The small dining table was set with two bowls. He took his seat as Sara placed the candle down and walked over to the iron stove. She returned with the battered old stew pot and ladled a generous portion of the warm casserole into his dish and a smaller portion into her own, and placed two wooden spoons on the table. Then she sat down opposite him.
A half-bell passed. Sara barely glanced at him. She hardly touched her food. The dull ache in his skull was returning. He sat back and searched for the words he’d been waiting to say.
‘Sara… I never meant to touch you. You know that. I’m a bloody fool. A useless, crippled fool. I’m so-’
The bowl flew past his head, missing it by scarcely an inch. Sara’s face was a cold mask, yet her hands shook.
‘You bastard,’ she said. She pushed herself to her feet. ‘How could you do this to me?’
‘I couldn’t help myself, Sara. I told you. You deserve better.’
‘You’re damn right I deserve better!’ She looked around in sudden fury, grabbed the pan off the stove and moved towards him threateningly. Tarn slid out of his chair, cursing as he jarred his knee. She swung the pan and it struck him hard, right on the side of the head.
‘Ow!’ he bellowed, blinding light exploding in his vision. He felt blood running down his cheek, dribbling over his chin. It hurt like hell. Sara raised the pan again.
He caught her arm and squeezed tight. The pan fell from her weakening grip. The anger that had been bubbling within him all day suddenly surged upwards, unstoppable, a mindless fury. He squeezed tighter and she gasped. He raised the scabbed knuckles of his other hand, clenched them tight. Her eyes met his. His fist wavered.
And then they both heard it. A crashing like a thousand waves striking a cliff. The patter of rain on the roof became a fierce drumming. The ceiling shook. Leaks began to appear, streams of water showering down and soaking the table, the floor, the furniture. Screams echoed from the street, barely audible above the roaring and splashing.
Tarn released his wife’s arm. Together they rushed outside.
The waters of Dusk Bay raged and boiled a hundred feet above the city, blanketing the skyline from horizon to horizon. A billion tons of water hung in the sky, suspended by some unimaginable power, streaming droplets that splattered onto the city below. Some men and women huddled on the street, frozen by fear; others locked themselves inside their houses. A few elders closed their eyes and prayed to gods they knew couldn’t hear them. The gods had been dead for five centuries, murdered during the Godswar, their corpses cast down from the heavens by the Magelords who now ruled over the shattered continent.
Tarn stared at the impossible spectacle above him. He felt no fear. No sorrow. His mind was numb, unable to comprehend the scale of what was happening. A dog barked wildly nearby, running back and forth in terror. A young man cried a name — Tyro? — and threw his arms around the animal to soothe it.
Tarn felt a hand in his, soft skin against his grazed knuckles. Gently, he pulled Sara close to him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, and kissed her forehead.
Sara buried her head in his chest. He stood there stroking her wet hair, blinking up at the raging maelstrom. Without warning it ceased to move, hanging still for a heartbeat. He could make out a ship, the prow and half the deck protruding from the water almost directly above his head. The Liberty.
The sky fell.
Angel of Death
EARLIER THAT DAY…
The water seemed to crush him with a giant’s grip, forcing the air from his lungs. He thrashed wildly and shook his head, willing his body to resist just a moment longer. His chest burned.
He could do this. Three minutes. That was all. A few more seconds and-
It was no good. With a mighty exhalation, Davarus Cole’s head burst from the water. He beat the sides of the iron washtub furiously with his fists, cursing the Magelord whose death was his life’s goal. The tyrant who ruled this city with an iron fist.
Salazar. We’ll have our reckoning one day.
He placed a hand on each side of the tub and pushed himself up. He stood there for a moment, blinking water from his eyes. His gaze went to the small mirror in the corner of the room. It was a rare item in Dorminia, where only the nobles could normally afford such extravagance. His mentor and foster father, Garrett, had procured it for him at some cost. As far as Cole was concerned it was a luxury he fully deserved.
After all, he thought, a hero has to look the part.
His lean, sinewy body looked back at him from the mirror, neck-length black hair and short goatee contrasted sharply with pale and glistening skin. The chill water in the tub had sapped what faint colour he possessed, and he looked almost ghostlike. An angel of death.
Cole narrowed his grey eyes and marvelled at his forbidding appearance. He imagined the look on Salazar’s wrinkled old face when Magebane slid home, the soft sigh of recognition as the tyrant’s blood spilled from his mouth and his body sagged. Remember my father, you old bastard? What you did to him? I’m Davarus Cole, and I’ve come to take what’s mine.
He frowned. What was his? Vengeance, certainly, but there had to be more than that. It wouldn’t do to tarnish his moment of triumph with doubt as to the true meaning of his grand utterance. Then again, perhaps it summed up Davarus Cole perfectly. A man of mystery. He liked the sound of that.
On an impulse Cole tensed and leaped backwards out of the tub, somersaulting in the air and landing in a crouch several feet away. He rose slowly and turned back to the mirror for one last admiring glance. His mind drifted again to the moment of his inevitable glory. Not now. Not today. But someday soon.
Lost in thought, his usually sharp ears failed to detect the approaching footsteps until they were almost at the door of his apartment. With a sudden feeling of dread, Cole realized he’d forgotten to turn the key. He froze. The door thudded open and Sasha bustled in.
They stared at each other. Sasha was a couple of years his senior, tall and slender, with dark brown hair that reached her shoulders and captivating eyes. He watched in rising panic as they made their way down his naked body.
A ghost of a smile danced on Sasha’s lips as she said, ‘Well, that’s a less than impressive sight. I thought you possessed a weapon that could absorb magic and skewer Magelords like a hog. I have trouble believing an instrument like that could slay a farm girl.’
Cole looked down at his shrunken manhood. He quickly covered it with his left hand and gestured towards the washtub with the other. ‘It’s the water,’ he mumbled. ‘It’s extremely cold.’
Sasha watched him for a moment, her oddly dilated eyes glittering with amusement. ‘You might want to lock the door next time.’ Her smile faded. ‘Garrett wants us all at the Hook a bell from now. Make sure you’re there on time — I think this is serious. No messing around, Cole.’
‘Right,’ he said meekly as she turned back to the door. She paused.
Without looking back, she said, ‘Don’t worry. As far as I’m concerned, you’re still a prize cock.’ And with a small laugh, Sasha swept out of his apartment.
To most in the Trine, Dorminia was known as the Grey City. The title was apt in more than one way: almost all Dorminia’s buildings were constructed from granite quarried in the Demonfire Hills, which rose up just beyond the city’s north wall. The hills had once been home to tribes of wild hill-folk, but the random magical abominations and other terrors that had blighted the land since the Godswar had driven those tribes north into the Badlands. A few ancient records mentioned a catastrophe in ages past that had given the Demonfire Hills their name, but the exact details were vague; much of the world’s history had been lost in the cataclysmic aftermath of the deicide.