And for the chieftain who had made the decision to defy the King and their immortal overlord, the worst was still to come.
Yllandris followed a short distance behind Thurva as they made their way towards the Great Lodge, more out of a lack of desire to engage the woman in conversation than any respect for her slight seniority. Highlanders thronged around them, all moving in the same direction. Mothers clutched at children wrapped so heavily in furs that they waddled along in the snow like baby seals. Their faces were eager, matching the excitement of the warriors striding proudly alongside them. Some of the men bore scars from the recent battle. With their enemies vanquished, the surviving sorceresses were free to dispense their healing magic. The few unfortunates with injuries too grievous to heal were brought back to Heartstone for a proper burial.
The crowds grew thicker as they neared the great structure that dominated the centre of town. Yllandris caught up with Thurva and pushed her way through the press, ignoring the dirty looks and muttered oaths thrown her way. The anger soon faded once they realized she was a sorceress.
The rabble eventually parted and she stepped out to join her circle. They stood alone, just inside the wide ring of humanity that had formed before the Great Lodge. The sun was high in the sky, a brilliant white orb that reflected off the thawing snow to blind the pathetic figure at the centre of the ring. Mehmon was as thin as a skeleton, his emaciated body supported only by the rope that bound him to a thick wooden stake driven deep into the ground.
Shranree raised one fussy eyebrow when she saw that Yllandris had joined them. ‘I do believe you were summoned almost two hours ago. It is troubling that I needed to send Thurva to retrieve you. It behoves a sister to show some respect for her superiors.’ Her voice was sickly sweet and her chubby face wore a friendly smile, but there was no disguising the anger in her eyes. Yllandris drew back a fraction.
This is a woman who would hum cheerfully to herself while she burned you alive, she thought. She remembered the utter ruthlessness Shranree had displayed back at Frosthold. The senior sister had handled the task of massacring women and children as calmly as if she had been preparing dinner.
‘You have much to learn from your betters,’ Shranree continued. ‘It breaks my heart that Old Agatha was so cruelly taken from us before fully imparting her wisdom to you. I hope you will one day prove worthy of her tutelage.’
Thurva smiled in a manner that was possibly intended to be smug but merely looked ridiculous. Even so, Yllandris wanted to slap her irritating face. She was seething inside. You’re all a bunch of tools. Puppets of the Shaman, doing his bidding like a herd of sheep. Old Agatha got what she deserved.
She forced herself to look abashed and lowered her head slightly so that Shranree wouldn’t see the lie in her eyes. ‘My humble apologies, sister. I am still young and have much to learn.’
That seemed to satisfy the rotund sorceress. She brushed at some imaginary dirt on her robes. ‘Indeed you do,’ she huffed. ‘The road is going to be a long one, but we will get there eventually, I am sure.’
Yllandris gritted her teeth and nodded. She stared across to where King Magnar sat upon his mighty throne. His steely eyes met her for a moment and the ghost of a smile passed across his lips. Then it was gone as he turned his attention back to the chieftains either side of him.
Orgrim Foehammer and Krazka One-Eye would return with their men to their respective Reachings once Mehmon had been brought to justice, but for now they awaited the arrival of the Shaman. Orgrim appeared troubled, while the Butcher of Beregund’s lone eye positively glittered with anticipation.
Yllandris had been present the last time the Shaman ordered a public trial. She had been with the circle only a short time, and she still remembered the screams of the accused. The woman’s wails had been unearthly, like those of the banshees that were said to haunt the highest peaks. She recalled the poor old bastard in the wicker cage and the indescribable torment on his face as he watched his wife burn.
There was a sudden commotion behind her. Shranree jabbed a thick finger in the direction of the Great Lodge. ‘There he is,’ she whispered reverentially. ‘The Shaman comes.’
Yllandris looked up see a large black raven perched on the edge of the roof high above. It regarded them all with its beady eyes for a second and then leaped off, plummeting down towards the ground. Crash and die, she wished fervently, but the bird checked its fall at the last possible moment and hopped down to land unharmed on the snow. It shimmered and then began to stretch, first one way and then the other, unfolding like a sheet of parchment in an expansion of mass that made her brain hurt to watch. When the coruscation finally faded, the Shaman stood before them.
The assembled Highlanders went silent. As always, the Magelord was naked except for a tattered pair of breeches. His olive skin glistened with sweat despite the frigid conditions; he seemed not to feel the cold. That blunt, angry face stared across the open circle with blue eyes as harsh as a glacier. Yllandris felt herself wilting when his gaze passed over her, as if his stare was enough to bare her soul for the world to see.
The Shaman turned to the sagging figure that was Mehmon. Yllandris realized she had forgotten to breathe. Had she really considered plotting to kill this immortal? This Godkiller? The thought now seemed as absurd as reaching out and plucking the moon from the sky.
‘Mehmon,’ growled the Shaman. ‘I find you guilty of disobeying the will of your king and rejecting the terms of the Treaty under which all Highlanders abide. The penalty for rebellion is death by fire. Speak your last words.’
The old Highlander raised his head and coughed once. ‘Rebellion?’ he managed. ‘That’s a joke. I’m guilty of nothing but looking after my people.’
The Shaman crossed his massive arms over his chest. His muscles were like knotted steel. ‘You refused tribute. The fish that swim the Blackwater? The deer that roam the forests? This is my domain,’ he growled, revealing his teeth. ‘You rejected the Treaty and you stole from me. I care not for your excuses. The weak deserve only death. This is how it has always been.’
‘Crazy,’ Mehmon muttered. ‘You’re crazy. I should have thrown my sword in with Kayne when I had the chance.’
There was a collective gasp from her sisters and those townsfolk close enough to hear Mehmon’s words. The Shaman said nothing, but Yllandris could see the vein throbbing in his neck as his jaw clenched. All in Heartstone knew the subject of the Sword of the North was taboo. The miraculous escape of his infamous champion still gnawed at the Shaman, for it was his failure that the man had got away. Weakness was something the Magelord would not tolerate — most especially, it seemed, in himself.
‘How many of the Brethren did you send after Kayne?’ Mehmon continued. He forced an ugly chuckle out from between parched lips. ‘I heard he led them a merry chase. It’s a shame that bloodless puppet on the throne never inherited any of his father’s balls.’ He spat in the direction of the King, though it was a weak effort and most of the frothy saliva dribbled down his chin.
There was another gasp from the crowd, who as one turned their gaze to Magnar. Magnar Kayne, the youngest man ever to rule the High Fangs in the name of the Shaman. He had sided with the Magelord against Brodar Kayne, the Sword of the North.
His own father.
Magnar’s loyalty to the Shaman had won the respect of the ten chieftains of the Reachings. Respect as well as fear — for if he could condemn his own mother and father to death, what would Magnar Kayne do to a chieftain who betrayed him?