Luke Scull - The Grim Company

The first voice again. ‘Fucker’s awake. Listen up, Kayne. The Shaman wants you brought to the Great Lodge. Guess who the Brethren found holed up in a cave up in the Devil’s Spine?’

Sudden terror. Had they discovered her? He wanted to scream. Bracing himself on the fouled floor of his prison, he pushed himself up, willing his atrophied muscles into life. The weeping sores covering his body chafed agonizingly with his every movement. He didn’t care. He squeezed the bars of the cage, trying desperately to force them. They didn’t move an inch. He remembered exhausting himself attempting to escape when he’d first been imprisoned. He had no chance now, not after a year of wasting away, yet he grunted and redoubled his efforts.

The harsh voice again, this time amused. ‘That got your attention. Your wife. What’s her name, Mhaira? She did well, evading the Brethren for all this time. And she ain’t a young thing either, though that didn’t stop the Butcher having his sport.’

His teeth ground together. His eyes felt as if they were going to explode and he tasted blood. Still the bars wouldn’t budge.

A third voice, this one known to him. ‘That’s enough. Let’s just get the cage on the platform.’

He stopped struggling. Stared at the speaker, met his eyes. Saw shame there. Shame and regret.

‘My son?’ he managed. His voice cracked; it sounded like a foreign thing to his ears after all this time. ‘Where is my son?’

The man who was known to him looked down at the ground. ‘You’ll learn soon enough,’ he said, and his tone was apologetic. ‘Don’t struggle, Kayne. You can’t change what’s coming.’

He sank back to the floor of his prison. Covered his face with his hands. He’d suffer a thousand agonies, embrace an eternity of torment for the chance to avert the atrocity he knew would be committed at the Great Lodge.

But it was no good. He couldn’t change what was coming.

‘ Kayne .’

The rasping voice dragged him awake and into a world full of misery. His body hurt all over. He opened his eyes to be confronted by the unpleasant sight of Jerek’s scowling visage staring down at him. The Wolf had a few bumps and bruises but otherwise appeared unscathed.

‘Shit,’ Brodar Kayne muttered. ‘Help me up.’

Jerek reached down, grabbed hold of his wrists and then hauled him roughly upwards. He tottered for a moment, a hundred little niggles assailing him like a pack of wolves trying to bring down a bear. The old Highlander breathed deeply. His knees ached like buggery and his chest felt as if it had been bludgeoned by a giant’s club, but he could tough it out. You had to, when you were stupid enough to keep doing this kind of shit at his age.

‘The others?’ he asked. Jerek nodded over his shoulder in reply, and Kayne turned gingerly to survey their surroundings.

They stood on a mushy grass slope overlooking the coastline hundreds of yards distant. A little further down, Vicard lay motionless on the edge of a wide shingle beach covered in pools of saltwater. Sasha was kneeling over him. He couldn’t tell if the alchemist was alive or dead.

The wreckage of their boat littered the hill around them. The upturned hull rested a mere dozen yards away, its keel broken and sagging in the middle.

‘Isaac?’ he asked, fearing the worst. Jerek said nothing, simply shook his head and spat. Kayne sighed and began to make his unsteady way down the slope towards the other survivors. ‘Evil luck to lose one of the group so early on this expedition,’ he said. ‘Don’t bode well. The Halfmage ain’t going to be best pleased-’

‘Bastard’s over there,’ Jerek interrupted. He pointed down the coastline to a rocky outcrop that marked the beginning of a promontory in the distance. Kayne could just make out a figure sat perched over the edge.

‘Is he… fishing?’ he wondered aloud. The blurred shape seemed to notice him staring and waved an arm in greeting. ‘I’ll be damned. He’s tougher than he looks.’ Or maybe I’m just old and brittle .

The two Highlanders climbed down the sodden hill until they reached the girl and the figure at her feet. The alchemist was still breathing. He was also making pitiful whimpering sounds, much to the disgust of the Wolf.

‘How’s he doing?’ Kayne asked. Sasha had a nasty cut on her forehead, but aside from that she didn’t seem too much the worse for wear.

‘Bruised ribs,’ she replied. ‘Twisted ankle. One of his shoulders popped out of its socket but Isaac managed to tease it back into place. I didn’t know he was a physician.’

‘And an angler,’ the old barbarian replied. He was beginning to understand why the Halfmage kept the man around.

Sasha held a strip of wet cloth and was wiping at Vicard’s brow. He made a soft moaning sound and reached weakly for her hands, taking them into his own and holding onto them as if for dear life. Jerek shot him a baleful glare. Even Sasha pursed her lips in distaste.

‘Wolf, go fetch our talented friend,’ Kayne said, thinking it best to give Jerek something to do before he ended up throttling the alchemist where he lay. His friend grunted his assent and stalked off towards the distant crag.

Kayne glanced up at the sky. How long had it been since they’d washed up on the pebbly coast? He reckoned two, maybe three hours. The sun still rode low in the scattering clouds, bleeding golden light into the newborn day and reflecting serenely in the now-calm water of Deadman’s Channel. All in all, the morning was shaping up to be a glorious one. It reminded him of another morning, many months past. That had turned out to be the darkest of days.

‘Do you still have Magebane?’ The girl’s question brought him back to the present. He felt around at his belt.

‘Aye, it’s right here. That wave knocked us a few miles off track. I figure we head north and east until we see the Tombstone.’

Vicard whimpered again. Sasha looked down at him doubtfully. ‘He’s going to struggle on one leg. We can’t leave him here.’

The alchemist pushed himself up so that he rested on his right elbow, moaning all the while with the effort. ‘My bag,’ he panted. ‘Where is it?’

Sasha walked over to where Vicard’s pack rested next to the handful of possessions that had survived the wreck. ‘You’re lucky,’ she said. ‘I’ve already checked inside. Most of it is intact.’ She brought the pack over to the alchemist and dropped it down beside him. He rifled through it with his good arm, becoming increasingly frantic as he failed to locate what he was looking for. Pouches and strange containers were cast aside as his hand probed deeper. A sheen of sweat appeared on his face. Sasha watched him anxiously.

Eventually Vicard found what he’d been searching for. With a delighted yelp, he tugged a small brown leather pouch from the bottom of the pack. The alchemist fumbled with the cord for a moment, then lifted the pouch to his face and buried his nose inside, snorting deeply. When he finally removed it from the pouch it was covered in a white powdery substance. He sighed in satisfaction and grinned stupidly.

Brodar Kayne observed the scene with a deep frown on his lined face. He’d seen Highlanders become hopelessly addicted to jhaeld , the fireplant found in the most desolate reaches of the mountains. The powdered resin of that rare plant could cause a man’s blood to feel as though it were on fire, inciting his passions and lending him the courage to smite his enemies as if he were the Reaver, the Lord of Death himself. Such men inevitably died young, attempting feats beyond their true prowess. Overconfidence could get a man killed.