Luke Scull - The Grim Company

Even the Stasiseum couldn’t slow Cole’s progress, though there was glass all over the floor and he saw that two of the displays had been smashed. The savage green-skinned humanoid and the huge, alien-looking egg were gone, vanished into thin air. As he sped through the chamber he heard the patter of blood dripping from the priest suspended in the central display. A hurried glance at the robed figure confirmed he was dead.

The library passed in a blur and then he was speeding down the passageway outside the Grand Council Chamber. Just as he was nearing the huge double doors he heard the sounds of voices drifting through the doorway. The left door began to rattle and then it creaked open, only to jam against the body of the Watchman sprawled there. Cole silently thanked his luck and sprinted towards the stairs down to the first floor, ignoring the corpse wedged in the corner of the stairwell.

The entrance hall was empty except for the Halfmage, who was biting into a plum. He glanced up in surprise, wiping juice from his chin with the corner of one billowing sleeve. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Salazar’s dead,’ he said as he barged past the wizard, causing him to fumble the plum. It splattered to the floor, leaving a red mess.

‘He’s what ? Where are you going? What about me?’

‘There’s something I need to do,’ Cole shouted back. ‘Let the city know. Salazar is dead.’

He glanced down at the bag hanging at his belt. Tick tock tick tock . Every pulse of the device sent fresh waves of dread washing through him. He gritted his teeth and ran on.

The light was fading by the time he arrived at the hidden entrance to the temple of the Mother. He pulled the snaking vines of ivy aside, noting with growing dread that they hadn’t been disturbed in a while. He was about to squeeze through the narrow gap when he heard the sound of many footsteps moving in tandem. They seemed to be heading in his direction. He hesitated, and then edged back along the side of the temple’s crumbling walls and peered out down the Trade Way.

A huge column of Sumnian mercenaries was marching towards the Hook. At the head of the small army was the fattest man Cole had ever seen. His ankles were as thick as most men’s thighs, and his four chins bounced up and down with every waddling step he took. Behind the whale of a man, soldiers laughed and cast avaricious glances to the north, where the estates of wealthy nobles rose above the sequestering walls. Some made obscene gestures while others stared with wolfish grins.

Cole ducked back behind the temple. It looked like an entire company of Sumnian mercenaries had breached the east gate without seeing a lick of action. Maybe the defenders learned of Salazar’s death and laid down their weapons , he thought. He should have felt some pride at that, but he couldn’t. Not with the tick tock tick crawling in his ears like a burrowing insect. Not with the strange heavy feeling in his chest.

Taking a deep breath, Cole pushed himself through the aperture at the rear of the temple and padded down the short passageway until he reached the steps leading up, just as he had nearly six weeks ago. He had been bruised and bleeding then, late for Garrett’s summons because of his own foolishness. Even so, as he slowly climbed the stairs up to the sanctuary, he would have given anything to return to that more innocent time.

When he saw that the door had been torn off its hinges, he finally knew.

The bodies had been piled in the nave and then torched.

Cole stumbled over to the blackened remains of the pyre and stood there numbly. Through blurring eyes, he took in the dark stains on the floor, the red smears covering the walls.

He reached down and grasped a tattered fragment of blue fabric. A hint of gold embroidery was visible at the edge. It was the jerkin Garrett had been wearing at the Shard meeting. The night he had stormed off, throwing the pendant his foster father had given him into the fire that had burned in this very spot.

He crouched down, desperately sifting through the ash and charred bones, growing more and more frantic as he failed to find what he was searching for.

The pendant wasn’t there.

With a sudden, uncontrollable sob, he collapsed onto the filthy floor, crawling backwards until his back pressed up against a pillar.

And then he cried, and he did not stop crying until his chest was sore and his eyes were raw and there were no more tears to give.

I’m sorry, Garrett. Sorry for walking out. Sorry for being too arrogant to listen when you tried to put me on the right path .

He untied the bag at his belt and removed his mentor’s pocket watch. He stared at it, remembering all the good times the two of them had shared.

Cole wiped fresh tears from his soot-covered face and rose shakily to his feet. He walked over to the altar and carefully placed the device in the centre of the pedestal. The goddess might be gone, but perhaps the Creator will shepherd their souls .

He said a prayer then, for Garrett and Vicard and all the others, even the Urich twins whom he had never much liked. They had been his brothers, every one of them.

At least he still had Sasha. The news would devastate her, and his heart ached more at the thought of seeing her hurt than at his own sorrow.

He swallowed hard and tried to steady himself. Garrett had spent his life seeking to liberate Dorminia from a tyrant, and now, finally, his dream had come true. Cole and Sasha would stick together and see that the Grey City became a beacon of hope in a land besieged by darkness. It’s what Garrett would have wanted.

With a final farewell to his friends, colleagues and mentor, Davarus Cole departed the temple of the Mother.

He would never return.

The evening breeze was like the breath of a goddess after the carnal stench of the ruined temple. News of Salazar’s death had spread, judging by the handful of revellers cheering and singing in the plaza. The gibbets had been pulled down and their captives apparently released, though Cole doubted any of them would be in much of a condition to join the meagre celebrations.

Most of Dorminia was still subdued. Despite the death of the city’s tyrannical overlord, a great many men had lost their lives. There would be rivers of tears shed, months of heartbreak for those that remained.

Feeling sick with grief himself, Cole was preparing to follow the road west to try and track down Sasha when a small procession caught his attention. A thin, hawk-nosed man wearing the robes of a city magistrate walked side by side with the monstrously fat Sumnian he had spotted earlier. A dozen or so dark-skinned mercenaries trailed behind them. Between the soldiers and the mismatched pair at the front of the procession was one of the White Lady’s pale servants — and hunched over next to her, looking like a mummer in gaudy magistrate’s robes too large for his scrawny frame, was a man Cole knew very well.

‘Remy!’ he cried. The physician started as if surprised. Cole began to hurry over to him but was stopped by the bristling points of a dozen spears aiming at his face.

The procession halted suddenly. The old physician looked at him nervously from puckered eyes lined with crow’s feet.

‘And who is this?’ queried the magistrate leading the group, in a caustic tone. Cole squinted. He looked familiar.

‘Grand Magistrate Timerus, this… this is none other than Davarus Cole,’ said Remy, sounding somewhat anxious.

Grand Magistrate Timerus? Cole stared around in confusion. What were Thelassa’s mercenaries doing with the head of Salazar’s council? And why was Remy dressed as a magistrate?

It was the corpulent Sumnian beside Timerus who spoke. ‘The boy who slew the tyrant, yes? My soldiers have you to thank for the bounty that awaits us this night!’ He laughed suddenly, his massive jowls wobbling. ‘Every man knows that when you swear your blade to me, you wed Lady Fortune herself. The dice roll — and as always, they smile on General Zolta.’