of power cut through the panic and fire and lightning rained down upon the oncoming demons. Rana and her sorceresses had formed a circle near Carn’s tent and were unleashing their combined magical might against the fiends. Kayne found himself standing shoulder to shoulder with Finn and another young warrior from the West Reaching, waiting in a grim line at the camp’s southern edge while the assault from the circle thinned the onrushing tide. Thinned, but did not devastate: more demons made it through the magical storm than were slain.
The hilt of his greatsword slick in his hands, Kayne forced himself to remain calm while he mentally counted the yards between the Highlander line and the gibbering, snarling multitude boiling towards them.
Five hundred. Four hundred. Three hundred.
Even with the best efforts of the sorceresses, there were still nearly as many demons as men. Kayne knew the line couldn’t possibly hold, but they had to try, if only to buy their countrymen time to flee.
When the fiends were fifty yards away the demon-fear hit them. The warrior to Kayne’s left suddenly turned and ran. Another man broke, and then another, until big holes gaped in the formation. Finn looked likely to flee at any moment. Kayne met his gaze. ‘You hold,’ he snarled. And despite, or perhaps because of, the hatred warring with terror in the other man’s eyes, he held.
Seconds later the fiends were upon them.
Kayne hacked at a demonkin, felt leathery flesh split open and warm ichor sprayed all over his face. Claws reached for him and he reversed his swing, severed an arm the colour of raw meat. He heard the snap of dagger-like fangs behind his ear and threw an elbow back, stunning another of the demonkin for just long enough to part its eyeless lump of a head from its neck.
A blink demon pounced at him, razor tongue probing, and Kayne realized he was wrong-footed. He tried to get his greatsword up, knew he wouldn’t make it in time. Just before it reached him, an axe spun head over shaft to sink into the fiend’s central eye, dropping it mid-leap. Jerek barged past, wrenched his axe out of the fallen demon in a burst of gore. ‘Too slow, Kayne,’ he grunted, turning and burying his other axe in the skull of a demonkin.
The fighting raged on, chaotic images of the horror playing out around him burning themselves into Kayne’s brain as he fought desperately. A warrior was dragged screaming across the ground, entrails hanging out of his belly, black with ash. One man went down under a group of demonkin, their claws and razor teeth tearing off chunks of flesh, pulling him apart while he screamed and screamed, even after it seemed there couldn’t be enough of him left to scream.
The mass of profane shapes parted. The spider demon scuttled out, gore dripping from its snipping pincers. It reared back on four of its hairy legs, pounced with astonishing speed at the warrior who was attempting to blindside it with a spear and severed his head with a single snap of its pincers. The demon was already turning towards a new target as the headless corpse fell to its knees, blood spraying everywhere. The pincers snapped again and more heads sailed into the night air. The warriors nearest the fiend fell back, overwhelmed by this newest threat. They were brave men, would have faced any human foe without giving an inch, but the spider demon put a terror in them that was utterly primal.
Brodar Kayne’s blue eyes narrowed. He raised his greatsword. Alone, the Sword of the North went to meet the demon.
Just as he reached the fiend, an arrow zipped over his shoulder, striking it in the chest, piercing one of the many nightmarish eyes that covered its humanoid torso. Brick, Kayne realized, admiration warring with horror.
The boy was here, fighting alongside men twice his years, hardened warriors raised on a lifetime of violence. Kayne wanted to scream at him to fall back, to seek the safety of the camp behind him. No sooner had the arrow sunk into the demon’s flesh than it was upon Kayne. Pincers snapped out, aiming at his neck. The greatsword in Kayne’s hands danced, knocking aside one clicking appendage after another.
Another arrow struck, this time piercing the spider demon’s abdomen. It reared back on its backmost legs and suddenly Finn was there, his longsword hacking at the demon’s underbelly as it twitched and spasmed above him. ‘Die, you fucker!’ he snarled, though he might just as well have been talking to Kayne.
‘The hell are you doing?’ the old warrior yelled, but by then it was too late. The spider demon slammed its front legs back down, engulfing the Westerman. All but Finn’s head disappeared beneath its grotesque, bristling bulk. The young warrior’s eyes went wide with terror, all his bravado stripped away in an instant. ‘Help me,’ he pleaded.
Kayne sprang into action, his greatsword plunging into the demon’s side. He gave it a vicious twist and ichor spurted out, coating him head to toe. The fiend’s body twisted as it tried to reach him but the Sword of the North was already moving, ducking under the snapping pincers, greatsword swinging and shearing off two giant hairy legs. The demon reared again, writhing above the old barbarian.
Kayne thrust with all his strength, driving his blade in up to the hilt. The demon tried to slam itself down on him but he held it off, skewered on three and a half feet of steel. He jerked the sword down, pulling with all his strength, tearing open the abdomen above him. Ichor rained down, until finally the demon’s stinking innards slid out of the gaping hole in its underbelly to strike Kayne, warm and sticky.
With a shudder, the spider demon went rigid and it ceased its struggles. Kayne thrust the fiend’s corpse away from him. It landed on its side, legs curling up as it died, an appalling sight.
Kayne shrugged off the steaming innards and wiped demon ichor from his face. He went to Finn and knelt down, examined the man’s wounds. Finn’s exposed flesh had been pierced by hundreds of bristling hairs that covered him like a forest of needles. The young Westerman’s breathing was laboured and Kayne guessed the weight of the fiend pressing down on him had broken a rib or two. ‘Hold on,’ he grunted, grabbing Finn below his arms. ‘I’m getting you out of here.’
Kayne dragged Finn over a field of ash that was scattered with dead and dying Highlanders, praying desperately that nothing attacked him while he was pulling the Westerman away from the fighting.
Finn gagged, coughed up a mouthful of spider-demon hair. ‘Why are you helping me?’ he gasped, bloody saliva flecking his chin. ‘I wanted to kill you.’
‘I don’t blame you for it,’ Kayne said between ragged breaths. ‘A man makes his choices and lives with them. I’m making a choice now. You ain’t dying this night.’
Finally he dragged Finn beyond the fighting. The circle of sorceresses was still launching spell after spell at the demonic horde. He thought better of disturbing them to ask for help with Finn – the young warrior would survive his wounds and their magic was needed elsewhere. Kayne was about to turn back to the battlefield when he saw a familiar blonde-haired girl watching him. ‘Corinn?’ he said, dismayed. ‘What are you doing here? This ain’t no place for a child.’
‘I’m not a child,’ the blue-eyed girl shot back. ‘I couldn’t let Brick go alone. He wouldn’t stay away. He idolizes you. You and the Wolf.’
‘He does?’ Kayne said incredulously.
Corinn nodded. She was angry, Kayne saw. ‘I’ll tend to his wounds,’ she said, kneeling to examine Finn. ‘I have some healing... skills.’
The old warrior nodded his thanks and turned back to the fighting. He pounded across the earth, knees jarring with every step, but slowed when he saw the latest nightmare approaching from the southern hills.
There were seven armoured figures making their clanking way towards the camp. Each was covered head to toe in black steel plate in the style of the Kingsman, Sir Meredith, whom Kayne had killed some months back. Sir Meredith had called himself a ‘knight’.
These latest horrors might be dressed like knights but the malevolent red glow behind their visors and the fear that washed over him as they strode forward, massive iron flails swinging, confirmed beyond doubt that they were demons. Their movements were methodical and unhurried. They met the first of the Highland warriors and engaged them. Swords and axes, spears and arrows bounced off their armour, turned aside as though they were mere children’s toys. The demon knights struck back with brutal force, the metal heads of their monstrous flails hitting home with inhuman strength. Shields exploded, weapons were knocked out of hands and arms shattered. Bodies were lifted off the ground and hurled, broken, through the air. The seven fought as one, a deadly, impenetrable unit. Warrior after warrior fell. Fire and ice rained down on the demon knights without effect and bolts of lightning bounced off their armour as the sorceresses tried and failed to stop their advance.
Kayne went to meet the demon knights. His greatsword shuddered in his hands as one took a swing at him and he caught the flail on his blade. Pain shot through his arms and shoulders. He gritted his teeth and tried to hold onto the hilt of his greatsword as another mighty blow threatened to tear it from his sweaty palms.
Oathkeeper screamed nearby. Kayne risked a quick glance to see Carn locked in combat with a demon knight, the mighty chieftain just about the only man on the battlefield with the strength to go toe to toe with one of the fiends. Even the Bloodfist’s magical sword struggled to put a dent in the demon’s armour.
Kayne fought on, his breath coming harder and harder. Everywhere he looked the bodies of dead Highlanders littered the ground. An arrow struck the breastplate of the knight facing off against Kayne and shattered. A boy’s voice cried out behind him and Kayne broke away from the demon to see Brick on the ground, backtracking desperately, a demon knight bearing down on him.
Kayne’s heart felt like it would explode. He couldn’t reach Brick in time. He watched helplessly as the demon raised a gauntleted hand and sent the massive iron head of its flail dancing wickedly above it.
A girl screamed, her voice filled with fury.
Ash swept into Kayne’s face, temporarily blinding him. Ferocious winds suddenly forced him back, almost sent him sprawling. He cleared his eyes just in time to see the demon knight spinning thirty feet above the ground, caught in the grip of a tornado that had appeared from nowhere, leaving Brick untouched. The tornado pulled the fiend away from the flame-haired archer, carried it away until it was lost in the distance.
Corinn was pointing in Brick’s direction, the girl’s outstretched finger quivering, her face a storm of emotion, blonde hair dancing wildly around her pretty face.
She’s a sorceress, Kayne realized. A mighty one at that: he’d never seen such a powerful spell worked by anyone save a Magelord.
He didn’t have any more time to reflect on his surprise. The demon knight was on him again, as implacable as death itself, six and a half feet of sinister intent wrapped in steel and driven by pure hatred. It battered him, drove him almost to his knees.
Kayne fell back, gasping for air. He caught movement out of the corner of his blurring eyes and his racing heart sank further when he saw yet more demons heading towards them. These newcomers looked like exceptionally tall men and women, dressed in silver cloth and brandishing swords made of a glassy substance and a few pointed metal objects that looked strangely familiar.
‘On my command,’ ordered one of the demons, in a voice that sounded remarkably human. ‘Open fire.’
‘Yes, Adjudicator,’ came a chorus of replies. Kayne parried another swing of the knight’s deadly flail, his arms so tired he could barely hold his greatsword aloft. He looked around wildly. Carn was still locked in his desperate struggle. Beyond the chieftain of the West Reaching, standing alone amidst a pile of slain demons, was Jerek. The Wolf was covered in blood and he clutched something in his hands. It was a visored head. At his feet was the armoured body of a demon knight.
‘Fire.’
The succession of explosions that followed that melodic command almost deafened Kayne. The demon knight opposite him jerked as tiny holes suddenly appeared in its armour, ichor spraying out of its back as it staggered and then collapsed, its armoured corpse sending up a small cloud of ash. Elsewhere, other demon knights were under assault from the newly arrived humanoids. A second knight fell, and then a third, and then the knight facing off against Carn collapsed to one knee, holes peppering its breastplate. The chieftain of the West Reaching brought Oathkeeper sweeping around, parting its head from its neck.
The towering humanoids waded into the remaining demons, crystal swords flashing, their blades cleaving steel-encased limbs as though they were parchment. The humanoid who had given the order to fire approached Kayne, who saw that he wore a cloak of dark blue. There was something oddly familiar about him. Kayne raised his greatsword but hesitated, unsure what to expect.
To his utter shock, the tall, silvery being extended a hand in greeting. ‘Brodar Kayne,’ he said, in a musical voice that plucked at memories of his time in the Trine. ‘Well met again.’