A mouthful of bloody spittle missed his eye by a finger’s width. A hand groped up, desperately seeking a weapon but succeeding only in prodding him painfully in the groin.
As swift as a snake, he grabbed the youngster’s arm and twisted it, eliciting a yelp. His other hand cuffed the insolent bastard in the head hard enough to bounce it right off the wall behind. He reached down and hauled the fool upright.
‘You picked a bad day to start something with me,’ he snarled down into the blood-smeared face. He was a lad of around twenty winters, Kayne saw, fair-skinned like most of these city folk. His steel-coloured eyes were unfocused and slightly watery, as if he’d been crying. Kayne shook his head in disgust.
‘You know you’ve lived too long when a smack upside a fellow’s head is enough to set him to tears. At your age I’d killed more men than I could rightly remember. Took some wounds that could kill a man too, and came through ’em none the worse for it. You got yourself a broken rib, I reckon, and that nose won’t ever be as straight as it was. Still, you’ll live — assuming I let you.’
He heard the rustle of chainmail behind him and turned, releasing his grip on the Lowlander, who promptly flopped to the ground.
‘Out of the way! This is Crimson Watch business.’ The speaker was an ugly little man with a plague-ravaged face. He dragged his right leg as he approached. A trail of blood glistened behind him.
The other fellow was younger and somewhat broader but still half a head shorter than Kayne, who saw that he sported a fresh bruise beneath his right eye. The red-cloaked soldier scowled up at him.
‘You’re a Highlander. What are you doing so far south? A man of your years ought to be tending goats or sitting around a campfire spinning bullshit tales to convince some maiden to suck your cock — or whatever it is you mountain folk do. You’re not welcome here. Lord Salazar has no love for the Magelord of the High Fangs.’
Kayne shrugged. ‘Can’t say I blame him,’ he replied. ‘The Shaman and me, we got our differences as well. Enough to make the frozen north an unsafe place for an old barbarian.’ The youth at his feet had begun to moan. ‘I was down this way. Thought I’d see the sights of the city. Tell me, what’s the boy done?’
‘What business is that of yours?’ said the pock-faced fellow. ‘He’s guilty of interfering with the application of the law. The fucker stabbed me in the leg with this dagger. It won’t stop bleeding.’ He gestured at the weapon at his belt and then to his leg. There was a hint of panic in his voice.
Kayne’s eyes swept over the weapon and noted the telltale glow. ‘Magic, if I ain’t mistaken,’ he said. ‘I’m no expert but I reckon that wound won’t be closing by itself any time soon. Best find yourself a decent physician.’ He folded his arms and fixed the two soldiers with his best implacable stare.
The younger soldier’s hand went to his sword. ‘Not without this shit-eater we’re not. Come on, move aside.’
Kayne flexed his neck. It clicked slightly. He sighed in satisfaction. ‘No,’ he said.
‘Then you’ll die with him. Merrik, you take his left side.’
The Watchmen advanced on him slowly, their scarlet cloaks fluttering in the breeze.
Come at me, he thought, reaching behind him to the hilt of the greatsword slung on his back. He felt its familiar grip beneath his fingers. He stepped away from the prone lad, sparing the twitching figure an annoyed glance. This wouldn’t make things any easier. His opponents circled around him.
The soldier to his right feinted low and then brought his sword around in a vicious backhand chop. Kayne thrust his hips backwards and drew his chest in. The sword whistled past, barely an inch away.
He caught movement out of the corner of his left eye and spun, dropping into a crouch. As he felt the steel pass harmlessly over his head, his right elbow rose and crunched into the cheek of his assailant, who flopped to the ground. He pulled his greatsword loose of its scabbard with his other hand as he completed the rotation, raised it just in time to parry the other soldier’s follow-up attack.
His opponent stepped back and blinked. ‘Fuck,’ he said.
‘Aye,’ nodded Brodar Kayne. ‘Let’s get this over with. I need to piss.’
Greatsword and longsword came together. Kayne hardly moved as he casually responded to the wild thrusts of the Watchman. In desperation, his opponent launched an overhead slash intended to cleave his skull. Kayne neatly sidestepped it and brought his own blade sweeping around at waist height.
The Watchman stared at the entrails spilling from the bloody mess where his midriff had been. He dropped his sword and moved to gather the glistening, snaking things in his hands, but then dropped them in disgust.
Always bad when that happens, Kayne thought sympathetically. He raised his greatsword and cut the man’s head from his shoulders.
Wiping the blade clean on the corpse’s tabard, he sheathed it behind him and then walked over to the other Watchman, who was struggling groggily to his feet. He grabbed the soldier’s head and smashed it four, five, six times into the side of the warehouse. Holding the body upright with one hand, he took the dagger from the dead man’s belt with the other and let him fall.
He turned the dagger around in his hands. It was a fine enough weapon. The hilt and guard were plain, but the pommel was inset with a large ruby and the slightly curved blade radiated the soft blue glow that signified an enchantment of some kind. He sheathed it at his belt and was just starting back to the tavern when a cough got his attention.
‘Almost forgot about you,’ he muttered to the moaning lad. ‘Suppose I should thank you for this. Might be tough finding a merchant who’ll take it off my hands here in Dorminia, but it’ll fetch a tidy sum elsewhere.’ He hesitated for a moment, then raised a boot and placed it over the boy’s neck. ‘Sorry about this,’ he said. ‘More of those rotten bastards will show up soon. If they find you here, you’ll be wishing you was dead a hundred times over before the day is out. I’m doing you a favour.’
The lad’s face turned blue as Kayne’s boot pressed down on his windpipe. His hands flapped weakly. A pathetic gurgle escaped his lips. Grey eyes met his, wide with the terror of death.
They were begging him. Pleading with him.
Kayne looked away. He remembered that same look, eyes of a similar hue on a face much the same age. Recalled the mad agony as Mhaira’s wild screams hammered at his skull and the sickening stench of burning flesh filled his nostrils while he scraped his arms bloody on a cage that refused to yield.
He looked down at his forearms. The marks were still visible, though it hardly mattered a damn. There were other, worse scars to carry. The kind that changed a man forever.
Sighing heavily, the old barbarian removed his boot from the lad’s throat and hauled him upright, tossing him over his shoulder with an ease that belied his years. With a final grunt, he turned and loped away as fast as his creaking legs would carry him.
The Wolf was well into his cups by the time Brodar Kayne stumbled into the grimy tavern near the slums. The patrons of the smoky dive cast curious glances at him as he dropped his groaning burden to the ale-spattered floor. His back ached like a bastard.
He’d grown soft, that was the problem. They could be on their way east to one of the Free Cities by now. He doubted any of them could compare to this sprawling, stinking place — but they were well within the Unclaimed Lands, where no Magelord held sway and magic wasn’t contraband as it was in the Trine. The dagger at his belt would fetch a chieftain’s ransom from the right people.
But no. Instead he’d been unmanned by the bloody fool who was now writhing around at his feet.
Jerek had spotted him. He was sitting in the dingiest corner of the tavern, hunched over his beer, casting dark scowls at anyone foolish enough to meet his gaze. His bald head reflected the torchlight, giving him an angry red glow. His eyes narrowed further as Kayne stalked over.