Soeman shook his head slowly. ‘This is madness. We’re better off working the Swell and hoping for a pardon from the magistrates. I have a family to think about.’
Coward, Cole wanted to hiss at him, but he forced a look of compassion onto his face. ‘I understand your fears, Soeman,’ he said gently. ‘But do you think your family would want you to die out here alone in a freak accident? Or swallowed up by the Swell? No. They would want you to die fighting.’
He had a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘Besides, you’re sick. You’ve contracted something bad, Soeman. You can’t risk exposing your family to whatever disease it is you have. Better for them to discover that their beloved husband and father spent his final days a free man, sailing the sea alongside boon companions like the storied heroes of old.’
The engineer sagged. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I’ll make my family proud of me. Maybe… maybe we can send some gold home to my wife. Just so she doesn’t have to work the streets any more.’ His voice had turned hopeful.
Cole smiled. ‘Of course we will,’ he said. If we have anything left to spare. Organizing a rebel army isn’t going to be cheap. ‘I need to share my plan with the others,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait until this evening when it’s dark and I can move freely above decks.’
‘I’m with you, lad,’ said Jack. ‘I’ve wanted my own ship for years. Hah, I got caught trying to steal a pretty little schooner from the harbour. Turns out it belonged to a powerful magistrate. I was up for hanging until the Redemption called.’
‘Count me in too,’ said Three-Finger. ‘I’ll die with a weapon in hand if I’m going to die at all.’ The convict rubbed at his ravaged face again. ‘You still haven’t introduced yourself, kid. Or explained how it is you think you can convince a bunch of criminals to work together and pull off the escape of the century.’
Cole squared his shoulders and gave each of the three men a weighty stare, aches and pains forgotten in the sudden rush of pride. At last he was getting the respect he deserved! He could already see the amazement on Garrett’s face when he unveiled the full depth of his brilliance in years to come.
‘My name’s Davarus Cole,’ he said. ‘As for the exact details of how I’m planning to pull this off, you don’t need to worry yourselves. I have a lifetime’s experience with this kind of thing. You see…’ He paused momentarily for effect. ‘… this is what I do.’
The Ultimate Lesson
Yllandris had thought she understood what it was to endure the deepest cold. The last couple of days had taught her otherwise.
She squinted, trying to make out the town a scant few hundred yards ahead of the war party. The blizzard that had buffeted them for the last few hours persisted stubbornly, slowing their advance and piling on the misery that had blighted the march since it began.
‘Fucking spirits be damned,’ Krazka spat, wiping frost from his beard with the back of his hand. His dead eye had frozen over and gleamed malevolently from his cruel face.
Standing beside the bloodthirsty chieftain of the Lake Reaching was Orgrim Foehammer. The grizzled old campaigner hefted his infamous great maul and scowled at the small army of Highlanders bustling behind them.
The war party numbered around five hundred men. The two Reachings provided the bulk of the force, with a further century of Heartstone’s finest warriors supplied courtesy of King Magnar. Somewhere in the swirling snow up ahead the menagerie of beasts that was the Brethren lay in wait. They would swarm out of the mist the moment hostilities with Frosthold began, a deadly whirlwind of claw and fang rending all before them.
The war party had lost seven men on the trek northwards. A mountain bear had burst out from an unseen hollow and killed the first, shaking him like a leaf until his arm tore away at the shoulder. The huge predator had begun disembowelling the screaming warrior before the first of half a dozen spears had buried themselves in its hide.
Two more Highlanders had plummeted to their deaths after a gust of wind stole them from the side of a ridge. Another three died of hypothermia.
The last man simply disappeared overnight. None of his fellows could recall his departure. That incident was the most troubling of all, as Wulgreth had originally hailed from the North Reaching before swearing loyalty to King Magnar. If he had deserted to warn Frosthold of their coming, the invasion of the town would prove all the more difficult.
And difficult it was likely to be. The capital of the North Reaching was home to almost three thousand Highlanders, a full quarter of them men of fighting age. However, that wasn’t what bothered Yllandris most. Frosthold’s circle was both large and powerful. Even with her sisters and the circles of the two Reachings beside her, the young sorceress felt a hint of trepidation.
Fifteen sorceresses against eight. The High Fangs will not have witnessed such a contest in many years.
‘Pay attention, sister,’ snapped Shranree. The woman’s plump red cheeks were accentuated by the freezing cold so that she resembled an oversized apple buried within a bundle of furs. Yllandris only just suppressed a snort of amusement. Old Agatha shot her a withering glance, a bead of frozen snot hanging from the end of her ridiculous nose.
Yllandris couldn’t stand either of the two sorceresses, but they were the most senior members of her circle and she was bound to obey them. Not for long, she thought. A queen acquiesces to no one. Then she remembered the Shaman and the way Magnar had kowtowed before him, and her momentary satisfaction wilted and died.
‘We will accompany the warriors at the head of the force,’ Shranree announced, her voice muffled by her hood. ‘Our allies from the Lake and East Reachings will focus their power on nullifying the threat from the enemy circle. We,’ she added, looking at each of the six women in turn, ‘will rain fire down upon the town. Our task is to force the men, women and children from their huts so our warriors may cut them down.’
Yllandris felt a moment of unease. ‘I don’t see how the murder of children accomplishes anything. What part do they have in the rebellion?’
Old Agatha tutted softly. ‘Do you know nothing of our history, girl? Bad seed must be culled lest it corrupt the entire herd.’
Shranree nodded, her flabby jowls wobbling. ‘The children of traitors inevitably grow to adulthood with the same poison festering in their hearts. They must die.’
‘You were too young and inexperienced to play a part in the razing of Beregund,’ added Old Agatha. ‘Now you have the opportunity to prove yourself. Failure could cost the entire circle.’
Yllandris glared at the old crone. ‘I won’t let you down.’
Shranree gave her a patronizing smile. ‘I trust you won’t. Now, the men are preparing to advance. We should join them.’
Yllandris wiped snowflakes from her face, pulled her wolfskin cloak tighter around her body, and followed her sisters as they made their way over to the warriors.
The light was dying. The snow continued to fall.
Like Heartstone, Frosthold perched on the edge of a great lake. However, unlike the capital and the surrounding Reachings that made up the region known as the Heartlands, this far north spring had yet to gain any kind of foothold. The North Reaching was frozen and would remain that way for all but a couple of months of summer.
Yllandris watched her breath mist in the frigid night air as she and the other sorceresses approached the high wooden gates. She saw no sentries on duty, but a couple of shapeless bundles gathered snow near the gatepost to the left of her. It seemed the Brethren had already begun their silent work.
Krazka glared at the gates with his good eye. He turned to Shranree, who was waddling along beside him and Orgrim Foehammer at the head of the war party. ‘Blow the fucking gates off,’ he barked. ‘Let them know we’re here.’