Swords & Dark Magic - By Jonathan Strahan Page 0,97

it was already promised, I think. By me.”

“We had no choice.”

“It was, I take it, a white sword.” Suddenly weary, Fernrath glanced round her at all the destruction.

“Aye.” Moonglum was surprised she had guessed so easily. “There was nothing else Xiombarg would accept and time was pressing.”

They all seemed stunned by the next sound.

Even when Stormbringer was drawn and he was engaged upon his joyful work of destruction, Elric had never been heard to laugh in that particular way before.

* * *

TIM LEBBON was born in London and lived in Devon until the age of eight. His first short story was published in 1994 in the indie magazine Psychotrope, and his first novel, Mesmer, appeared three years later, in 1997. Since then he has published over thirty books, including 2009’s The Island and The Map of Moment s (with Christopher Golden). His dark fantasy novel, Dusk, which came out in 2007, won the August Derleth Award from the British Fantasy Society, and his novelization of the film 30 Days of Night was a New York Times bestseller. His new novel, Echo City Falls, is due out in 2010. A full-time writer since 2006, he now lives in Goytre, Monmouth-shire, with his wife and two children.

* * *

THE DEIFICATION OF DAL BAMORE

A Tale from Echo City

Tim Lebbon

Jan Ray Marcellan wished they could just nail the bastard to the Wall. She hated venturing beyond Marcellan Canton and into Course, where the people were rougher, less educated, poorer, harsher, and more likely to aim abuse at a Hanharan priestess. It was outside the norm, and even the complement of thirty Scarlet Blades could not make her feel completely safe. She thought the air smelled different out here, though of course that was a foolish notion. It was simply her discomfort getting the better of her.

But Dal Bamore had to be transported to Gaol Ten prior to his trial, even though his death sentence was a foregone conclusion. And she had chosen to accompany him.

She parted the curtains on the front of her carriage, looking between the driver’s feet and the bobbing heads of the four tusked swine hauling it, and saw Dal Bamore staked naked on his rack. Six Scarlet Blades pulled the rack, Bamore’s heels dragging across the cobbles and leaving bloody streaks, and now that they were outside the wall, the crowds were throwing rotten fruit and stones. The Blades raised their hoods and hunkered down, though few missiles struck them. Marcellan soldiers were greatly feared. Fruit exploded across the condemned man’s body, stones struck with meaty or sharp impacts, and he barely moved his head.

Jan Ray smiled thinly. With everything they had done to Bamore to extract his confession, she’d be surprised if he opened his eyes even when they drove in the first nail. She dropped the curtains back into place and settled into her cushions, sucked on her slash pipe, and sighed.

A scream came from outside, and the thud of something hitting the ground. She froze, fingers touching the curtains again but not quite opening them.

The crowd, blood-hungry, frenzied, Blades on edge, and that’s Bamore out there, Bamore, one of the most dangerous—

The curtain was tugged aside and Jave’s face appeared. Her most trusted Blade captain. And he had fresh blood splashed across his cape.

“Wreckers. Stay here.”

As Jave disappeared and more screams rose up, Jan Ray lay back and wished they’d finished Bamore down in the Dungeons.

She only ever visits the deep dungeons if it’s something important. And right from the very beginning, she’s suspected that they have never tortured anyone as important as Dal Bamore.

He has already been in his cell for three days by the time she goes down to question him. The chief torturer has been instructed to loosen his tongue, but not to risk his life. Anything he says must be taken down—there is a scribe beside the prisoner every moment of the day and night—but he must remain lucid and conscious for whenever the Marcellans decide to question him themselves.

Jan Ray is always eager for this sort of duty. It gets her away from the daily grind of running the city as part of the Council, and the way she spends most of her waking time as a Hanharan priestess is dictated by generations of tradition and protocol. She understands its importance, but sometimes it becomes tiresome.

Down here in the Dungeons, she can be herself, just for a while.

There are no screams as she approaches. No sighs or grunts, no pleas for mercy.