She paused for a moment before entering the throne room and adjusted her shawl one final time. With a nod to the guards on either side of her, she swept through the great double doors.
Magnar, King of the High Fangs, watched her enter from his mighty oak throne at the head of the long trestle table dominating the room. Eight of the ten smaller thrones positioned lengthwise down the table were empty. The Butcher of Beregund, Krazka One-Eye, watched her hungrily from the throne immediately to the King’s right. On Magnar’s left, Orgrim Foehammer scowled and crossed his meaty arms over his expansive paunch.
Yllandris slowed. She hadn’t expected Magnar to have company. Not these two men, at any rate. Krazka and Orgrim were the most powerful of the chieftains who ruled the ten Reachings under the King, who in turn answered to the Shaman — when the Magelord bothered to involve himself in matters of state.
‘Yllandris,’ drawled Magnar in his cultured voice. ‘What brings you here?’
‘A woman?’ interrupted Orgrim, distaste plain in his voice. He slammed a fist down on the table. ‘We’re here to discuss war!’
Krazka licked his lips. Yllandris wasn’t sure which made her more uncomfortable: the leering eye on the right of that cruel face or the dead, colourless orb staring blindly on the left. ‘This the one you spoke about, Magnar? Your pet sorceress, aye? No wonder you like to keep her close.’
The King beckoned her to approach. He was young compared with the chieftains beside him, only a few years past his twentieth winter. Muscular and exceptionally tall, he regarded her with eyes the colour of steel. It was said Magnar’s prowess with a sword matched that of any of the Six, his elite bodyguard. He had proved a shrewd ruler during his short reign.
A formidable man. One who deserves a woman to match. She gave him a small curtsy. ‘My king, a pack of the Brethren returned just moments past. They were attacked by a demon of a kind I have never before seen. Two of the pack were killed: Thorne, and a white cougar whose name I do not know.’
‘This is troubling news,’ said the King. He was an educated man; perhaps too educated for the tastes of certain of his chieftains. His personal prowess and the ruthlessness he had displayed during his rule had ensured their muttering went unvoiced in public, but Yllandris knew some of them bore Magnar a grudge, and not only because of his learned manner.
‘Describe this demon to me,’ the King commanded.
‘It was hugely tall and as black as the night. It flew with wings near as wide as this chamber. Its talons were the size of longswords, capable of rending a man apart with a single swipe. I saw all this from Thorne, before he passed away.’
‘The Devil’s Spine continues to fuck us up the ass,’ Orgrim growled. ‘That accursed place spews up more demons by the day. How many of the Brethren have we lost this year alone? At this rate the High Fangs will be overrun.’
Krazka finally tore his gaze away from her breasts. He rubbed at his weeping dead eye with the back of his hand, where it left a trail of sticky slime. ‘It ain’t just the demons crawling out of the Devil’s Spine that’s the problem. They’re chasing out the giants and the wargs and fuck knows what else. This latest attack is just the tip of the iceberg.’
The King frowned and leaned forwards. ‘This has come at a bad time. We plan to move on Frosthold in the next few days. I had intended to send the Brethren with our main force. With the Shaman’s approval, of course.’
Yllandris was confused. Frosthold? That was the principal town of the North Reaching under the rule of Mehmon, one of the oldest and most respected chieftains of the High Fangs. Why would they move against Frosthold?
The King noted her puzzled expression. ‘Mehmon has declared independence,’ he said. ‘He no longer wishes to honour the Treaty, claiming his own people are starving. If his mutiny is allowed to go unpunished, other Reachings will follow his lead. Mehmon must be brought to justice and Frosthold put to the sword as an example to the rest. Orgrim and Krazka will return to their Reachings shortly and ready their men.’
Yllandris noticed the eager look on Krazka’s face. The Butcher of Beregund had earned his reputation three years ago, when he had led the ruthless massacre of the town of the same name. The Green Reaching had rebelled and the town of Beregund had been slaughtered to a man. No doubt he was looking forward to a repeat of the bloody work that had made him infamous across the High Fangs.
‘This demon will wreak chaos if it is left unchecked,’ she said. ‘It is capable of destroying entire villages.’
Magnar nodded. ‘Then I will split the Brethren. Half will accompany the war party to Frosthold, while the other half will hunt down this fiend-’
‘No,’ said a deep voice from a dark corner of the chamber.
The Shaman stepped out into the torchlight. His tanned body rippled in the orange glow, naked save for a pair of tattered brown breeches. He wasn’t tall by the standards of the men in the room, but he was incredibly wide, three hundred pounds of muscle packed onto a frame a shade under six feet. Deep veins threaded his bulging biceps and heaving chest and shoulders. His straggly black hair ran down to his waist, which seemed chiselled as if from stone. He looked like a god, or some heroic figure of legend.
He is neither. He participated in the killing of the gods and the bringing about of the Age of Ruin. She wondered how long he had been in the chamber. The Magelord could have slipped unnoticed into the throne room at any time, wearing the form of any number of creatures — even that of an insect. There was said to be no greater Shifter in the known world than the Shaman.
‘I will hunt and slay this monster,’ the Shaman growled in his low, rumbling voice. ‘Send the Brethren to Frosthold. You will need them.’
‘As you command,’ said Magnar. Yllandris felt a tickle of disappointment at his easy deference. The Shaman rarely interfered with the governing of the High Fangs, except to place a new king on the throne when the previous one had passed away. Magnar’s obedience reminded her that no matter how high she rose, there would always be a ceiling to her ambitions. The King’s will would forever come second to that of the Godkiller standing before her. No mortal outranked a Magelord where he or she claimed dominion.
The Shaman crossed his massive arms. Even Orgrim Foehammer looked small when sat so close to the hulking figure. ‘Frosthold’s circle is powerful. Send as many sorceresses as you can.’
‘There are seven in Heartstone, including Yllandris,’ the King replied. ‘That gives us fifteen in total, including the circles from the East and the Lake Reachings.’ He glanced at the chieftains to either side of him. They nodded in confirmation.
‘Adequate,’ said the Shaman. He looked up at the ceiling and raised his mighty arms in the air. ‘Search the High Fangs. Find any man who possesses the spark of magic and bring him here. I will create more of the Brethren.’ And with that he began to shimmer, his body seeming to stretch and elongate. All of a sudden his shifting form imploded, condensing so that only a tiny ball of light remained floating above the ground.
The glow faded away, to reveal a large black raven hovering in the air. The transformed Shaman croaked once and flew upwards, disappearing through a smoke vent in the wooden ceiling above.
Magnar, King of the High Fangs, looked at Yllandris and pursed his lips. ‘You had best prepare yourself for travel. Tell the rest of your circle to do the same. The North Reaching is ten days away at the very least, and the journey is a hard one. I will see you when you return.’
Yllandris cursed silently, shooting venomous glances at the amused faces of Krazka and Orgrim. ‘Yes, my king,’ she said, slightly too sweetly. His eyes narrowed. She ignored his displeasure, dipped a perfunctory curtsy and turned on her heels to stride out of the throne room.