The anguish Yllandris had seen in both father and son’s eyes the day the woman Mhaira burned would haunt her forever. She remembered the terrible shame on Brodar Kayne’s face as he pleaded with the King to refuse his immortal master and end the horrible spectacle of his mother being burned on the pyre.
Magnar had not done so. He had watched in silence as she was consumed by flame.
At the time, Yllandris had admired him for his pragmatism. He had done what was necessary. He had passed the Shaman’s test. After what she had witnessed at Frosthold, however, she was no longer certain Magnar had done the right thing.
There was a scraping sound. It was the Shaman’s teeth grinding together. The Magelord gestured at one of the Six standing beside the King. The warrior had a torch in one hand. ‘Burn him,’ he ordered. The bodyguard moved forwards to ignite the kindling beneath Mehmon.
‘Another one put to the fire, eh? Heard a funny tale about that, from a Lowland trader no less.’ Mehmon’s words came quickly as the flames began to take hold. ‘See, as the story goes there was once a powerful wizard who fell for the daughter of another. He loved her more than anything in the world. The Age of Strife had never seen two stars shine so brightly together-’ He gasped suddenly as the flame licked at his boots.
Yllandris watched her sisters turn to one another in confusion. What is he doing, she saw Thurva mouth to Shranree. When she looked back at the Shaman, however, she knew. His face had grown ominously dark, like a towering thunderhead in the moments before an epic storm was unleashed.
‘So the tale goes, the Divine Inquisition eventually got hold of the girl. They did things to her no man should bear witness to. Urgh.’ He gasped again. His feet had caught fire. The pungent smell of burning leather drifted through the chill air.
Agony filled Mehmon’s voice as his words poured out in a torrent. ‘The wizard couldn’t do a damned thing. The Inquisition blocked his magic somehow. The experience fucked him up good. He exiled himself to the mountains, far away from his peers, burned everything that reminded him of the man he had been and how he had failed- Fuck, fuck-’
Mehmon’s curses turned into incoherent screams. The smell of burning flesh reached her nostrils and Yllandris felt as if she was going to gag.
There was a blur of motion followed by the sound of tearing and suddenly the Shaman was directly before the pyre, clutching Mehmon’s detached head in one hand, the top half of his spinal cord trailing out like a glistening white snake. Blood gushed from the neck of the headless body and sizzled down into the flames.
Yllandris turned away and this time she was sick, heaving her breakfast onto the thawing snow. She heard others doing the same. Even Shranree had gone pale. The Shaman raised Mehmon’s head up near his face and stared into its lifeless eyes.
She suddenly felt very scared.
‘Are you done, Mithradates?’
There was a collective gasp from the sisters beside her, as well as those at the front of the crowd just behind. An old man had appeared near the King’s throne, seemingly from nowhere. He wore crimson robes that were overly large for his slight frame and his thin beard and moustache made him look like an elderly fop. He supported himself on a slender cane, and was the very picture of weariness.
One of the Six immediately sprang towards the intruder, his longsword raised high to smite this strange Lowlander.
The elderly man raised one eyebrow and suddenly the warrior’s sword was plucked from his hands. It floated up into the air and rotated slowly around so that its tip was pointing down at the man. The bodyguard grimaced but did not move, keeping his body between the sword and Magnar.
There was movement to the side of Yllandris. ‘Sisters, attend me!’ cried Shranree, and she spread her hands towards the interloper. Golden light leaped out from her outstretched palms, raced towards her target — but then, instead of striking him, the arcing light bent around him to dissipate harmlessly. The old man crooked a finger and suddenly Shranree was clutching her throat. Her ruddy face turned purple as she struggled desperately to breathe. The other sorceresses prepared to launch their own magic as some Highlanders went for their weapons and others turned to flee.
The Shaman finally spoke. ‘Enough, Salazar. Release her.’
Salazar? Yllandris recognized that name: the Magelord of Dorminia, one of the original champions of the Godswar uprising and perhaps the most powerful man in the north.
The crimson-robed figure did as he was asked. Shranree dropped to her knees, sucking in deep breaths, tears rolling down her face. ‘Sheathe your weapons,’ ordered the Shaman. ‘All of you.’
Those Highlanders who had pulled steel put their weapons away, though the King’s guards kept their hands close to their hilts. The hulking form of the Shaman walked slowly across to the crimson-garbed man. Yllandris watched, filled with awe. Despite his frail appearance, if this wizard really was Salazar, he possessed enough power to collapse the very mountains around them.
‘Why have you come here?’ the Shaman asked. His voice was unusually quiet, almost apprehensive.
The old man stared down at his counterpart’s hand in distaste. The Shaman saw the look, grunted and tossed Mehmon’s head backwards into the fire which now blazed behind them. The chieftain’s body was already engulfed in flame. Mehmon had saved himself several minutes of intense agony with his desperate story. Whatever one might say about the former chieftain of the North Reaching, he was wily until the end.
Salazar leaned on his cane and tried to blink the tiredness from his eyes. ‘You once made me a promise,’ he said simply. ‘A promise to repay a vow you broke. The time has come to honour it.’
The Shaman narrowed his eyes. ‘What do you need of me?’
‘You know of events in the Trine?’
‘I care not for the outside world.’
‘I destroyed Shadowport. I believe Marius perished within.’
‘Marius,’ the Shaman muttered. ‘He was ever the slyest among us. I would not consider him dead until I saw proof.’
Salazar nodded. ‘Be that as it may, Thelassa now moves against Dorminia. The White Lady has three companies of mercenaries from Sumnia in her employ. They plan to invade. Without help, we cannot hope to win — and my magic is near spent. I lacked the reserves even to Portal here. My journey has taken the best part of a week, using what little power I have available to me.’
The Shaman growled low in his throat.
Salazar stared boldly back. ‘We once fought side by side, Mithradates. United in our tragedy. United in our desire for vengeance. Do you remember that much, at least?’
‘I remember. There are some things I cannot forget. I try — but I cannot forget.’
‘It is our curse, Mithradates. Our curse and our blessing. I would speak somewhere more private.’
The Shaman shot the King a glare and Magnar rose from his throne. ‘Go back to your homes,’ he ordered loudly. ‘Anyone still here in the time it takes a man to piss will spend a night in the stocks.’
At once relieved and disappointed to be dismissed, the assembled Highlanders began to depart. Yllandris was preparing to follow her sisters when a strong hand seized her firmly by the shoulder. She spun around to stare into the steely gaze of King Magnar himself.
‘Walk with me,’ he said softly. He seemed uncertain — and, Yllandris thought, at that moment, very young.
‘Of course,’ she said. Her smile couldn’t quite reach her eyes, however.
How can a son watch his mother burn?
Grim Tidings
‘Hurry this up. I have things to do.’
Eremul shot the hard-eyed woman a look of undisguised anger. She smirked slightly in response.