✥
THELASSA, THE CITY of Towers, shone like a pearl in the brilliant sunshine.
Sasha had never fully appreciated just how beautiful the city was. Perhaps it had taken a journey through hell, both personal and very almost literal, to allow her to see the good even among all that was wrong. The streets were teeming with people all the way to the palace. She remembered walking this very same avenue at night alongside her sister, hearing ghostly instruments plucking notes out of thin air. On this occasion, the music they were playing was joyous rather than the hypnotic swell that had preceded the Seeding. Under a perfect summer sun and surrounded by smiling faces, it was easy to forget the horrors the White Lady had inflicted upon her city to keep it safe.
The marble palace melted out of the shimmering air ahead. It was there the White Lady of Thelassa and Thanates, wizard-king of Dalashra, would seal both a marriage and an alliance five hundred years in the making.
She saw the Highlander contingent waiting by the palace gates. Carn Bloodfist and Brandwyn each headed up a small retinue of warriors. A little behind them lurked Brodar Kayne and Jerek, together with a younger man who might have been Magnar, Kayne’s son. The old warrior noticed her and gave her a wave. She smiled and waved back. It was good to see him up and on his feet.
Davarus Cole, however, wasn’t faring so well. He’d swapped his leathers for a pair of fresh trousers and a white linen shirt with flared cuffs. He looked dashing, though the forlorn expression on his disturbingly pale face slightly spoiled the effect. The glistening sweat on his brow appeared to be the result of something more than just the heat. He was shaking his head, as though listening to something only he could hear and not liking what it was saying.
She leaned in to whisper to him. ‘Are you feeling okay?’
‘Do I look okay?’ he snapped back.
‘No. That’s why I’m asking.’
‘Don’t pretend you care.’
Sasha stopped dead in the middle of the avenue. ‘You know I fucking care,’ she hissed. ‘This isn’t about you, Cole. If you were going to be an arsehole, you shouldn’t have come.’
The look he gave her chilled her blood. It wasn’t just the fury in his eyes that disturbed her; there was a hunger there. Of all the things Cole had made her feel over the years, threatened had never been among them.
‘The Reaver hasn’t fed in months,’ he said, his voice a ragged whisper. ‘I love you, Sasha – but you need to know that I want to draw Magebane and shove the sharp end through your chest. I want to turn on this crowd and slaughter them all. Make these marble streets run red with blood. This is my curse. Don’t ever confuse me being a monster with me being an arsehole.’
She struggled for words, overwhelmed by what he’d just told her. ‘I’m sorry—’ she began, but he was already turning, storming into the mass of city folk. She watched him go, guilt and fear waging a war in her mind.
As she contemplated chasing after him, there was movement at the palace gates up ahead. They swung slowly open and a member of the Consult stepped out and politely asked the assembled Highlanders to move away from the entrance. A gong sounded from somewhere in the city, so loud it must have been magically amplified.
A squad of armed Whitecloaks came marching towards the palace. The crowd cleared the avenue, and Sasha found herself bundled to the side along with scores of onlookers. A moment later she understood why. Making her serene way towards the palace, utterly resplendent in her wedding dress – a work of art that had apparently taken several of the best seamstresses in the city a month to create – glided the White Lady of Thelassa.
Behind the Magelord trailed her handmaidens. Sasha gasped. There were hundreds of them, a winding snake of porcelain-skinned dolls following their mistress in a great line that wound all the way back to the city.
The White Lady reached the gates of the palace and turned to the assembled crowd. There she waited as the Unborn formed three great ranks behind her.
The Magelord of Thelassa slowly raised her hands towards the heavens. Sasha was a good distance removed and didn’t have the best view. She focused on the ageless wizard, her augmented eyes adjusting themselves until the White Lady’s unearthly beauty filled her vision. The immortal wizard spoke, and in her voice was a great regret. A regret so deep it rivalled the waters of the city’s great harbour.
‘I stand you before you on this most joyous of days to offer an apology,’ she said, her voice carrying down the long avenue like a soothing wind. ‘For five hundred years I have sought to make this city a beacon of light in the darkness. Yet, where there is light there is also shadow. I have done things – terrible things – to preserve the autonomy of our city. I cannot take back those actions, or the unreasonable sacrifices I have demanded of you.’
Silence followed the White Lady’s words. Then a murmur began, confusion spreading like wildfire. They don’t know, Sasha reminded herself. The Consult poisoned the city’s water supply and erased their memories. Why is she telling them this now?
She remembered the White Lady’s handmaiden – her proxy? – in the cave of the Nameless cultists. The disquiet on her face. Was that the moment when the city’s Magelord had understood the extent of her crimes? Did she seek to unburden her guilt before she wed? Or had the love she had apparently rediscovered fixed something broken within her? For some reason, Sasha felt guilty. She searched around for Cole, but even her enhanced vision could not pick him out among the crowd.
‘To you, my subjects, I offer an apology,’ the White Lady continued. ‘An apology and a promise for a better future. The magical barrier around the city is no more. When the sun rises tomorrow, Thelassa will be open for trade with Dorminia, and with the Shattered Realms to the south and the Unclaimed Lands to the east. Together we will make Thelassa the most prosperous city in the north. But first a great injustice must be addressed.’ Below the Magelord’s purple eyes, tears streaked her cheeks. She turned to face the ranks of the Unborn. ‘You have suffered enough,’ she announced. ‘I now release you from your servitude.’
The handmaidens began to crumble. One by one they disintegrated, collapsing into a fine dust that rose and floated out to hang suspended above the avenue, sparkling in the sun’s rays. The first rank of Unborn was destroyed, and then the second, and then the third, until eventually Thelassa’s Magelord stood alone, her army of unnatural servants all reduced to dust, only the great golden cloud above the city giving any indication they had ever existed.
The Magelord lowered her arms. There was a pregnant pause and then the cloud fell from the sky, covering the crowd below, which reacted with a mixture of horror, surprise and eventually amusement when it became clear it would not harm them.
Sasha scooped a handful of the dust from her scalp and stared at it. She half expected it to be vile to behold, but it resembled nothing more than fine golden sand. It glowed and then began to dissipate, its magic fading away.
‘Soon the memories I stole will return to you,’ the White Lady announced. ‘I will offer no further explanation at this time, except to say that I will accept your wrath. I will accept your fury. But I will not accept your judgement, for none but those charged with the responsibility of shepherding their people through a godless world could understand my burden. I leave you now to enjoy the celebrations. Tomorrow we begin again. A new age for humanity.’
With those words, the White Lady turned and swept into the palace. Sasha shook her head, dislodging the remaining dust. The day had already offered up a host of surprises and it wasn’t yet noon. She met the eyes of the woman opposite her, a lower-ranking member of the Consult. Sasha gave her a smile, trying to be friendly, but she received only a blank stare in return. The woman’s face seemed strangely vacant.
Sasha left the avenue to search for Cole again, but a moment later she stumbled, unfamiliar thoughts and memories invading her waking mind, bringing a chaotic assortment of images that made little sense. They passed quickly, but the experience left her badly shaken. She had experienced such episodes more frequently of late, but this was the first time they had occurred during the day.
‘I hope the augmentations aren’t troubling you.’
She spun and stared up into the face of a familiar Fade. He smiled down at her, the dark blue cloak he wore hanging lazily over his shoulder.
‘Isaac!’ she exclaimed.
‘Well met. I feared I might be late for the wedding.’
‘Don’t worry about that. Thanates hasn’t arrived yet. What are you doing here?’
The Adjudicator raised a hand to shield his face from the sun. ‘Prince Obrahim is running late and so I come in his stead. He is making preparations for his brother’s lifebonding ceremony. Saverian and my sister will shortly arrive in New Malaga, having finished their work in Dorminia. It seemed proper that at least one of my kind be present to witness this marriage between our new allies.’
Isaac noticed he had golden dust flecking his cheek. He wiped it off and examined his fingertips with a wry smile. ‘You know, this reminds me of a ritual our kind practises upon the completion of our lifebonding ceremony – a tradition that dates back to our ancestors in the Time Before. Our records of that epoch are almost non-existent, but from what little we do know it is surprising just how many echoes of Old Terra can be found in these lands.’
‘Perhaps that is why your Pilgrims chose this place to settle,’ Sasha ventured. ‘It was familiar to them.’
‘Perhaps,’ Isaac agreed. ‘Or perhaps these lands and those belonging to my ancestors share a common Creator. He went by several names in the Time Before, all of which are now forgotten.’
‘That is the fate of all things,’ Sasha said. ‘To be forgotten.’
‘A dark thought for such a glorious day,’ Isaac replied drolly. His expression shifted and suddenly he looked pained. ‘I would have liked to have shared it with another.’
‘Another?’
‘Yes,’ Isaac replied. ‘The Halfmage. I looked for him in Dorminia. I thought to bring him here to witness the wedding. But I was too late. He was already gone.’
‘The Halfmage?’ Sasha repeated. ‘He was the one who made you change your mind? About humanity being beyond redemption?’
‘He was.’
‘How?’ she asked. It hardly seemed credible. The Halfmage she remembered was a bitter husk of a man.
Isaac was silent a moment before replying. ‘I saw in him a truth about mankind. That the ugliest among you are capable of surprising beauty. That no matter how your short lives may seek to break you, there is something within the best of you that will not shatter. He showed me that a hero may be found in the most unlikely of forms. That no imperfection cannot be tolerated when a heart is good.’
Sasha listened to Isaac, growing more agitated with every word. She saw Brodar Kayne place an arm around his son and guide him into the palace. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, turning away from the Fade, towards the harbour where Cole had slipped off, lost in the depths of his own personal nightmare.
‘You’re leaving?’ came Isaac’s voice behind her. ‘What about the wedding?’
‘They’ll manage without me,’ she called back. ‘I need to find someone.’
*
The White Lady’s palace was unlike anywhere Kayne had ever laid eyes upon. The opulence beggared Heartstone’s Great Lodge; the glistening marble and golden statuary put to shame the musty furs and tarnished suits of armour that had stood so proudly in the king’s chamber. Up on the dais in the centre of her throne room, the White Lady looked every inch a goddess made flesh. Thanates cut a decidedly ragged figure beside her, though he wore a new overcoat and had decided to cover his eyeless sockets with a strip of black silk. Above the throne, sunlight bleeding through a window set in the arched ceiling above bathed the couple and their assembled guests on the benches before the dais in a warm radiance.
Just like the Seeker, this city and its palace made all that Brodar Kayne had once thought grand seem trivial. At one time that realization might’ve unsettled him, made him question himself and his place in the world. Now he found himself not giving a damn. He had everything he wanted right beside him.
‘You all right, son?’ he asked for the third time. It’d taken a mighty effort to get Magnar to agree to accompany the Highlander party, but agree he had – eventually. Magnar didn’t look at all comfortable, but the mere fact that his son had taken such a big step was a sign he was on the road to recovery. Just looking at him sitting there filled the Sword of the North with pride.
‘How much longer is this going to last?’ Magnar whispered. Kayne grinned, sharing his son’s sentiments. First they’d sat through a droning Consult minister reading out the terms of the marriage. Then the two wizards had been presented with copious amounts of parchment to sign. Thanates had needed someone to recite them for him. There weren’t many lettered men among the Highland people, but Brandwyn had volunteered to help. Kayne wondered where young Davarus Cole and Sasha had got to. Chances were they’d been bickering again and were off cooling down somewhere.
The wedding between the two mages was a far cry from the joining ceremony between Brick and Corinn. Honouring the spirits took pride of a place in a Highlander wedding. The Lowland folk did things differently. In ages past they’d apparently said their vows in front of the gods, but given that at least one half of the couple on the dais had taken an active hand in wiping them out, Kayne could understand why the gods no longer merited much of a mention.
He remembered his own joining ceremony. The happiest day of his life, save for the day his wife had brought his son into the world.
The documents were finally signed. Jerek shifted beside Kayne and made a poor job of stifling a yawn. The Wolf looked even more uncomfortable than Magnar. He had barely said a word since they’d disembarked the small ship that had brought them across the channel. It was a minor shock to the old Highlander that the Wolf had chosen to come at all. Maybe he’d done it as a favour to Thanates, whom he seemed to have decided was all right.
Or maybe he just wants to make sure I don’t overdo it and keel over from another heart attack.
On the benches opposite them, Isaac met Kayne’s gaze and gave him a small nod. It’d been a surprise to see the Fade among the guests. It was tempting to think they were not so different from mankind.
Except when you remember that they’re ageless and seven feet tall and smarter than any living man. And they got weapons that can break worlds.
One of the Consult rose to present the mages with their rings, which they exchanged. Then two great silver goblets were filled and the same woman presented them to the White Lady and Thanates. The former drank deep, but the latter fumbled his chalice as it was placed into his hands and spilled the contents over the marble floor. Wine ran down the steps from the dais and the blind wizard looked embarrassed by his clumsiness – but the smile the Magelord of Thelassa gave her new husband was the same kind that Kayne remembered Mhaira giving him countless times, and all was well in the world.
‘Fucking waste that is,’ Jerek rasped, shattering the moment as only the Wolf could.
‘There’ll be plenty of time for drinking afterwards,’ answered Kayne. ‘Plenty of time for feasting too, I’m guessing.’ He pointed to the tables in the great dining hall beyond the throne room. They were piled high with all manner of Lowland delicacies: roasted pigeon and jellied fruits and more varieties of cheese than he had known existed.
Jerek looked as though he were about to spit, but in a landmark moment of self-control closed his mouth and made do with a scowl. ‘Ain’t much for all that fancy shit. Give me warm stew and a heel of bread any day.’
The wedding official returned to take her seat near to Kayne, who noticed that she seemed a little vacant. Chances were she was as tired of the drawn-out wedding as everyone else. Thankfully, the ceremony was swiftly brought to a close and they were led out of the throne room and into the dining hall. Kayne picked at a few platters of meat, but he had no stomach for drink and in any case he had been given strict orders to avoid everything except water. Magnar drank enough wine for the pair of them, downing cup after cup with the determination of a man eager to find oblivion sooner rather than later.
Kayne was frowning at an apple-filled tart when one of the Westermen barged into him. It could have been accidental, except several of his comrades were watching the scene with big grins on their faces. Kayne managed to steady himself on the table, though his tart ended up smeared all over his hand. The warrior who’d shoved him was red of face, clearly half drunk already. ‘Sorry, old fellow,’ he said, a cruel grin revealing yellow teeth. ‘Looks like I slipped—’
Jerek grabbed his shoulders and spun him around. The Wolf’s head shot forward, flattening the warrior’s nose and dropping him like a stone.
‘Ain’t that a coincidence,’ the Wolf rasped. ‘Looks like my head slipped as well.’ He glowered down at the man, whose comrades reached for their weapons. Carn intervened, ordering them to stand down in a deep growl that bore no argument. The chieftain of the West Reaching turned to Kayne.
‘Your friend knows how to hold a grudge,’ he said ruefully, meeting the Wolf’s gaze. ‘In that I believe we are alike.’
Kayne cleared his throat and wiped warm apple tart from his shaking hands. ‘I was hoping we might’ve put all that behind us.’
‘I made an oath,’ Carn growled. ‘I do not break my promises.’
Jerek’s eyes narrowed. He turned away from the groaning warrior at his feet. ‘I’m going for a walk,’ he declared, storming out.
Kayne watched him go, confused by the Wolf’s sudden exit. Probably for the best, he decided. The last thing he wanted was to be the cause of a fight breaking out at the wedding of the two most influential mages in the north.
Brandwyn and his small entourage watched the scene in silence. At least the Greenmen had the sense not to drink. Kayne gave the chieftain of the Green Reaching a friendly nod and Brandwyn returned the gesture. Isaac seemed unimpressed by the bounty on offer. ‘Not hungry?’ the old warrior asked.
‘I cannot help but recall the homeless and the starving in Dorminia,’ Isaac explained. ‘It seems perverse to partake of this bounty when thousands go hungry.’
‘Ah.’ Kayne stared at the tart he was just raising to his mouth and placed it carefully back down on the table.
Isaac began to say something else, but a loud explosion suddenly shook the room, cutting him off. ‘The hell’s that?’ Kayne muttered.
Isaac’s obsidian eyes narrowed. ‘It came from the avenue,’ he said.
They hurried out of the dining chamber and into the throne room. Screams were coming from outside the palace. Moments later the harsh percussive ra-ta-ta-ta of a Fade weapon reverberated up the avenue. It seemed to go on forever, an endless snarl that cut off the screams until only silence remained.
Kayne joined the surge of men and women emptying the throne room and hurrying down the hallway to the palace gates. Magnar lurched along behind, the effects of too much wine obvious in his wavering steps. ‘Stick close to me,’ Kayne whispered.
They exited the palace and stopped dead, staring in shock at the carnage on the avenue before them. The celebrants were fleeing the palace, a vast tide of city folk scattering in all directions. Dozens of bodies were twitching on the ground amidst spreading pools of blood. The Whitecloaks had been ruthlessly slaughtered, mown down by the terrifying white-haired Fade and the blue-cloaked female making their determined way down the avenue towards the palace.
‘Saverian,’ whispered Isaac beside Kayne. ‘Melissan.’ The dread in the Adjudicator’s voice as he spoke their names made the old Highlander’s blood turn cold. Saverian’s shoulder-cannon was raised before him, smoke pouring from the barrel. Melissan held a hand-cannon in each of her hands.
‘General, what is the meaning of this?’ Isaac demanded. ‘This... this is murder.’
‘Stand down, Adjudicator,’ barked Saverian, continuing his advance. ‘This is not your concern.’
Despite the immense power in that ancient voice, Isaac took a step towards his commander. ‘Prince Obrahim promised no harm would come to these people,’ he said.
Saverian’s mouth twisted in anger. ‘In this, my brother’s judgement is flawed. I am the shield that defends our people from harm. I am the sword that has vanquished every threat for five thousand years.’
Like moonlight and shadow, the White Lady and Thanates emerged together from the palace beside Kayne. Carn Bloodfist suddenly loomed behind him and he could hear the other Highlanders readying their weapons, steel sliding from sheaths. Kayne reached over his shoulder, unsheathed his own greatsword.
‘Look at them,’ Saverian continued, contempt flowing from him like poison. ‘God-killers. Genocidal old men. A crippled wizard who ought to have died long ago. I do not see the child of murder or the mutant girl among this sorry gathering – but know that they too shall face judgement. They are all monsters.’ Saverian tossed aside his shoulder-cannon and reached down to draw his crystal sword. ‘For five thousand years I have protected our people,’ he proclaimed. His voice was as sharp as the blade in his hand. ‘I do not parley with monsters. I slay them.’
‘Sir,’ Isaac tried again. ‘Prince Obrahim gave his word. Our word.’
‘This is not a course I choose lightly, Adjudicator,’ grated the white-haired commander. ‘Before even my prince’s wishes, my responsibility is to keep my people safe. I will not suffer a potential threat to live. To grow stronger. To one day bring us harm. Get out of my way.’
‘I will not.’ Suddenly, Isaac had his own crystal sword in his hand. He looked beyond Saverian to Melissan, who trailed a few feet behind the general. ‘Sister,’ he pleaded. ‘You cannot do this.’
Melissan hesitated for a second. Then her eyes narrowed. Her voice was heavy with spite. ‘Humanity is poison – and those you seek to defend are the most virulent poison of all. Do as Saverian commands, brother. Stand aside.’
‘No.’
‘Then you leave me no choice,’ said Saverian. ‘It seems I must add betrayer-of-kin to this grim company of which you are so enraptured. Defend yourself.’ The general raised his sword.
Everything seemed to happen at once. The two Fade came together in a deadly dance, crystal swords blazing red in the light of the sun. The White Lady began to utter words of power – but as she raised her hands, the silver light wreathing her fingers flickered and died. Kayne turned to his countrymen, began to yell at them to move forward and protect the two wizards.
Just then the White Lady jerked. The bloody end of a sword emerged through her stomach. Holding the other end of the weapon was none other than Brandwyn the Younger.
The Magelord stumbled back, staring at the hilt protruding from her waist in confusion. She raised her hands, but once again her magic flickered and died. ‘Powdered abyssium,’ said Brandwyn calmly. He took a step to the side and a dozen members of the Consult came forward. Each held a knife that must have been concealed in their robes. Among them was the woman who had handed the White Lady and Thanates the goblets back in the throne room. ‘We slipped it into your wine,’ Brandwyn explained. ‘A gift from General Saverian. As were these thralls.’
As one the Consult assassins closed on the Magelord of Thelassa, knives raised. Without warning, the warriors loyal to Brandwyn began to cut down their opposite numbers from the West Reaching, many of whom were too drunk to offer much resistance.
‘You treacherous fuck!’ Carn growled. Oathkeeper was in his massive hands. ‘Why?’ he asked, the shrieks from the weapon echoing his rage. He tried to reach his opposite number from the Green Reaching, but several Greenmen blocked his path.
Brandwyn fell back, slipping behind a huge warrior with a double-headed axe. ‘Peace,’ he hissed. ‘This land needs peace, not war. Men like you, men like the Sword of the North – you bring nothing but death. Magelords, wizards – they bring nothing but disaster. This is a new age, and you and your ilk have no place in it.’
Half the Consult assassins were suddenly wreathed in black fire, their clothes burning away, the flesh beneath melting like hot wax. Thanates faced them, utter fury twisting his features. He staggered as an arrow appeared, quivering, in his back. There was an archer among Brandwyn’s men. He was already reaching for another arrow.
Kayne saw a warrior dashing towards him. He turned aside the man’s thrust, reversing his parry and hamstringing his would-be killer in a single motion. He was about to finish him off when Magnar cried out.
His son was on the floor, a sword sticking out of his back. As if in a dream, or a nightmare, Kayne watched helplessly as Brandwyn’s man tugged his sword free with a wet sound, crimson droplets raining down.
The bottom seemed to fall out of the world. Kayne stumbled towards Magnar, cut down the warrior standing over him without a second thought. He bent down and gathered his son in his arms.
Magnar coughed, blood flecking his lips. All around them the fighting raged but Kayne cared not for any of it. He held Magnar close, tears blurring his eyes, every ragged gasp from his son’s chest breaking his heart that little bit further.
Finally he looked up. Saw the White Lady on her knees, her wedding dress in bloody tatters. She’d been stabbed a dozen times and still the assault continued, knives plunging into her again and again, splashes of her blood painting the white marble, the white robes of the thralls dressed as her servants, whom Saverian had somehow planted among the Consult.
Thanates stumbled towards his new wife, three arrows sticking out of him. Black fire burst from his hands, incinerating the remaining assassins.
He was too late. The Magelord of Thelassa blinked once, her purple eyes uncomprehending. Then she sank to the ground, her head striking the marble softly, ruined wedding dress settling around her like a shroud. As graceful dying as she had been in life.
The wizard-king of Dalashra knelt over her body as it began to crack. Golden light spilled from the last Magelord of the Trine, just as it had from Salazar and the Shaman. Returning to the heavens from where it had been stolen five centuries ago.
Like a bell tolling their doom, Isaac cried out. Kayne saw Saverian’s crystal blade burst through the Adjudicator’s body. The general thrust his dying officer aside and stalked towards the blind wizard kneeling over the White Lady.
Despite the arrows sticking out of him, somehow Thanates rose. A wordless roar escaped his lips and he hurled a raging stream of black fire at the implacable general. It would have burned any mortal man to a crisp in an instant, yet General Saverian did not slow. His sneer turned into a grimace as the magical assault singed his ebony cloak and caused smoke to rise from his white hair. But it could not touch his flesh. He was beyond magic, it seemed.
The stream of fire died. Saverian calmly knelt and retrieved his shoulder-cannon, aiming it at the eyeless mage. As if sensing what was about to happen, Thanates began to shift shape, changing into his crow form, rising into the sky on midnight wings.
He was a fraction too slow. The ra-ta-ta-ta-ta of Saverian’s terrible weapon split the air and feathers exploded from the shapeshifted mage, who plummeted back to the earth and began shifting back into his human form.
Beside the body of his wife, the bloody and torn figure of Thanates twitched. Tried to raise his eyeless face.
Saverian’s booted foot slammed down on his neck, choking the life from him. With a final spasm, the wizard-king of Dalashra died.
Kayne knelt, Magnar’s head in his lap, staring numbly at the carnage. Burned and butchered corpses littered the ground. Carn’s men were all dead, only the mighty chieftain himself left standing. He was hopelessly surrounded by eight of Brandwyn’s warriors, though two were dead at his feet. Magnar’s breathing was growing weaker by the second.
Brandwyn met Kayne’s eyes. There was something like shame there.
Then Saverian’s voice rang out.
‘Let this chieftain face me,’ the general ordered, gesturing at Carn. The warriors surrounding Carn fell back and the huge chieftain slowly turned, massive chest rising and falling. He frowned at the white-haired immortal.
Saverian sneered and raised his crystal blade. ‘Show me,’ he growled. ‘Show me the best of what humanity can offer.’
Carn’s dark eyes narrowed. He approached Saverian cautiously, Oathkeeper held in a defensive posture. The Fade general’s own stance was casual, almost lazy in comparison. Suddenly Carn moved, as swift as a snake, aiming a powerful thrust at Saverian’s chest.
Saverian’s counter was too fast to follow. His sword flashed once, twice. Carn stumbled back, blood blossoming on his stomach. On his arm. He tried again, attacking with all his ferocity, all his prodigious strength, but skilled though he was, the chieftain of the West Reaching was completely outmatched. Soon he was covered in wounds, red ribbons dissecting his leather armour, carving open his flesh. Oathkeeper dropped from his nerveless fingers, clattering to the bloody marble. He collapsed to one knee, gasping wetly.
Saverian towered over Carn. ‘Your best,’ he said contemptuously, ‘is predictably worthless.’ The general’s crystal sword flashed and Carn’s head fell away from his shoulders, his corpse hitting the avenue with a loud thud. Then the general bent down and retrieved Oathkeeper, staring at the runes carved into the blade with something like amusement. ‘A child’s toy,’ he announced.
With a mighty grunt, he broke the sword over his knee.
‘I’m finished here,’ the general announced, tossing away the shattered blade. He gestured to Brandwyn, and then pointed at Kayne. ‘Finish off your countryman. I will waste no more time on empty legends. As agreed, you will be named chieftain of your people, provided you remember your place.’
Kayne was only dimly aware of the warriors spreading out to surround him. All he could focus on was his son dying in his arms.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered brokenly. ‘I made you come here.’
He saw the Seer in his mind’s eye then, heard her voice echoing in his skull. You sent the Broken King to his death.
He reached down into the bag at his belt. Felt the lock of Mhaira’s hair and wrapped his fingers around it. Pulled Magnar close.
He hardly saw the steel blade flashing towards him. Was only vaguely aware of the axe appearing at the last instant to knock it aside.
‘Get up, Kayne. Get the fuck up. We ain’t dying here. Not without taking as many of them with us as we can.’
The rasping voice seized him as firmly as a strong hand on his shoulder, offering him comfort in his greatest hour of need.
Jerek was beside him, axes in his hands. Kayne met the Wolf’s eyes. The two men exchanged a look they’d exchanged a hundred times before.
Brodar Kayne laid Magnar gently down and got to his feet. Lifted his greatsword. ‘One last time,’ he whispered.
‘One last time,’ rasped Jerek. The Wolf spat, raised his axes.
Then Brandwyn’s warriors were upon them.
They were outnumbered four to one, Kayne only weeks recovered from what could’ve been his deathbed. His arms shook with every swing, his eyes blurry from grief. He was old, weary and broken-down. A man who had lost everything.
And so he shed the man and became the weapon. Became the Sword of the North once more.
He knocked away thrusts from spear and sword, hacked out at unprotected limbs. Steel whispered past his ear, missed him by a fraction. A few glancing blows landed but he shrugged off the pain, ignored the fresh blood running down his arms and thighs. His own greatsword answered the nicks tenfold, cleaving off limbs, shattering arms and legs. He ran one warrior through, the big bastard with the double-headed axe. Another dashed in, seeking to take advantage of Kayne’s temporary distraction, spear point aimed at his chest. Kayne heaved, tearing his own greatsword free in a burst of gore. Suddenly Jerek was there, one axe batting the spear away, the other cleaving through the man’s skull.
The two friends fought back to back as they had countless times before. Relentless fury and lethal precision. Fire and ice. Twin axes and greatsword. The fifth warrior went down with a scream, Kayne’s sword opening his chest. He glanced up to see Brandwyn watching the fighting, concern etched on his face, the treacherous chieftain too much of a coward to find a weapon and involve himself in the dark deeds he’d helped plan. Beside him, the archer who’d stuck three arrows in Thanates was lining up his bow for another shot.
‘Archer,’ Kayne hissed to Jerek. The Wolf spotted him at the last second. His biceps bulged as he lined up an axe and sent it spinning steel over shaft. The archer’s head burst open like a melon, brains spraying all over the shocked face of Brandwyn next to him.
‘Draw your sword, betrothed,’ General Saverian ordered Melissan, who until then had been watching events unfold beside the commander. ‘Bring them to heel. Prove that I chose wisely.’
As Jerek bent to retrieve another axe from the one of the fallen warriors, Kayne saw Melissan advancing up the avenue. She’d holstered her hand-cannons and had her crystal sword raised, hatred twisting her angular features.
Kayne blinked sweat and blood from his eyes and exchanged a grim nod with the Wolf. He and Jerek fought with renewed fury, knowing they had to improve the odds to stand any kind of chance. Another two of Brandwyn’s men fell just as the towering, white-skinned Fade officer stepped over the bodies now piled up around them.
Both Highlanders were covered in blood, Kayne so exhausted he could hardly stand. Age caught up with everyone sooner or later – everyone, that is, except the Fade. On the face of it, the odds were better than before – but there were odds, and then there were damn lies.
This Fade was no Highland warrior. She was a superhuman immortal, better trained and more experienced than any living man. Doubt began to eat away at Kayne’s resolve, but just then he saw Magnar shift on the ground. A tiny movement, but one that stoked the fire within. His son was alive.
Like water into a burst dam, purpose rushed in to fill his empty muscles and wounded heart. The promise he’d made to Mhaira flared, hotter than the sun in the sky above.
He blocked the first thrust of the crystal sword. Ducked away from another. Melissan was fast, faster than anyone or anything he had ever fought in his fifty-odd years. Kayne grimaced as her sword cut a deep gash in his thigh. He threw his head forward and felt bone break, and Melissan stumbled away clutching her nose. He too fell back, bleeding heavily from the wound in his leg. One of the two remaining Greenmen Jerek was currently fighting collapsed to the ground, blood pumping from the gaping hole in his neck. Kayne noticed then that none of the blood covering Jerek appeared to belong to the Wolf himself.
Melissan was suddenly in Kayne’s face again, mouth locked in a snarl, blue cloak whipping around her as she shifted this way and that, thrusting and slashing with incredible speed. He winced as her sword scored a deep cut in his arm. Even at his best he might not have been her match, and his best was twenty years and about a half-dozen wounds ago. He lost a finger on his left hand as he launched an awkward parry, watched it fly away. The greatsword loosened in his maimed grip.
He did the only thing he could do. He let go of the weapon. Took a quick step forward and punched Melissan hard in the face, a right hook. She was taken by surprise and dropped instantly, hitting her head on the marble floor and lying still.
Agony blossomed as something sharp entered his back and he gasped. He twisted to see Brandwyn preparing to stab him again, the chieftain’s shortsword crimson with Kayne’s blood. There was no time to retrieve his own greatsword. Instead Kayne reached down, plucked Magnar’s knife from his belt and slammed it into Brandwyn’s shoulder, giving it a cruel twist. The chieftain of the Green Reaching dropped his weapon and fell back screaming.
A loud bang shattered the silence that followed. General Saverian held a smoking hand-cannon pointing at Kayne.
‘Enough,’ the Fade commander barked. In a daze, Kayne prodded at the hole in his back. Poked at the gaping wound Brandwyn’s back-stab had left. He felt the warm blood leaking between his fingers. The blood might be warm but he was cold now. Cold and getting colder.
Jerek positioned his body in front of Kayne’s. The Wolf stared at General Saverian with a fury like nothing Kayne had ever seen. Not even when he’d learned the truth about his family’s murder in the ruins of Mal-Torrad. ‘Face me like a man,’ he rasped, terrible rage in his voice. Terrible rage, and terrible grief.
General Saverian watched the Wolf stalk towards him. Their gazes locked. Instead of reaching for his sword as he had with Carn Bloodfist, the Fade general hesitated and then levelled his hand-cannon. ‘I am no man,’ he replied coldly. ‘I am a fehd.’
Bang, went his terrible weapon.
Jerek stumbled. Stumbled, but kept on walking.
The hand-cannon fired again. This time the Wolf went down to one knee, crouching beside the headless corpse of Carn, the patter of his blood drumming on the marble avenue.
‘I am no man,’ said Saverian again. ‘I am a legend.’
Jerek’s eyes closed. The Wolf began to waver, his axes trembling in his hands. Despite his own agony, Kayne swallowed, tears rolling down his face as he watched the most loyal friend a man could ever wish for about to die trying to defend him. The Wolf swayed once more.
And then his eyes snapped open. Somehow, impossibly, Jerek rose again.
‘Die!’ Saverian snarled. His hand-cannon fired twice more, the booms reverberating down the avenue.
The Wolf jerked, blood flowing freely from the holes in his chest. He spat crimson drool. Rocked back and forth on unsteady legs. And still he took another step towards Saverian.
The hand-cannon roared again and finally Jerek fell, his axes slipping out of his hands to clatter to the street. The Wolf crawled on his hands and knees towards the edge of the avenue, every inch of his tortured movements a supreme effort of will. He left a trail of blood behind him.
‘Yes,’ Saverian sneered. ‘Crawl away and die. Like the dog you are.’ He tried to unload his hand-cannon again, but it just made an empty clicking sound. The general tossed it away and drew his sword. He walked straight past Jerek, who managed to twist his head to meet Kayne’s gaze one final time, his dark eyes seeming to offer an apology.
Saverian loomed above Kayne, a white-hired angel of death standing bright against a world beginning to grow dark. ‘The traitor, Isaac, once referred to you as a legend among your people,’ said the Fade commander. ‘But there is only one true legend. Retrieve your sword, if you can.’
With agonizing slowness, the Sword of the North tottered over to where his greatsword rested, almost falling with every step. He stumbled past the bodies of Highland warriors piled high, their weapons scattered around them; the unconscious figure of Melissan; Brandwyn, sobbing like a child as he stared at the knife buried in his shoulder.
Brodar Kayne bent down, sucking in air, clinging to consciousness by his fingertips. He lifted his greatsword from the ground. Turned to Saverian and raised the weapon. One final act of defiance.
‘Why keep fighting?’ the Fade commander asked. He seemed genuinely confused. ‘You are beaten. Broken.’
Kayne tried to speak, blood spilling over his chin. ‘No man’s ever broken till he can’t get back up,’ he whispered.
General Saverian frowned. Then he moved, a silver blur, his crystal sword catching the sun as it dove towards Kayne, faster than the eye could follow.
What happened next was a haze in Kayne’s fading mind. Saverian reached up with his free hand to touch the shallow wound on his cheek, disbelief on his face. ‘Two thousand years,’ he uttered. ‘No one has laid a mark upon me for two thousand years.’
Saverian’s other hand still clutched the hilt of the sword buried in Kayne’s chest.
The Sword of the North sank to his knees and collapsed beside Magnar. The last thing he saw was his son’s eyes. Mhaira’s eyes. Grey like steel. Silver like the ring on his finger.
He raised his wedding band to his lips. Then he died.
*
Davarus Cole was sitting on the steps of a tavern a mile west of the palace when he heard the screams. He looked up from where he’d been holding his head in his hands, and stared in confusion at the panicked faces of the city folk as they scattered like ants. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked a passing woman.
‘Death!’ she screamed back at him. ‘Death has arrived.’
Cole leaped to his feet. He placed a hand on the jewelled hilt of Magebane and hurried through the crowds, back in the direction of the palace. A dozen thoughts danced through his skull, each more terrible than the last.
Has the Herald somehow returned? Or... is it the dragon? Please don’t tell me it’s the dragon.
‘Cole!’ He glimpsed Sasha rushing towards him, his anger forgotten when he saw the fear on her face.
‘What’s happening?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. I came looking for you, and then I heard something that sounded like Fade weapons. I thought I glimpsed Saverian.’
‘The Fade general? What the hell is he doing here?’
Sasha shrugged helplessly. Together the two friends shouldered their way through the crowd until they reached the avenue leading to the palace. There they stopped in disbelief.
Ahead of them lay utter carnage. Dead Whitecloaks were sprawled all the way up the avenue, their bodies punctured by hundreds of tiny holes. But it was the bloodbath just before the steps of the palace that caused Cole to break into a sprint, hurdling the corpses in his desperation to reach his fallen friends.
Thanates lay in a pool of blood, arrows and tiny holes shredding the new coat the wizard had donned for his wedding. Beside Thanates rested the body of the White Lady of Thelassa. Deep cracks covered her withered skin, her youth and beauty fled the moment her stolen immortality had departed her body. The headless corpse of Carn Bloodfist sprawled nearby, the great chieftain’s magical sword broken in half. Smeared across the avenue in a ragged line was a trail of blood. It disappeared just before one of the great cracks in the streets that was still awaiting repair.
‘Those are Jerek’s axes,’ said Sasha, pointing to the weapons resting on the ground near the bloody trail.
A moment later they spotted Brodar Kayne.
The old Highlander lay surrounded by fallen warriors. Cole ran to him, bent down and examined his wounds, hoping beyond hope that there might be a glimmer of life left somewhere within the old warrior. But there was none.
Brodar Kayne, the seemingly indomitable barbarian who had survived demons, giants and Magelords, was dead.
The wound that had killed him had gone straight through his chest. His blue eyes stared sightlessly ahead. The expression on his face seemed strangely peaceful.
‘Who did this?’ Sasha whispered.
Cole stared around him at the bloodbath. The bodies that surrounded Kayne were Highlanders killed by him and Jerek – in a monumental battle, judging by the wounds they bore. But no human blade could have severed Carn’s head so cleanly, nor shattered Oathkeeper like a wooden toy. No human could have slain both the White Lady and Thanates, the greatest wizards in the land. No human could have mown down scores of Whitecloaks.
‘The Fade,’ Cole growled. ‘They betrayed us. After all we went through. After all their promises.’
‘Look,’ exclaimed Sasha, her voice heavy with grief. ‘It’s Magnar. Kayne’s son. They killed him too...’ She fell to her knees, cradling the head of a young man in her lap. He was around their own age, Cole saw. Eyes the colour of iron. Just like his own.
He felt something then. A flicker of life.
‘Wait,’ Cole said urgently. He squatted down beside Sasha and placed his hands on Magnar’s chest. ‘His heart’s stopped,’ he said. ‘But he’s not yet gone. Not completely.’
As he had with Derkin’s mother, and Sasha back in the Fade ruins, Cole summoned the essence of the Reaver. Instead of absorbing life, he surrendered it, sacrificing his own vitality, channelling it into the body of Magnar Kayne. He was already weak – the Reaver hadn’t been fed in many weeks, and he had little enough strength of his own.
‘Stop!’ Sasha exclaimed, panic in her voice. ‘You’re killing yourself.’
‘I’m not going to let them win,’ he rasped.
Just as he was about to pass out, he felt it. A small tremble from Magnar, like the first green shoots poking through the soil after a flood had passed. A tiny heartbeat, weak and fragile, but growing stronger.
Cole gasped and began to topple, utterly overwhelmed by exhaustion, weaker than a newborn kitten. Sasha caught him at the last moment. He remained in her arms for several minutes, summoning his strength. ‘Help us to the undercity,’ he gasped.
‘The undercity?’ Sasha repeated. ‘You think we’ll be safe with Derkin?’
‘Not us,’ Cole replied. ‘Him.’ He nodded at Magnar, who was now breathing steadily.
There was a roar from above and a monstrous shadow engulfed the scene of carnage before the palace gates. Cole glanced up, his heart sinking at the sight.
The Seeker lowered itself to the ground, its metallic body gleaming a brilliant crimson in the sunshine.
‘Prince Obrahim is here,’ whispered Sasha.
At that precise moment, General Saverian stepped out of the palace, the blue-cloaked Adjudicator Melissan beside him.
*
‘Brother. What is the meaning of this?’
Obrahim and Saverian faced each other on opposite sides of the palace approach. The prince took in the devastation with an expression that hinted at great sorrow.
‘Treachery,’ Saverian said, gesturing at Cole and Sasha. ‘The humans betrayed us.’
Even hot with fury at the massacre before them, Cole quailed slightly before the formidable commander. He quickly recovered himself. ‘Treachery?’ he spat back. ‘You killed dozens of innocents! You murdered the White Lady and Thanates during their own damned wedding! You killed Brodar Kayne – as good a man as any I’ve ever met.’
‘You speak of retribution!’ thundered Saverian. ‘My betrothed and I thought to visit your city before we travelled to New Malaga – a conciliatory act in recognition of our new alliance. When we arrived, we found the city’s rulers had murdered Adjudicator Isaac. Just as the ruler of Shadowport, Marius, murdered Feryan and Aduana.’
Saverian beckoned to Melissan. The Adjudicator entered the palace and returned a moment later pulling a pallet. Lying atop it, hands folded over his chest, the shroud covering him stained with blood, was Isaac. ‘Witness,’ said the general. ‘Cut down by the one named Brodar Kayne.’
Cole hesitated. He looked from Prince Obrahim to Saverian. The prince’s mouth was a thin line. The diamond at the end of his sceptre flickered for the briefest of instants.
Could the White Lady have turned on Isaac? In Cole’s experience the Magelord of Thelassa could be as cruel as winter when the mood took her. The eyeless face of the man she had so briefly been wed to, his body sprawled beside her own, was proof enough of that.
Next to Cole, Sasha stirred. ‘Kayne wouldn’t have harmed Isaac,’ she said. ‘He liked him.’
Saverian sneered. He turned and pointed to Melissan’s face. Her nose appeared to be broken and she had a huge lump on her head, marring her otherwise perfect features. ‘Observe what this “Brodar Kayne” did to my betrothed,’ the general growled.
He raised a hand and pointed to a thin, bloody line on his own cheek. ‘He cut me and I was forced to slay him for his audacity. He and his wretched sidekick, the one who called himself the Wolf. I will give them some credit. For mortals, they were remarkably hard to kill.’
‘The Wolf?’ Sasha said quietly. ‘Jerek never broke his promises. Not when it came to the important stuff. For all his faults, he was true to his word.’
Saverian’s laugh was as rough as grating steel, and just as humourless. ‘Your kind do not know what it is to be true. You are creatures of instinct – a fickle, impetuous race of children concealing your true natures in falsehoods and pretentions. Perhaps it is time the two of you learned the hard edge of the truth.’ The Fade general drew his crystal sword and took a single step forward.
Cole drew Magebane, his sudden terror warring with the Reaver’s endless urging to kill and neither wholly winning out. He and Sasha were over-matched by this Fade commander. If they were forced to fight, there was no way they would leave this place alive.
Fortunately, a fight never came to pass. Prince Obrahim raised his sceptre. Golden-haired brother turned to white-haired brother and uttered a single word – and there was such great sorrow in Obrahim’s voice that Cole himself was moved to tears.
‘Why?’
General Saverian frowned. ‘Why what, my brother?’
‘Not “my brother”,’ Prince Obrahim said hollowly. ‘Never again “my brother”.’
‘I do not understand.’
‘You broke your word. You broke our word.’ Obrahim closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, the dismay in his voice brought tears to Cole’s eyes. ‘Tell me true, Saverian. Did you murder Isaac?’
The silence that followed was deafening. The general looked from Prince Obrahim to the dead Adjudicator. His mouth twisted. ‘You do not believe me,’ he said eventually.
Prince Obrahim raised his sceptre. ‘The final great invention of the Time Before allows me to read the truth of all things.’
‘You never told me this,’ Saverian said. He seemed uncertain now, disquieted by his brother’s reaction. Perhaps Obrahim was the only being in the world that could so unsettle the legendary general.
‘I never had cause. You were my brother. You did not lie to me, nor I to you. But you have forgotten the principles the Pilgrims established when they arrived in these lands.’ The Fade prince’s eyes filled with sadness deeper than the oceans. ‘I loved you, Saverian. For five thousand years you kept our people safe. But for this crime – for the murder of kin – there can be no forgiveness.’
‘I did what I had to!’ Saverian hissed. His grip tightened on his sword. ‘These humans could not be trusted! One day they would have turned on us. I am the shield that defends our people from harm. I am—’
His words became a grunt as the crystal on Obrahim’s sceptre flashed. Suddenly he began to drift up into the air, a legend – perhaps the greatest legend of them all – made helpless in the blink of an eye.
Cole was struck by the enormity of the events playing out before him: the final exclamation point to a year of titanic upheaval. Thousands of years of trust, the soul of a people, had just been irrevocably shattered.
‘I should end your existence,’ Obrahim announced, tears rolling down his cheeks now. ‘But I cannot. For I, too, fall short of what our ancestors expected of us.’
The diamond at the top of Obrahim’s sceptre flashed again and Saverian fell, somehow landing in a crouch. He rose and faced the prince. ‘Listen to me, brother! Humanity is beyond redemption. Let me prove it. I will show you—’
‘No. It does not matter, Saverian. From this moment on, you are no longer of the People. You are never to return to Terra. You are banished.’
‘Prince Obrahim,’ Saverian pleaded, making one final appeal. ‘You cannot do this—’
‘It is done,’ the Fade prince announced. ‘The First and Second Fleets will accompany me back to Terra. Those who wish to remain will join you in exile. You may keep the Breaker of Worlds to ensure your protection and the protection of those who choose to stay behind. Do not ask me for anything else. Never again.’ The Fade prince turned to Cole and Sasha. ‘I remember now why we departed this continent two thousand years ago. We cannot live among humanity. Perhaps you are poison. Or perhaps you merely hold a mirror to our kind that we are wiser to avoid.’
Cole put an arm around Sasha. She was weeping. ‘What of us?’ he asked. ‘What will become of us?’
Prince Obrahim turned away. ‘Whatever you make of yourselves in your short lives. Perhaps in a thousand years I will once again take an interest in the fate of this continent. Until that time, mankind is on its own.’