Highlander ought to.
‘Here?’ he repeated, trying to hide the pain in his voice.
‘Heartstone.’ The warrior reached down and placed one meaty hand on his shoulder. ‘You’ll meet the King soon enough. Best keep that temper in check.’
Two Eastermen hauled him out of the wagon and lowered him to the ground. One moved to support him. As Kayne threw an arm around the man’s broad shoulders, the boot of his wounded leg accidentally scuffed the snow and he almost howled. The Easterman grinned nastily.
He half-hopped and was half-dragged along a dirt track that was barely visible beneath the blanket of white. Desperate to take his mind off the raging fire in his knee, Kayne focused on Heartstone. The capital dwarfed the small village he had once called home. The sprawl of huts and smaller homesteads around the walled perimeter quickly gave way to larger structures of two, even three floors. Painted signs announced taverns and smithies, fletchers and whorehouses. There was even a shop dedicated to witchcraft. He had only ever known one sorceress, his aunt Namara, who’d kept an eye out for him following the tragic accident that had claimed his mother.
Curious faces watched the Eastermen and their young captive as they made their way towards the centre of town. Grim warriors in hides and furs and bristling with steel looked up from sharpening their weapons or patrolling to scowl at the newcomers. Womenfolk bustled around performing errands, a few giving Kayne sympathetic glances when they thought no one was watching.
Sweat stung Kayne’s eyes despite the frigid morning air. He was burning; his skin felt hotter than a furnace. He gritted his teeth and clutched the shoulder of the warrior beside him until his knuckles turned white.
After what seemed like an eternity a great clearing opened up ahead of them. Just beyond the clearing, looming out of the mist, was the grandest building Kayne had ever seen. He craned his neck, staring up at the summit far above. Whether by fate or chance the sun chose that moment to peek through the clouds and reveal a majestic figure staring down at them, arms folded across his chest. He quickly faded from view as the sun disappeared again.
There was a large crowd gathered in the clearing. It parted as they approached, and a half-dozen warriors stepped forward. Each wore identical armour and carried steel of the finest quality. All moved with the ease of veterans.
Even near delirious with pain, Kayne felt a thrill at the sight of the Six. As a boy he had dreamed of growing up to become one of the King’s champions. He had passed many a summer day practice-fighting with his father and old Renek the Lame, who knew how to wield a sword even though everyone made fun of his club foot.
One hard winter the village of Uthreft had launched a raid. His father had decided that if he was old enough to swing a blade, he was old enough to kill a man. The sight of the thief lying there, the haft of the spear Kayne had just plunged through his neck quivering like an accusation dying on his tongue, had soured him against the warrior’s life for a good while after.
‘King Jagar approaches,’ boomed one of the Six from behind his great helm. The Kingsman moved to one side and went to stand by two of his colleagues. The other three did the same, forming a small guard of honour.
The warrior supporting Kayne went down on one knee along with the rest of the Eastermen. ‘Get down, boy,’ he whispered harshly.
Kayne swallowed and, summoning his courage, tried to lower himself onto his good knee. He was halfway to the snowy ground when his wounded leg buckled and he almost pitched forward, crimson agony exploding in his brain. There was a ripple of laughter from the onlookers, who quickly fell silent as a shadow descended on Kayne.
He blinked tears from his eyes and stared into the thoughtful gaze of Jagar the Wise.
The King of the High Fangs was every inch the man Kayne had imagined him to be. A
‘Here?’ he repeated, trying to hide the pain in his voice.
‘Heartstone.’ The warrior reached down and placed one meaty hand on his shoulder. ‘You’ll meet the King soon enough. Best keep that temper in check.’
Two Eastermen hauled him out of the wagon and lowered him to the ground. One moved to support him. As Kayne threw an arm around the man’s broad shoulders, the boot of his wounded leg accidentally scuffed the snow and he almost howled. The Easterman grinned nastily.
He half-hopped and was half-dragged along a dirt track that was barely visible beneath the blanket of white. Desperate to take his mind off the raging fire in his knee, Kayne focused on Heartstone. The capital dwarfed the small village he had once called home. The sprawl of huts and smaller homesteads around the walled perimeter quickly gave way to larger structures of two, even three floors. Painted signs announced taverns and smithies, fletchers and whorehouses. There was even a shop dedicated to witchcraft. He had only ever known one sorceress, his aunt Namara, who’d kept an eye out for him following the tragic accident that had claimed his mother.
Curious faces watched the Eastermen and their young captive as they made their way towards the centre of town. Grim warriors in hides and furs and bristling with steel looked up from sharpening their weapons or patrolling to scowl at the newcomers. Womenfolk bustled around performing errands, a few giving Kayne sympathetic glances when they thought no one was watching.
Sweat stung Kayne’s eyes despite the frigid morning air. He was burning; his skin felt hotter than a furnace. He gritted his teeth and clutched the shoulder of the warrior beside him until his knuckles turned white.
After what seemed like an eternity a great clearing opened up ahead of them. Just beyond the clearing, looming out of the mist, was the grandest building Kayne had ever seen. He craned his neck, staring up at the summit far above. Whether by fate or chance the sun chose that moment to peek through the clouds and reveal a majestic figure staring down at them, arms folded across his chest. He quickly faded from view as the sun disappeared again.
There was a large crowd gathered in the clearing. It parted as they approached, and a half-dozen warriors stepped forward. Each wore identical armour and carried steel of the finest quality. All moved with the ease of veterans.
Even near delirious with pain, Kayne felt a thrill at the sight of the Six. As a boy he had dreamed of growing up to become one of the King’s champions. He had passed many a summer day practice-fighting with his father and old Renek the Lame, who knew how to wield a sword even though everyone made fun of his club foot.
One hard winter the village of Uthreft had launched a raid. His father had decided that if he was old enough to swing a blade, he was old enough to kill a man. The sight of the thief lying there, the haft of the spear Kayne had just plunged through his neck quivering like an accusation dying on his tongue, had soured him against the warrior’s life for a good while after.
‘King Jagar approaches,’ boomed one of the Six from behind his great helm. The Kingsman moved to one side and went to stand by two of his colleagues. The other three did the same, forming a small guard of honour.
The warrior supporting Kayne went down on one knee along with the rest of the Eastermen. ‘Get down, boy,’ he whispered harshly.
Kayne swallowed and, summoning his courage, tried to lower himself onto his good knee. He was halfway to the snowy ground when his wounded leg buckled and he almost pitched forward, crimson agony exploding in his brain. There was a ripple of laughter from the onlookers, who quickly fell silent as a shadow descended on Kayne.
He blinked tears from his eyes and stared into the thoughtful gaze of Jagar the Wise.
The King of the High Fangs was every inch the man Kayne had imagined him to be. A
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