The Grim Company - Couverture souple

Scull, Luke

Couverture souple

ISBN 10 : 178185212X ISBN 13 : 9781781852125

Editeur : Head of Zeus, 2013

A propos du livre

Extrait :

Brodar Kayne pushed with all the strength he could muster. It was like trying to force a pebble through the eye of a needle. Or an arm through one of the Shaman’s wicker cages.

The High Fangs were a world away, but there were some memories you couldn’t leave behind. No matter how far you ran.

He bit down and grunted with the effort. His large, scarred hands trembled around his gnarled manhood. The pain was excruciating. Spirits be damned, the pain was unholy. He’d taken arrows and blades in the gut that hurt less than this. At least, he thought they had. That was the problem with age. It played tricks on the mind.

Concentration. That was the key. Shut out the maddening noise of the street and focus on the job in hand. It was easier back up in the Fangs, where the wind was a constant whisper broken only by the howls of wolves or other beasts and a man respected another’s privacy enough to let him take a piss in peace. Here in the big city it seemed everyone wanted to impose on his business. Merchants thrust their wares into his face like he was a pleasure maid at a chieftain’s war gathering. It was madness.

He’d knocked one trader unconscious earlier in the day. The merchant had tried grabbing his hand, apparently with the intent of pressing some gaudy cloth into it. Brodar Kayne had apologised when he realised the fellow had meant no harm.

Gradually he felt the pressure begin to relent. Obstructions of the purifying mechanisms by which the body is cleansed, the physician had told him. He’d wanted to make a small incision, and had only just escaped without his metal tools wedged somewhere unpleasant. Kayne hadn’t survived this long by allowing men with sharp implements free rein to poke around his body.

‘Ten, nine, eight, seven . . . .’ He mentally counted down the final part of his silent ritual. If there was one thing he’d learned over his many years it was the importance of routine in maintaining the aegis of the human body against time’s hoary hand. It had nothing to do with superstition. Or getting old.

‘Five . . . four . . . three . . .’ he continued, and he sighed in relief as the pain lessened and his bladder prepared to empty itself. ‘Two . . . one . . . shit.’ The sounds of a noisy pursuit interrupted him in on the cusp of release and he fumbled his cock, a few drops of discoloured piss dribbling down his leg before it seized up like a dead man’s chest.

Kayne thrust his treacherous member back inside his breaches. Then he strode out of the side alley determined to find out what all the fuss was about.

Someone was going to pay.

A lad slumped against the side of an old warehouse a little further up the street. His head rested on his chest and his breathing was ragged, as if he carried an internal injury that made every inhalation a struggle. Faces peered out from behind doors and then melted away as Brodar Kayne approached the miserable figure. He grabbed a handful of sweat-matted hair and pulled the boy’s head back.

A mouthful of bloody spittle missed his eye by a finger’s width. A hand groped up, desperately seeking a weapon but succeeding only in prodding him painfully in the groin.

As swift as a snake, he grabbed the youngster’s arm and twisted it, eliciting a yelp. His other hand cuffed the insolent bastard in the head hard enough to bounce it right off the wall behind. He reached down and hauled the fool upright, shaking him like a butcher’s dog with a rat between his jaws.

‘You picked a bad day to start something with me,’ he snarled down into the blood-smeared face. He was a lad of around twenty winters, Kayne saw, unusually pale even by the standards of these pasty-skinned city dwellers. His steel-coloured eyes were unfocused and slightly watery, as if he’d been crying. Kayne shook his head in disgust.

‘You know you’ve lived too long when a smack upside a fellow’s head is enough to set him to tears. At your age I’d killed more men than I could rightly remember. Took some wounds that could kill a man too, and came through ‘em none the worse for it. You got yourself a broken rib, I reckon, and that nose won’t ever be as straight as it was. Still, you’ll live – assuming I let you.’

He heard the rustle of chainmail behind him and turned, releasing his grip on the wounded lad. The young Lowlander promptly flopped to the ground.

‘Out of the way! This is Crimson Watch business.’ The speaker was an ugly little man with a plague-ravaged face. He dragged his right leg as he approached. A trail of blood glistened behind him.

The other fellow was younger and somewhat broader but still half a head shorter than Kayne, who saw that he sported a fresh bruise beneath his left eye. The red-cloaked soldier scowled up at him.

‘You’re a Highlander. What are you doing so far south? A man of your years ought to be tending goats or sat around a campfire spinning bullshit tales to convince some maiden to suck your cock – whatever the fuck it is you mountain folk do. You’re not welcome here. Lord Salazar holds no love for the Magelord of the High Fangs.’

Kayne shrugged. ‘Can’t say I blame him,’ he replied. ‘The Shaman and me, we got our differences as well. Enough to make the frozen north an unsafe place for an old barbarian.’ The youth at his feet had begun to moan. ‘I was down this way. Thought I’d pass through, see the sights of the city. Tell me, what’s the boy done?’

‘What business is that of yours?’ said the pock-faced fellow. ‘He’s guilty of interfering with the application of the law. The fucker stabbed me in the leg with this dagger. It won’t stop bleeding.’ He gestured at the weapon at his belt and then to his leg. There was a hint of panic in his voice.

Kayne’s eyes swept over the weapon and noted the telltale glow. ‘Magic, if I ain’t mistaken,’ he said. ‘I’m no expert on the subject but I reckon that wound won’t be closing by itself any time soon. Best find yourself a decent physician.’ He folded his arms and fixed the two soldiers with his best implacable stare.

The younger soldier’s hand went to his sword, but he sounded uncertain all of a sudden. ‘Not without this shiteater we’re not. Come on, move aside.’

Kayne flexed his neck. It clicked slightly. He sighed in satisfaction. ‘No,’ he said.

‘Then you’ll die with him. Merrik, you take his left side.’

The Watchmen advanced on him slowly, their scarlet cloaks fluttering in the breeze.

Come at me, he thought, reaching behind him to the hilt of the greatsword slung on his back. He felt its familiar grip beneath his fingers. He stepped away from the prone lad, sparing the twitching figure an annoyed glance. This wouldn’t make things any easier. His opponents circled around him.

The soldier to his right feinted low and then brought his sword around in a vicious backhand chop. Kayne thrust his hips backwards and drew his chest in. The sword whistled past, barely an inch away.

He caught movement out of the corner of his left eye and spun, forming a crouch. As he felt the steel pass harmlessly over his head, his right elbow rose and crunched into the cheek of his assailant, who flopped to the ground. He pulled his greatsword loose of its scabbard with his other hand as he completed the rotation, raised it just in time to parry the other soldier’s follow-up attack.

His opponent stepped back and blinked. ‘Fuck,’ he said.

‘Aye,’ nodded Brodar Kayne. ‘Let’s get this over with. I need to piss.’

Greatsword and longsword came together. Kayne hardly moved as he casually responded to the wild thrusts and lunges of the Watchman. In desperation, his opponent launched a desperate overhead slash intended to cleave his skull, but Kayne neatly sidestepped it and brought his own blade sweeping around at waist height.

The Watchman stared at the entrails spilling from the bloody mess where his midriff had been. He dropped his sword and moved to gather the glistening, snaking things in his hands, but then reflexively drew back in disgust.

Always bad when that happens, Kayne thought sympathetically. He raised his greatsword and cut the man’s head from his shoulders.

Wiping the blade clean on the corpse’s tabard, he sheathed it behind him and then walked over to the other Watchman, who was struggling groggily to his feet. He grabbed the solder’s head and smashed it four, five, six times into the side of the warehouse. Holding the body upright with one hand, he took the dagger from the man’s belt with the other and let the corpse fall, ignoring the patch of bloody skin and hair left on the side of the warehouse.

He turned the dagger around in his hands. It was a fine enough weapon. The hilt and guard were plain, but the pommel was inset with a large ruby and the slightly curved blade radiated the soft blue glow that signified an enchantment of some kind. He sheathed it at his belt and was just starting back to the tavern when a cough got his attention.

‘Almost forgot about you,’ he muttered to the moaning lad. ‘Suppose I should thank you for this. Might be tough finding a merchant who’ll take it off my hands here in Dorminia, but it’ll fetch a tidy sum elsewhere.’ He hesitated for a moment, then raised a boot and placed it over the boy’s neck. ‘Sorry about this,’ he said. ‘More of those rotten bastards will show up soon. If they find you here, you’ll be wishing you was dead a hundred times over before the day is out. I’m doing you a favour.’

The lad’s face turned blue as Kayne’s boot pressed down on his windpipe. His hands flapped weakly. A pathetic gurgle escaped his lips. Grey eyes met his, wide with the terror of death.

They were begging him. Pleading with him.

Kayne looked away. He remembered that same look, eyes of a similar hue on a face much the same age. Recalled the mad agony as Mhaira’s wild screams hammered at his skull and the sickening stench of burning flesh filled his nostrils while he scraped his arms bloody on a cage that refused to yield.

He looked down at his forearms. The marks were still visible, though he was covered in so many old scars it hardly mattered a damn. There were other, worse scars to carry. The kind that changed a man forever.

Sighing heavily, the old barbarian removed his boot from the lad’s throat and hauled him upright, tossing him over his shoulder with an ease that belied his years. With a final grunt, he turned and loped away as fast as his creaking legs would carry him.

*

The Wolf was well into his cups by the time Brodar Kayne stumbled into the grimy tavern near the slums. He bitterly regretted taking a stroll before attempting to empty his bladder. The patrons of the smoky dive cast curious glances at him as he dropped his groaning burden to the ale-spattered floor. His back ached like a bastard.

He’d gotten soft, that was the problem. They could be on their way east to one of the Free Cities by now. He doubted any of them could compare to this sprawling, stinking place – but they were well within the Unclaimed Lands, where no Magelord held sway and magic wasn’t contraband like it was in the Trine. The dagger at his belt would fetch a chieftain’s ransom from the right people.

But no. Instead he’d been unmanned by the bloody fool who was now writhing around at his feet.

Jerek had spotted him. He was sitting in the dingiest corner of the tavern, hunched over his beer, casting dark scowls at anyone foolish enough to meet his gaze. His bald head reflected the torchlight, giving him an angry red glow. His eyes narrowed further as Kayne stalked over.

‘Time to go, Wolf. I had a run in with the local authorities. They’ll be all over this place like a rash within the hour.’ He waited expectantly as his friend slowly drained his cup and refilled it from the pitcher in the centre of the table.

Jerek looked up at him briefly. Then he raised his cup and drained it. ‘Who the fuck’s that?’ he asked in his gruff, rasping voice, slamming the cup down and nodding at the youth across the tavern. His tone was almost conversational. An ominous sign.

Kayne sighed. Might as well get this over with. ‘The lad? He was about to be murdered by a couple of those bastards with the red cloaks. They told me to step aside. I weren’t that way inclined.’ He waited patiently for the outburst he knew was coming.

Jerek stood up suddenly. He wasn’t a tall man by Highlander standards, though he was plenty broad. Fire danced in his dark eyes as he stared at the boy with an unreadable expression. He stroked his short beard, which was black and shot through with grey. The stroking became a tug, an almost frantic motion. His mouth began to twitch. Here it comes, Kayne thought.

‘Fucking unbelievable!’ the Wolf growled in a sudden outburst of fury. He slammed his fists down on the table, upsetting the pitcher which tumbled off the edge and spilled its contents on the floor. He reached behind him and drew his twin hand axes.

The Wolf gestured at the boy with a shake of his left axe. ‘Who’s he? Nobody. Let him die. Gut the prick. Makes no difference to us. You had to go and get involved didn’t you? Thought we’d done well. Made it here alive. Looked forward to a night of drinking. Well-deserved. Can’t say it ain’t, all the shit we’ve been through. Planned to get myself some pussy tonight, did you know that? Don’t look that way now, does it? Always the hero, that’s you. I’ve had it with this shit. I’m fucking tired.’

Kayne waited patiently for Jerek to finish his rant. The Wolf might be the angriest person he’d ever met in a world full of angry men, and he might be quick to draw blood when a calm word was all that was needed to diffuse a situation, and he might have a tendency to alienate just about anyone who spent more than five minutes in his company – but at the end of the day he was the closest friend he had ever had. You take the rough with the smooth, as his father always used to say.

Jerek had stopped to draw breath for a moment. The old Highlander seized his chance. ‘Calm, Wolf. We’ll steal ourselves a couple of horses and ride east to the Unclaimed Lands. We’ll be there inside a couple of days. See this?’ He drew the glowing dagger from his belt and held it up. ‘Magic. Belonged to our friend over there. I reckon it will fetch us thirty gold spires. Maybe more.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Didn’t you say you were desperate for female company? You’ve been drinking for the past three hours. Plenty of whores over in the corner there.’ He pointed over to the opposite end of the tavern where a small group of scantily dressed women were attempting to solicit business.

Jerek scowled. ‘Fancied a drink first. Can’t a man wet his whistle? I’d empty this tavern’s cellar and still do ‘em all raw and you fucking know it, Kayne. Impugning my manhood. The front on you.’ The Wolf’s grip on his axes tightened and his knuckles turned white.

‘Nothing meant,’ said Brodar Kayne hurriedly. ‘Just an observation. Let me have a quick word with the owner of this joint and get the boy sorted and then we’ll be out of here.’

He moved over to the bar, where a man with a monstrous boil on the side of his nose watched him suspiciously. Kayne rummaged around inside the pouch at his belt and withdrew two silver sceptres. He placed the coins down on the bar. ‘See...

Revue de presse :

"[F]un yet fearsome, gritty and gripping in equal measure...The Grim Company is pretty brilliant."--Tor.com

"[S]pins a gripping tale with expertise and relish."--The Guardian

"[A] grisly, compelling read...hugely enjoyable."--The Daily Mail 

"A noteworthy and gripping debut that promises to develop into an altogether superior series--one well-worth getting hooked on at the outset."--Kirkus Reviews

"Luke Scull delivers a fantastic story that is ripe with action, strong characterization and a tight plot....This is one debut not to be missed and marks Luke Scull as one of epic fantasy's talented debutants."--Fantasy Book Critic

"[A] rollicking dark fantasy adventure novel. It moves with verve and pace...and is threaded through with a great sense of humor."--The Wertzone

"Highly memorable with a great cast and an even greater story all wrapped up in a mature world, told by a true story-teller. The Grim Company is one of the best fantasy books you will read this year."--SFBook.com

"Luke Scull is more than good. He's the sort of author you buy on publishing date and read on the way home."--TheBookBag.co.uk

À propos de cette édition

• Éditeur: Head of Zeus
• Date d'édition: 2013
• ISBN 10: 178185212X
• ISBN 13: 9781781852125
• Reliure: Broché
• Nombre de pages: 464