as he swung his gelding around and thundered back towards him.
Kayne pushed himself up from the ground as Jerek drew near. He could see their pursuers closing on them with alarming pace.
‘Grab my hand,’ the Wolf snarled as he brought his horse around. Kayne reached out, grasped the scarred hand of the grim Highlander and pulled himself up behind him.
The Wolf kicked down hard, sending the animal beneath them galloping ahead at full tilt, every strike of every hoof against the hard ground igniting fresh spasms of pain throughout Kayne’s body.
Isaac had slowed. They caught up with him just as they approached the edge of Deadman’s Channel. The manservant shouted something and pointed down to the water. Kayne shielded his eyes from the sun and tried to make out what Isaac was gesturing at.
It was a small caravel. The ship was anchored barely fifty feet from the shoreline. He could make out a handful of figures watching their approach from the railing. Shit. Had another force been sent to intercept them?
As they grew nearer, however, he realized this vessel was not from Dorminia. The flag that flew from the mainmast displayed a circle of stars on a white background. Inside the circle a woman’s outstretched palm supported a cluster of towers. Kayne didn’t know much of the land south of Dorminia and its hinterland, but he was reasonably certain this was a Thelassan ship.
Several of the figures aboard the vessel had lowered themselves onto a tiny boat and were paddling towards them. He squinted. The man at the bow wore dark robes of some kind, but his hood was thrown back to reveal skin as black as the night. Behind him—
Sasha gasped. ‘It can’t be…’
The dinghy reached the shallows and the young man in the middle of the boat vaulted out and splashed towards them. That swagger, that ridiculous beard, the cocksure smile: they were unmistakable.
‘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