The Grim Company (17 page)

‘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.’

‘I reckon they already know,’ Orgrim replied. There was a flicker of light behind the gate, and then the sounds of boots crunching on snow.

Everyone readied their weapons. Yllandris reached down deep inside, evoking the power that throbbed within her veins and teasing it to the tips of her fingers. She saw her sisters doing the same.

There was the sound of a bar being raised. Very slowly, the gates creaked open…

To reveal four ragged figures: a man, a woman and two girls. Yllandris narrowed her eyes. She seemed to recall seeing the man before.

Mehmon
.

It was indeed the chieftain of the North Reaching – but he was no longer the imposing figure she remembered from his audiences with the King in months gone by. He had been a proud warrior then, his long beard streaked with grey but his back broad and unbowed.

Now he was a broken old man. He hobbled towards them, his beard turned to white and his frail body robbed of the girth that had made him such a feared warrior even in his twilight years.

After a moment of confusion had passed, Krazka held up a gloved hand. ‘Mehmon? Is that you? You look like something my hounds shat out.’

The chieftain of the North Reaching halted. He stared across at his counterpart, his expression empty of hope. ‘Krazka… I didn’t expect you here.’

The Butcher of Beregund grinned, a predator’s smile completely devoid of humour. ‘This is quite the little reunion. I’d like to say you’re looking well, but that would be a barefaced lie, wouldn’t it? These your wife and girls?’ He nodded at the women shivering behind Mehmon. Each held a torch, revealing them to be emaciated.

Krazka gave a dramatic tut. ‘The poor lambs shouldn’t be out here. A girl could catch her death on a night like this.’

Orgrim frowned. ‘I ain’t got no quarrel with you, Mehmon. Fought alongside you in many a battle. Got a lot of respect for the warrior you once was, back in the day. But you know why we’re here.’

Mehmon turned to the leader of the East Reaching and raised his hands in a pleading gesture. ‘Foehammer, I ain’t doing this by choice. You got to believe me. We ain’t got a scrap of food between us. Our larders have been empty the past six months. My people are starving.’

The big chieftain looked uncomfortable. ‘These ain’t easy times for any of us, Mehmon. We got demons and all sorts pouring down from the Spine. More with every passing season. My own Reaching has taken the brunt of it. That doesn’t excuse our obligations to Heartstone. It never has.’

Mehmon shook his head. ‘Listen to me, Foehammer! I taxed my villages until they had nothing left to give me but their blood. Even that’s turned to dust. Frosthold’s about the only settlement left for a hundred miles. And we’re on the brink. We’re
fucked
.’

Orgrim stared at the ground and then squinted up at the sky. He seemed about to speak, but the sound of scraping steel drew everyone’s attention.

‘You bleat like a sheep, old man. You call yourself a chieftain? You’ve grown weak with age, and that’s the fact of it. Just like the Sword of the North, who was too damn proud to step down when the fire went out.’

Krazka had his sword in his hand, a wide, single-edged blade that was said to have cut more throats than an executioner’s axe. His dead, frozen eye glinted evilly in the quivering torchlight. ‘You know something, Mehmon? I fucked his wife and now I’m gonna fuck you. Except this time I’ll do it with steel.’

Mehmon’s wife and daughters were trembling, sending shadows dancing all over the snow. Yllandris felt her breath quicken and then her own body began to shake. She bit down on her lip, silently cursing her weakness. This hadn’t happened in years, not since she was a child, when her father used to come home and she had smelled the mead on his breath and knew her mother would be searching around for lost teeth on the morrow.

You’re not that girl any more. You are Yllandris, a sorceress of the Heartstone circle. Soon you will be Queen of the High Fangs
.

Those thoughts calmed her. She felt her breathing slow and her body relax.

Mehmon looked at Orgrim in desperation. The Foehammer’s jaw was clenched and his teeth ground together, but he said nothing.

Krazka spat on the snow. ‘Draw your sword, Mehmon. Show some backbone before your wife and girls, at least. You wouldn’t want them to die knowing their old man was a coward.’

In reply, the haggard chieftain of the North Reaching snarled and pulled his broadsword free from the scabbard at his side.

Yllandris watched, transfixed. Mehmon had been a warrior of great renown back in his day, but that day had long passed. Krazka, on the other hand, was possibly the most infamous killer in the High Fangs, a warrior with nerves of ice who had climbed a mountain of skulls to claim his position as chieftain of the nation’s most powerful Reaching. Unlike Orgrim Foehammer, whose muscle had turned to fat over the years, the Butcher of Beregund carried not a pound of excess weight on his athletic frame. This was only going to end one way.

Mehmon lunged forwards, but he slipped and his charge became a stumble. Krazka sidestepped him effortlessly, then spun around and planted a boot on his arse to send him crashing face-first into the snow.

‘On your feet, Mehmon,’ Krazka said. ‘I ain’t done with you yet.’

The rebel chieftain of the North Reaching tried to push himself up, but his arms gave way and he collapsed again.

Yllandris glanced across at Orgrim Foehammer, who was staring off into the distance. Contempt filled her.
Coward
, she thought.

Krazka placed one hand on his chin and assumed a position of mock consideration as Mehmon struggled to rise. ‘I reckon you need a bit of encouragement,’ he said. He stalked over to Mehmon’s wife, yanked her head back and ran his sword along her neck before she had time to gasp. A bloody smile blossomed on her throat and she sank to the ground with a soft gurgle. The two girls began screaming.

Mehmon made a noise like a strangled animal. This time, full of maddened fury, he managed to scrabble to his feet. Krazka dodged his first wild swing, caught the second on his own blade and then turned it aside. With frightening speed, his cleaver-like sword came whistling down and severed his opponent’s hand.

Krazka stepped back, a satisfied smile on his face. ‘Well now, looks like you’re just about done—’ he began, but then he stopped and rocked forwards suddenly. There was a slight tearing sound.

One of Mehmon’s daughters clutched a small wood knife in her trembling hand. Yllandris could see the hole in Krazka’s magnificent white cloak where the knife had ripped the pelt. Apart from the damage to his prized mantle, the Butcher of Beregund appeared unhurt. He was, however, incredibly angry.

‘You bitch,’ he growled. ‘I’ve had this cloak for years. Killed a Highland cat for it with nothing but a hunting knife. It was that beast what took my eye. And now you’ve put a
hole
in it.’

‘Run,’ Mehmon croaked. He was on his knees, staring dully at the bloody stump at the end of his arm. His daughters heard him and made a break for it. Krazka watched them flee. Then he turned back to the fallen chieftain.

‘I might have been persuaded to grant you a swift death,’ he said. ‘That ain’t happening now. You’re coming back to Heartstone. It’s the flames for you.’

Sudden screams filled the air from the direction in which the girls had fled. The grunts and roars of savage animals punctuated the obscene sounds of tearing flesh. Yllandris felt sick.

‘Looks like the Brethren caught up with your girls, Mehmon. That’s that.’

Krazka turned and faced the war party. Most of the warriors had watched the confrontation unfold in silence. He raised his bloody sword high in the air and then pointed it at the gates.

‘The show’s over. We attack now and kill every last man, woman and child within these stinking walls. No mercy.’

No mercy
. Yllandris took a deep breath, glanced at her sisters, and prepared to bring the King’s justice to Frosthold.

The sounds of clashing steel rang out ahead of her. Snow continued to fall, obscuring her view of the fighting, but it was clear that Frosthold’s defenders were offering scant resistance. Mehmon had not been lying. Famine had brought the town to its knees.

A shape loomed out of the darkness up ahead. It was a cart, overflowing with snow from which frozen limbs jutted out at odd angles.

A corpse wagon
, Yllandris realized. They had piled the dead on the back of the cart but lacked the strength or will to carry them away.

They passed a cooking pit. She glanced down and saw the bones of various animals, most of them oddly sized. It took a moment before Yllandris realized they were the remains of the town’s dogs. She half expected to see a human thighbone or skull among the grisly remains, but it appeared things hadn’t quite become that grim. Not yet.

To her left, Shranree was breathing heavily. The woman was winded already by the short walk from the town gates. Flanking their circle to either side were the sorceresses from the two Reachings. They were a motley collection of the young, the old and the ancient: soothsayers and healers and wise women from numerous backwater villages and towns hastily assembled for the war party. In Heartstone, sorceresses lived alongside one another and formed a permanent circle out in the Reachings, they were permitted to gather only for specific occasions.

Sorcery was tolerated and occasionally even honoured, but it was not liked, and it certainly was not trusted.

A grunt ahead drew her attention. One of the town’s defenders was running towards them. The filthy furs he wore engulfed his wasted body, but there was fury in his eyes and he had an ugly club raised and ready to strike.

Old Agatha raised her walking staff, mumbled a quick incantation under her breath, and then pointed at the man with a bony finger. Fire leaped out from her extended digit and wreathed him in red flame. He screamed once and then toppled to the snow with a loud hiss. The flames sizzled out almost immediately, leaving a charred mess of bone and roasted flesh.

One of the sorceresses from the East Reaching retched. Yllandris narrowed her eyes. He had been coming straight at her. Had Old Agatha not acted…

I would have done what was necessary. The future Queen of the High Fangs will not perish here in this forsaken place
.

‘Stop!’ Shranree hissed suddenly. The group halted abruptly. ‘Magic is being worked ahead of us,’ she explained. ‘I can sense it. Sorceresses from the Reachings, now is the time.’

Yllandris felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. The tang of magic was in the air. There was a flickering in the distance, and phosphorescent green globes of energy suddenly appeared in the black sky, moving closer at terrifying speed. She held her breath.

A translucent blue barrier sprang into existence above the heads of the sorceresses. Yllandris watched the women from the Reachings straining with effort as they maintained the magical shield above them.

It was not a moment too soon. The globes splattered down and struck the barricade, where they exploded into bubbling ooze that hissed and popped. One of the women from the Lake Reaching slid on a patch of ice, causing the section of barrier above her to wink out of existence. Green slime rained down, covering her head and shoulders, which began to steam. She uttered a high-pitched shriek and clawed madly at the corrosive material, but it had already eaten through her flesh and was now dissolving bone and sinew.