‘Sash!’ the boy exclaimed in delight. ‘How long has it been? A month? I have some stories to tell you! Here, meet my new companions. This is the Darkson, a master assassin from Shamaath. And this’ — he pointed at the largest of the three men wading through the surf — ‘is Three-Finger. He’s my henchman.’ This last one was an ugly fellow with thinning hair and an unpleasant skin disease ravaging his face. He looked faintly annoyed as the boy finished his introductions.
‘Greetings,’ lisped the dark-skinned newcomer. Kayne narrowed his eyes. The way this one moved, the confidence with which he appraised their ragged little band — everything about him spoke of the kind of man who was as comfortable killing as he was breathing.
The assassin continued, ‘I see you, too, are familiar with Davarus Cole. You must be Brodar Kayne.’
The old barbarian swung around on the horse and lowered himself gingerly to the ground. ‘Aye, pleasure to meet you,’ he said. He glanced back up the hill, where two dozen men approached them on horseback, outlined in red by the departing sun. He cleared his throat.
‘Before we continue with the introductions, I guess I ought to mention a small matter that’s going to require our attention pretty damned soon…’
Dark Omens
Yllandris turned to the man in the bed beside her. Magnar watched her from beneath half-closed eyes. His deep breathing was the only sound within the bedchamber. Outside the storm raged on, the shrieking wind a terrifying animal that threatened to tear the roof from the Great Lodge and reveal their nakedness to the world.
‘You are troubled,’ she observed. The mingled smells of sweat and sex and smoke created an aroma that was not altogether unpleasant. She placed a hand on his face. His cheeks were smooth. Many Highland men wore their beards long in celebration of their manhood, but Magnar had always kept his face clean-shaven. It was a brave choice considering his youth, an open invitation to scorn from the older chieftains. It seemed the young king had confidence enough not to care.
‘I am uneasy,’ he admitted. His steely grey eyes held a hint of worry. ‘The Shaman summoned the Brethren away from the High Fangs. What right does the Tyrant of Dorminia have to demand our Magelord do such a thing?’
Yllandris remembered the ease with which the frail old man had turned Shranree’s magic against her. The senior sister of the Heartstone circle was possibly the most powerful sorceress in the High Fangs, yet Salazar had handled her as he might a child — and, moreover, he had been near exhausted while he had done so.
‘I cannot say, my king. The ways of Magelords are not easily fathomed. Did the Shaman give any indication when they will return?’
Magnar shook his head. He was a handsome man, with a strong nose and jaw. His torso was lean but well muscled and his chest still glistened with sweat from their recent lovemaking. She felt her body stir as she gazed upon him.
‘We may be without our sacred protectors for some time,’ said the King. ‘I have instructed Orgrim to post additional men on the northern and southern borders of the East Reaching.’ He paused for a moment and sighed. ‘The Foehammer was not happy with the order.’
‘Orgrim took the greatest losses at Frosthold,’ Yllandris replied. ‘And the East Reaching has suffered the most in recent years. The Foehammer does not want to expose his largest settlements to the Devil’s Spine by posting his men to the frontiers.’
King Magnar nodded. ‘That was the gist of his argument. Yet the East Reaching is the barrier between our nation and the horrors that lurk in the Spine. I cannot allow demons to wander unchallenged into the other Reachings.’
A howling gust of wind rattled the roof once more and Magnar sighed again. ‘I’ve done my best to win the respect of my chieftains. It is no easy thing to stave off famine and keep the tribes from each other’s throats while managing the Shaman’s whims. He listens to me sometimes, but still… I feel as if I am caught between a cave bear and a pack of wolves. I try to placate the former while the latter look for any opportunity to pounce.’
Yllandris was puzzled. ‘You rule with the Shaman’s blessing,’ she said. ‘Who would dare try to depose you?’
‘Krazka One-Eye and Carn Bloodfist, to name but two. Many desire the throne. The Code dictates that all men and women swear allegiance to the king — yet it is also written that a weak king must be usurped for the good of the nation.’
‘And the Shaman is the arbiter in such matters,’ Yllandris said softly.
‘If another proves himself more worthy, the Shaman will not hesitate to replace me.’
‘As you replaced Jagar the Wise?’
Magnar nodded. ‘I did not seek the throne. Jagar was dying. His rule had outlasted that of any previous king. The Shaman could have chosen any one of the ten chieftains.’ He looked up at the ceiling. ‘Yet out of respect for my father he chose me.’
‘Out of respect for your father?’ Yllandris repeated, shocked. ‘But what he did to him… The Shaman wants nothing more than to see your father dead.’
‘Yes,’ Magnar replied. ‘He does. But that anger is born out of the love he once held for him. Father was the closest thing to a friend the Shaman has known. He did not expect the answer he received from his champion when Beregund rebelled. And it was a rebellion. The Green Reaching intended to break the Treaty and begin a civil war. The Shaman’s response was justified.’
He burned your mother alive, Yllandris thought, but wisely she held her tongue. Instead she said, ‘Do you know where your father might be hiding?’
Magnar shook his head. ‘The Unclaimed Lands, perhaps. The Brethren hunted him for two years without success. His companion is a tracker without peer.’
His companion. The Wolf. The man who freed the Sword of the North from his prison was almost as infamous as Kayne himself. Horribly burned and with a savage temper to match his prowess, no one would have guessed he would be the one to enact a daring rescue. Apparently he had owed Kayne a debt from many years past.
Yllandris had set eyes on the Wolf only once, a few months before the trial of Brodar Kayne. The thought of two Highlanders somehow evading the Brethren for months on end was difficult to credit — yet the memory of his scowling visage, so utterly implacable, convinced her that this was a man capable of anything.
When it came to the likes of Brodar Kayne and Jerek the Wolf, it seemed even the will of a Magelord could be defied. The thought gave her pause.
The King was still staring at the ceiling, a strange expression in his remarkable eyes. Yllandris decided to take a risk. She needed to know. ‘It must be hard for you,’ she said carefully. ‘What happened to your father. What was done to your mother.’
Magnar looked at her. His expression was unreadable. ‘Do you think me a monster?’
The question shocked her. She stared at him for a moment, lost for words. Not a monster. My father was a monster. ‘I do not judge you,’ she said carefully. ‘You did what was necessary. Your father was guilty. Your mother…’ She trailed off, unsure of how to proceed. This was so very delicate. She still desired his attentions, didn’t she? She thought she did. There was no sense in angering him. Yet…
He watched his mother burn.
‘My mother…’ Magnar said, and she could hear the pain in his voice. ‘Some things a king must do haunt him forever. It could not be helped.’
Yllandris stared at him. She remembered cowering in the corner of her small bunk, listening to those awful cries. It was the silences that followed that had terrified her the most; the moment those appalling noises ceased and her father had walked back out into the night. That handful of steps to the crumpled form of her mother — like walking out onto a frozen lake, not knowing if the ice would break and the darkness would swallow her up. Until one night it had.