Grim Company 02 - Sword Of The North by Luke Scull Page B

would be punished severely if she were late for Shranree’s summons. The leader of the King’s circle and most powerful sorceress in the High Fangs took great pleasure in chastising Yllandris at every opportunity.
    The hill was steep, quickly rising to provide the best view of the King’s Reaching for miles around. Heartstone sprawled beneath her to the east, the waters of Lake Dragur beyond shining golden in the sun. Rolling valleys spread out to the south, eventually giving way to the Green Reaching, where winter’s grip was shorter and less severe than elsewhere in the High Fangs.
    It was to the north and west that the attention of the women atop the hill was now focused. Battle thundered between the Shaman’s forces and Heartstone’s defenders, bolstered by demonkin summoned from the Devil’s Spine by their gigantic master. While the King’s Reaching was currently a focal point for the fighting, the civil war that had erupted since Krazka had stolen the throne from Magnar raged throughout much of the Heartlands.
    As she ascended the hill the huge bulk of the Herald suddenly rose above the Great Lodge and hung ominously in the air. Bat-shaped wings the width of a field beat a susurrating rhythm, twenty feet of scaled horror turning slowly to stare with a triumvirate of burning eyes right at her, seeming to strip her soul bare. The demon lord’s snaking tail probed the air. Its slavering maw, filled with teeth like ivory daggers, almost seemed to grin at her, and Yllandris wanted to turn and flee back down the hill screaming.
    Having surveyed the town, the demon lord shot up into the sky and soared eastwards, casting a colossal shadow below as it passed. Nothing would impede its passage; nothing would dare seek to challenge it. The Shaman himself had tasted the Herald’s power during their brief struggle in the skies north of town, and even that immortal godkiller had been found wanting.
    It took Yllandris a minute or two to recover herself enough to resume her climb, moving unsteadily on legs that felt like jelly. It cost her precious time, a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by the stout little woman in command of the sorceresses gathered on the top of the hill.
    ‘The prodigal daughter finally graces us with her presence,’ Shranree declared as Yllandris scrambled to join her sisters. The thirty sorceresses that formed the King’s circle turned to regard her. Yllandris tried not to wilt under their scrutiny.
    ‘My apologies,’ she said. ‘I lost track of time.’
    Shranree raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. It looked strangely out of place on that pink, fleshy face. ‘You seem distracted of late. Is there something on your mind?’
    Something on my mind? My lover has been mutilated. All that was once promised to me has been torn away. The foundlings... Yllandris swallowed another sob, forcing herself not to react to the woman’s provocation. ‘Nothing, sister. I apologize for my tardiness.’
    Shranree appeared mildly disappointed. Yllandris thought she might leave matters there, but then the rotund little sorceress beckoned at her with a stubby finger. ‘Come here.’
    Yllandris did as she was commanded. She could feel the other women watching her.
    Shranree studied her for moment or two. ‘The last few weeks have been unkind to you.’
    ‘I’m sorry?’
    ‘Why, you carry bags under your eyes, girl. Your hair is frankly a mess. And as for that complexion... I am beginning to wonder what the menfolk ever saw in you.’
    Yllandris’s lower lip quivered. She reached up to her face and ran chewed fingernails over her skin. She hadn’t painted her eyes or lips in days. There didn’t seem any point now. Her fingers brushed the rough patch on her cheek. It itched constantly. Sometimes she lay awake at night, scratching at it until it bled.
    Shranree tutted softly, a ghost of a smile in her cruel eyes. ‘You poor creature. You are like a snow-flower wilting in the harsh light of the sun. You had best