“Get in the boat!” screamed Saark. The current was pulling at them more viciously, and ice crackled in a flurry of shots.
Kell climbed to his feet, bearded face filled with a dark, controlled fury. He watched the Harvester rip its fingers free with a splintering of torn wood, and Ilanna fell to the platform with a slap. The Harvester stood tall, flexing its undamaged fingers. Kell swallowed. The blades should have amputated; instead, there was no mark. His gaze lifted to the slit throat, but the fish-flesh had knitted together, and was whole again.
Kell knew, now. There was blood-oil magick here; he could not kill this creature. Ilanna had been right, and this sickened him.
He ran, and the Harvester leapt at him with a hiss, fingers slashing for his heart. But Kell ducked, turned his run into a slide on icy wood, under the Harvester’s flashing bone talons to grasp his axe. Arms pumping, he sprinted for the boat even as Saark’s grip finally lost its battle and the boat slid out along the still water, crackling ice, to join the flow of the raging torrent. Kell leapt, landing heavily in the boat which rocked madly for a moment. Then he stood, staring back at the Harvester as he replaced his Svian in its sheath beneath his left arm, and they were whisked away into thickening mist.
“A good effort,” said Saark, smiling kindly at Kell. “If the bastard had been human, it’d now be dead.”
“But it’s not,” growled Kell, slumping down and taking the boat’s oars. “And that makes me want to puke. Come on, let’s get out of this godsforsaken city. It gives me the shits.”
General Graal led the way to the elevated tower room, presenting the broad target of his back to Dagon Trelltongue.
Dagon, a tall but slender man with shoulder-length grey hair and small eyes, wearing the finest silk and wool fashion-clothing of the south, felt keenly the presence of the delicate sword at his waist, the jewelled knife under his arm and the poison in the vial at his hip-belt. He swallowed, dry spit in a dry mouth. He could kill Graal, a swift piercing of sword through lungs, watch the general’s blood bubble onto the rich carpets they now walked. Dagon could send the Army of Iron back north, with no leader, no hope, no fire; he could save the coming war, save his friend, lord, and King, Leanoric-and indeed, all the people of Falanor.
Dagon’s eyes narrowed. Bastards!
No. They would pay. They would suffer.
Damn them all.
They entered a large chamber, once one of Jalder’s finest council offices. Thick carpets kept chill from stone flags, the walls were plastered and painted white, and the whole room was decorated with dark wood, inlaid with gold. Fine works of art hung at intervals around the chamber; discreet. Many comfort couches were set apart, amidst desks and stone pedestals showing several of Falanor’s heroes. Dagon had been here before, on many occasions, usually on business for King Leanoric. Now, there was a more sombre, and chilling, atmosphere.
Graal reached a long, lacquered desk and turned, suddenly, a swift movement. His long white hair drifted around his face for a moment, bright blue eyes fixing on Dagon who swallowed, seeing the smile on Graal’s face, knowing that Graal had read his thoughts, had presented his broad back as a test, a free shot, a target; and Dagon also knew this man was a mighty warrior. If he’d dared to attack, to try and save his people…well, he would now be dead.
“A brandy?”
“No, I shouldn’t,” came Dagon’s rich voice. He was a born orator, but here, in this company, he felt like a child. All his richly rehearsed speeches crumbled in the air like the stench of warm cabbage.
“I appreciate the, ah, ice-smoke is not to everybody’s liking. It chills the bones. Go on, Dagon, you have made a long journey to visit, a long journey to…” he laughed softly, “save your life. A little brandy cannot hurt. It is distilled from peaches from the King Leanoric’s own orchards, I believe.”
Dagon took a glass, and his eyes reflected in Leanoric’s crest carved skilfully into the faceted crystal surface. He drank deep, and observed Graal watching his trembling fingers, his nervous tongue, and he finished the brandy, felt warmth flood him, felt alcohol tingle his brain giving him just a little courage.
“So you will tell me everything?” said Graal, sipping at his own drink. Dagon saw the man’s fingers were long, tapered, even the finger-nails white. His gaze moved up to blue eyes fixed on him. Strange, that they were blue, thought Dagon. He watched. Graal did not blink.
“Yes,” croaked Dagon, eventually, feeling weak at the knees, full in the bladder, frightened to his very core.
“Numbers of infantry, cavalry, archers, pikemen? Where the divisions are stationed? The names of their division generals? Brigadier generals? Numbers of horses, supply chains, military routes through Falanor, everything?”
“Yes.”
“And of course,” said Graal, moving to Dagon, stooping a little to peer closer into the official’s eyes, “Leanoric. They say he is a great battle king. That he cannot be beaten on the field. He has shown, endlessly, that he has a brilliant mind, a tactician without compare. He is strong, handsome, commands respect and honour from his soldiers. Is all this correct?”
“It is…my lord.”
“I am a general, not a lord,” snapped Graal, crushing his crystal glass. It shattered, long jagged shards slicing Graal’s hand, thick brandy flowing over the wounds and dripping, mixed with normal red blood into the carpet. Graal did not flinch, did not even look at the wound, but retained his connection with Dagon.
“Yes, general,” whispered Dagon.
“There is one more thing.”
“General?” Dagon’s voice was little more than a whisper.
“Alloria. Leanoric’s queen. The mother of his two boys. She is his backbone, is she not? His love, his life, his strength. I want to know where she is, where she travels in the winter, who her maids of honour are, and which hand she uses to wipe her arse.”
“Alloria? But…I agreed to instruct you in armies, military strategy, and to speak of Leanoric…”
Graal’s hand snapped out, taking Dagon by the throat. Shards of crystal, embedded in Graal’s flesh, pierced Dagon’s skin and he squealed, legs kicking as Graal lifted him off the ground. “You will tell me everything. Leanoric is a worthy adversary; but if I remove his reason for life, diverge his thoughts by taking his queen then I have a powerful bartering tool, I have, shall we say, a strategy our tactician will appreciate. I cannot afford to lose time on this…” he smiled, almost sardonically, “invasion. You understand, Trelltongue?”
“Ye-es,” he managed, throat weeping blood.
Graal dropped Dagon to the carpet, turned, and languorously poured himself another brandy. His head came up as something drifted through the doorway, and Dagon’s breath caught in his throat as he watched the Harvester approach. He had seen them at work, seen them drain the corpses of women, and children. These creatures filled him with a terror straight from a deep primeval pit; a terror so awesome he could barely vocalise.
“Hestalt. There is a problem?”
The Harvester nodded, black eyes turning on Dagon and burning through the king’s advisor. Graal waved his lacerated hand, “Don’t mind him, he is of no consequence.” Graal began picking shards from his flesh, some as long as two inches. He did not wince. “What’s wrong?”
“The man. The hero. Kell.”
“He still lives?”
“More than that. He has been a…thorn, in my side. He has escaped.”
“Send a squad. They’ll catch up with one old man.”
“No, Graal. He is more dangerous than you could comprehend…and it stems from his axe. I know a bloodbond weapon when I see one. Graal, he must be dealt with immediately. You understand?”