The Gods are dead. The Magelord Salazar and his magically enhanced troops, the Augmentors, crush any dissent they find in the minds of the populace. On the other side of the Broken Sea, the White Lady plots the liberation of Dorminia, with her spymistresses, the Pale Women. Demons and abominations plague the Highlands. The world is desperately in need of heroes. But what it gets instead are a ragtag band of old warriors, a crippled Halfmage, two orphans and an oddly capable manservant: the Grim Company. "[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 Luke Scull is a videogame designer and has worked on numerous bestselling fantasy roleplaying game franchises. He was born in Bristol, England and now divides his time between the UK and Argentina. 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.