An officer of the Watch was surveying the damage. The man scratched at his bristling moustache, which perched like a mouse below a bulbous nose threaded with blue veins. Eremul pursed his lips. What’s your name again? Lieutenant Toram? Ah yes, one of the officers from out in the sticks. Ripe for a wizard’s manipulations, if my luck holds.
‘The enemy has withdrawn for the remainder of the night,’ he said. ‘I must return home and rest for a few hours or I shall be useless come tomorrow.’
‘I was told you were to remain here.’
Eremul tried to suppress his irritation. ‘I would love to, but as you can see I am hardly a peak physical specimen. A wizard’s power only stretches so far. I need sleep.’
Toram looked doubtful. ‘You can sleep here. I’ll wake you if the enemy attacks again.’
‘Look at me,’ said the Halfmage. ‘I’ve been sitting in this chair all night. My arse feels like it has been gnawed on by a pack of rabid dogs. I need my own bed. And a swig of something strong.’
‘A swig of something strong?’ the lieutenant repeated, slowly and carefully. His grey moustache twitched. Eremul was torn between the urge to gloat at his flawless intuition and the desire to vaporize the man where he stood for being such a dumbfuck. The Watch was so predictable.
‘Yes,’ he confirmed. ‘I will gladly share a drop with the soldier who escorts me to my abode. It’s near the harbour, a brisk walk from here.’
Lieutenant Toram rubbed at his moustache one more time and then nodded. ‘I’ll see to it myself. It’s the least I can do, considering what a sterling job you’ve done defending the city.’
The grizzled old officer took hold of Eremul’s chair by the handles and wheeled him to the edge of the steps leading down from the gatehouse. He lowered the chair one step at a time, each small thump sending fresh pain shooting through its occupant’s arse. The Halfmage gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the agony. The first part of the plan was progressing smoothly. He just hoped his contact was where he was supposed to be.
They moved south at an impressive pace, Lieutenant Toram clearly eager to avoid any unwelcome questions from his superiors. Soldiers and militiamen were everywhere, putting out small fires and attempting to shore up gaps in the wall.
Eremul stared around at the carnage. Houses had been flattened, the timber and plaster collapsing under the weight of tons of falling rock. Several sturdier buildings constructed from granite had been hit and still stood, though the roofs were shattered in parts. He saw an arm emerging from a pile of slag near one house, clutching at the air in a death grip. Nothing was visible of the arm’s owner save for a dark pool of blood oozing around the edge of the debris.
They passed south through the Bazaar. One trebuchet load had landed almost dead centre in the market, reducing several stalls to splinters. No one appeared to have been harmed by that particular projectile, but a little further along Eremul spotted a sight to make his heart shrivel up in his chest. A group of orphans were dragging tiny bodies from the Warrens to the south-west of the Bazaar. Some of the corpses were so crushed and twisted they were beyond recognition.
‘What happened?’ he asked thickly as the officer wheeled his chair past the children.
One of the orphans turned to stare at him. ‘It fell from the sky,’ he answered in a voice as dead as old bone. ‘We’re still pulling the bodies out of the rubble.’
As they drew nearer the harbour, Toram spoke. ‘We send foundlings to the quarries up in Malbrec. No one misses them if they have an accident. It must be a right bloody nuisance, having all those little bastards underfoot.’
Eremul said nothing. Instead he gripped the sides of his chair so hard he thought the wood might split beneath his fingers.
A few minutes passed, and then the depository was in sight. The sky had lightened slightly, indicating that dawn was finally on the way. Eremul searched the murk around the building for any sign of his contact. There was no one.
‘I thought a wizard might live in a grander place than this,’ observed Toram as he wheeled him to the door of the depository. The lieutenant’s moustache shifted slightly as he wrinkled his mouth. ‘It smells like shit.’
‘I appreciate the compliment.’ Eremul reached into his robes and withdrew a small bronze key, unlocked the door and pushed it open. He was growing increasingly concerned. Where the hell is the White Lady’s agent? The letter said he would meet me here. Perhaps his contact had been discovered. If that was the case he was sure to be tortured for further information — and that meant Eremul himself was royally screwed.
He wheeled himself into the depository. There was no light within, and it still smelled of damp from the recent flood. Toram followed him inside. ‘It’s as dark as a Sumnian’s arsehole in here. How about we get a flame going and see to that drink-’
The officer was cut off abruptly as a shadow detached itself from the wall behind the door and grabbed him around the throat. ‘Don’t say a word,’ the mysterious figure whispered, somewhat melodramatically.
Eremul squinted but was unable to make out the man’s features in the poor light. ‘I assume you are the agent sent by our mutual friend.’
Toram squirmed. The unexpected guest held a dagger at his throat. It seemed to emit a faint glow. ‘I am,’ the figure replied. He sounded young, Eremul thought. ‘My name is Davarus Cole.’
Davarus Cole. Cole was a bastard’s name, a common enough appellation in Dorminia and the surrounding lands.
He had known another man named Cole once. A shiver passed through him.
Toram shifted again, pushing his captor’s arm away from his throat a fraction. He managed a muffled cry for help, but no one would hear him. The streets were empty this close to the harbour; everyone was taking shelter in their homes.
Eremul sighed. ‘Oh, for pity’s sake. Just kill him.’
Davarus Cole seemed to hesitate for a second. Then he brought his dagger across Toram’s neck in a jerking motion. The lieutenant gasped wetly and fell to his knees. A few seconds later he toppled over and lay still, to the obvious discomfort of his killer.
Eremul pushed his chair forwards an inch or two. Forcing out the last dregs of magic within him, he muttered a few words and evoked a glowing sphere of light around one trembling hand. Then he raised it, in order to better see the face of the city’s would-be saviour.
He gasped. The resemblance was undeniable. That nose, crooked yet still so similar; the grey eyes staring back at him. ‘Your father. Who was he?’
Davarus Cole looked proud. ‘Illarius Cole. He was a great hero. You might say I take after him in many respects.’
‘Illarius Cole. A great hero,’ Eremul stated flatly. He stared at young Cole’s face. The lad nodded solemnly in response.
The irony was too much. Eremul felt the muscles in his cheek twitch, and suddenly the mirth burst out of him. He sucked in air in great wheezing gasps, laughing so hard he almost shat himself.
‘What’s so funny?’ asked Cole, sounding somewhat annoyed.
Eremul waved his hand, inadvertently sending the globe of light dancing over Lieutenant Toram. The man’s face was frozen in an expression of shock. Blood glistened on the carpet below his open neck. ‘I fear you have been… slightly misinformed.’
‘Misinformed?’ Cole repeated.
Eremul stared back at the lad and tried to gather himself. Not misinformed, boy. Lied to. Fed a festering pile of bullshit that would choke the most dishonest magistrate. Your father, Illarius Cole, a hero? I could shatter your world, here and now, if I but told you the truth.