Dedication
For Anna
BOOK ONE OF
THE DARKWATER LEGACY
CHRIS WOODING
GOLLANCZ
LONDON
Contents
Cover
Dedication
Title Page
Maps
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Also by Chris Wooding from Gollancz
Copyright
1
‘Keep faith and hold fast, and we will free our land!’
Edric had said that, not three days past, as he stood on the battlements of the keep at Salt Fork and watched the enemy closing in. Side by side with his brothers and sisters, pride swelling his chest and angry defiance in his eye, it had felt like truth.
He knew better now.
The forest whipped and scratched him as he clambered up a muddy slope, breath burning his lungs and a cold fist of terror in his gut. Dirk laboured through the undergrowth in his wake, white with exhaustion. The older man was at the limit of his endurance; it was plain by his slumped shoulders and the vacant look in his eyes.
Edric hauled him the last few paces to the top, where Dirk bent over, pulling in air like a man near drowned. He scanned the forest fearfully while his companion recovered. The trees were loud with birdsong, dewed leaves stirring in the dawn light. There was no sign of their pursuers yet, but he could hear the Emperor’s hounds through the trees.
‘You go on,’ Dirk said, raggedly. He had the flat stare of a dead man. ‘I’m done.’
Edric had known Dirk for less than a season and liked him for none of it. He was a low sort, fond of drink, and spitting, and the kind of rough humour that made Edric uncomfortable. Edric was a frustrated young man with lordly blood, looking for a way to define himself; Dirk was an illiterate ironmonger with nothing left to lose. But Salt Fork had brought them together, united them in common cause. Even when everything lay in ruins, Edric wouldn’t let go of that. He pulled Dirk upright.
‘You’ll run,’ Edric said. ‘And when you can’t, I’ll carry you.’
Together, they stumbled on.
He’d always known Salt Fork would be the end of him, but he’d dreamed a different end than this. Fifty of them had seized that town, fifty who dared to stand against their oppressors. Their act of defiance was to be the spark that would ignite the fire of rebellion in their people. He never expected to survive, but at least his name would be remembered in glorious song.
The bards would sing a different tune now. They’d sing of how the townsfolk’s resistance crumbled as soon as the Krodan army came into sight, how the crowds threw open the gates and tried to arrest the men and women who’d led them astray, hoping to trade them for Krodan mercy. They’d sing of a shambolic escape through smugglers’ tunnels, with the ringleaders fleeing for their lives as the soldiers marched in.
They’d sing of failure, and they’d sing it in the tongue of their overlords.
He’d seen Renn swallowed by the mob he was trying to reason with. Ella had died defending him, killed by a stone to the head. He didn’t know if any of the others had survived; in the confusion, he’d lost everyone but Dirk. Perhaps there’d be a rendezvous days from now, some message left at a dead drop, but he wouldn’t be there to read it. The Emperor’s huntsmen had chased them through the night and drew closer with every hour. They wouldn’t see another sunset, and both of them knew it.
A temple loomed suddenly from the trees, towering before them. The sight of it brought them to a halt. Its walls had been breached by the forest and a mossy cupola lay in ruins near the entrance. Balconied domes and soaring vaults had been gnawed bare by time’s appetite, yet still it stood in testament to its makers, an elegant masterpiece from a lost world.
Dirk’s legs shook and he fell to his hands and knees. Edric stared, wide-eyed. Exhaustion had drained him of emotion – even his fear had been numbed – but now he felt a sense of wonder which slowed his hammering heart.
Once, his people had been great. They’d led the world in art, theatre, medicine, architecture, philosophy, astronomy and the ways of war. Their empire had spanned the known lands, and Ossia had been the home of heroes.
But that was the past, and the past was long behind them. Their empire had faded centuries before. Ossia had been under a Krodan boot for thirty years now, longer than Edric had been alive. He’d never known true freedom, and so, in the end, he’d gone searching for it.
The collapse of the Salt Fork uprising and the long and frantic night that followed had shaken his faith. He’d cursed himself over and over for staking his life on a naïve dream of revolution. Yet here, before this silent monument, he found new strength. The blood of its builders still ran in his veins, and one day his people would cast off their chains.
‘On your feet!’ He hauled Dirk back up, though the man was a dead weight.
‘Leave me to the worms,’ he wheezed. �
�The Red-Eyed Child comes for me.’
Edric pointed to the temple, where a dark doorway gaped amid a tangle of vines. ‘If we must die, it will be with the Nine at our backs, in the house of our ancestors.’
‘The Nine!’ Dirk said bitterly. ‘Where are they now?’
‘They’re still here,’ said Edric, his jaw tight. ‘This is their land. It is our land, and it will be again.’
‘You’re a fool and a dreamer, Edric,’ Dirk said. ‘I always thought so.’ Then his mouth twitched at the corner. ‘We needed more like you.’
The arrow hit Dirk with enough force to knock him to the ground. He fell face down, a thick shaft fletched with ragged black feathers in his back. Edric stared at him stupidly for a moment, dazed by the speed of his death. Then terror took hold and he drew his sword, backing towards the temple, searching the trees for the enemy. He found only stillness and an uncanny silence. Even the birds had fallen quiet.
Something was out there, a presence that iced his spine. The leaves hissed in the wind and the very forest seethed with evil.
He ran, springing up the temple steps two at a time, and reached the top before his leg gave way beneath him in an explosion of pain. He crashed down on the flagstones, sword skidding from his grip, clutching at his thigh where the barbed and bloody tip of an arrow poked out. Veins stood stark in his throat as he screamed.
Numbness and corruption spread from the arrow, tendrils of foulness worming into his flesh that froze and burned all at once. He tried to rise and screamed again as the shaft moved inside his leg. His head spun, and everything was suddenly dim and distant.
Through the fog that clouded his eyes, he glimpsed a soft red light inside the temple. A light in that long-abandoned place, where he’d seen only darkness before. He was seized by a desperate hope. Was there somebody in there who could save him? Here, in this sacred place, had the Aspects sent him a sign?
Gasping with the pain, he dragged himself inch by excruciating inch over the threshold.
The forest had choked up the windows and shadows clustered thickly between the columns. Overhead, birds shifted quietly in their roosts among the stonework, subdued by the same dread that had silenced the others outside. Statues loomed at the edge of the darkness, barely more than lumps, hands lost and faces smooth. He recognised them anyway. There was Joha, the Heron King; there was brutish, squat Meshuk, Stone Mother; there, jaws agape and straining at his chains, was Azra the Despoiler, Lord of War.
Edric offered a silent prayer to the Nine Aspects as he pulled himself over cracked flagstones, each movement sending fresh fire from the wound in his thigh. A set of steps led deeper into the dark temple. The source of the red glow was somewhere below.
There was no sound from his pursuers, but he dared not hope this ancient place could keep his enemies out. He focused on the next lurch forward, and the next, until he reached the top of the steps. The red glow illuminated the bases of the columns beyond but its source remained out of sight, hidden by the broken pieces of a toppled statue.
With dry mouth and trembling arms, he slithered down the first step, and the second. At the third, his elbow gave way and he went tumbling and sliding out of control. The arrow in his thigh caught on an edge and wrenched sideways, and the pain which followed drove him into the black waters of unconsciousness.
When he surfaced again, he was lying on his back at the foot of the steps, his head tipped to one side. Tears filled his eyes, wet red hexagons swimming there, glistening. He blinked and the tears slid free.
The source of the light was finally visible. It wasn’t a sign after all, just the fading remnants of a fire left by some vagrant, or a wandering druid who’d sheltered here. No hope of help, then, and no reprieve. He watched as the glowing wood brightened in a faint breeze, and a peaceful, aching sadness soaked into his heart as he realised he’d reached the end of his road. It hadn’t felt nearly long enough.
He turned his head and saw the man at the top of the steps.
To Edric’s dimmed eyes, he was little more than a shadow, but the red light reflected from his round spectacles and made him look infernal, an imp from the Abyss come to carry him away. He was short and balding and wore a long black coat. When he spoke, his voice was breathy and damp; the sound of gentle murder.
‘No more running.’
He stepped down into the light. He was fish-lipped, weak-eyed, with a pale, soft face and the look of a clerk about him. In other circumstances he might have appeared comical, but he had the double-barred cross on his shoulder, the hated symbol of the Iron Hand, and Edric didn’t feel like laughing.
‘I am Overwatchman Klyssen,’ he said. ‘Hail to the Emperor.’
Edric had dropped his sword on the temple steps, but he had a knife at his hip, which he drew and held before him. It was a feeble threat, and Klyssen ignored it.
‘There will be others,’ Edric said. ‘Others like me. And we’ll drive you from this land.’
‘The folk of Salt Fork did not share your conviction.’ The overwatchman raised his head, taking in the gloomy grandeur of the temple. ‘We have made your highways safe and swift, brought order to your cities and given you the gift of the Word and the Sword. We protect you against enemies who would slaughter or enslave you. Your farmers enjoy the fruits of their fields, your seamstresses sew in peace and your children want to be Krodan.’ His tone became puzzled. ‘When will you be satisfied?’
‘We’ll be satisfied when the last Krodan is gone from our land, when your thrice-damned god is cast down and an Ossian sits on the throne again with the Ember Blade in their hand,’ said Edric. ‘We’ll be satisfied when we have our freedom.’
Klyssen lowered his gaze and the light made his spectacles red again. ‘Ah. That you will never have. Because, in the deepest places where you dare not look, you know you are better off without it.’
‘One day you’ll eat those words from the tip of an Ossian sword,’ he spat. ‘Kill me, if you’re going to.’
‘You’ll die, have no doubt of that. But first you’ll talk. There is one among your companions I seek. You knew him as Laine of Heath Edge, but we both know that’s not his real name.’
Edric lay in silence for a few moments. Then he began to chuckle, a pained sound almost like sobbing. ‘He has evaded you.’
‘For now.’
‘Then hope is not lost.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
Klyssen motioned with his hand and three figures appeared at the top of the stairs, silhouetted by the light from the temple doorway. One was hulking and armoured, carrying a great hammer. Another was ragged and thin, holding a bow. The third was cowled and cloaked, with a gleam of metal where a face should have been. The sight of them was like a cold weight on Edric’s chest. Here was the source of the nameless dread that had silenced the forest. It drained the courage from him, and fear made him babble.
‘I can’t tell you where he is. I don’t know where he is!’
He became aware of an itch in his knife-hand, increasing to a burn. Something was writhing under his skin there, vile tunnelling worms that turned and coiled in the light of the dying fire. Horror and disgust choked him. His other hand flew to his face, where the skin had begun to blister, swell and ooze.
‘We’ll see what you know,’ Klyssen said quietly, as Edric finally found breath to scream.
2
The cave was a triangular maw filled with shadowed teeth. Aren studied it warily, knuckles white where he gripped his sword.
‘You think she went in there?’
Cade nodded from his hiding place, crouched behind a boulder, poised to flee. He had his knife in hand, but he clearly had little faith in it.
Aren glanced back in case their quarry had slipped around for an ambush. The green flanks of the ravine sloped steeply up to either side. At the top, sunlight slanted across the grass, but down here it was dimmer and the air was still. The ground was cluttered with rocks of all sizes, from pebbles to great boulders shaken loose
by the march of ages, shaggy with moss and lichen. A shallow stream, ankle-deep and a few paces wide, splashed between them. Dank, scrawny trees drowsed nearby, with watchful crows in their branches.
They heard a sharp clatter of tumbling stones from the cave.
Cade sprang to his feet, ready to bolt. Aren caught him by his shoulder and pressed him back down.
‘It’s her,’ Aren whispered, half in triumph and half in terror. Cade gave a low moan of despair.
Heart thumping, breath short, Aren stepped into the open and crept forward. When Cade showed no sign of moving, he scowled and gestured at him to follow. Cade slid out from behind the boulder, muttering darkly.
They were no longer boys and not quite men, adults in their own minds and no one else’s. Aren was gangly but not tall, his body still finding its proportions. Cade had a heavier build, a clumsy, solid boy who moved without grace. Thick brown curls hung across Aren’s brow; he had soft eyes, a flat jaw and a long, wide nose that split his face like the shank of an anchor. Cade had small features in a fleshy frame, a quick, restless mouth and the first dusting of a beard, the same muddy blond as his close-cut hair.
It was Cade who’d glimpsed their quarry first: a rush of movement, a thrashing in the bracken, a flash of haunch. Big as a bear, he told Aren, when he got over the fright. Just like Darra said she was. They’d tracked her into the ravine after that, and finally cornered her here.
Aren crept up to the mouth of the cave. Within was a chill, grey world of hard angles. Nothing moved. He was about to go further when Cade grabbed his arm.
‘You ain’t actually going in?’ he whispered incredulously. ‘Why don’t we wait here?’ Aren saw him struggle to think of a good reason. ‘We can jump her when she comes out!’
Aren was tempted by the idea. Better to tackle the beast in daylight, where they could manoeuvre. But lurking in ambush felt cowardly. When Toven chased the draccen of King’s Barrow into its lair and slew it, he didn’t hide outside for hours first.
‘No. We’ll catch her unawares, where she can’t escape from us,’ he said.
‘Oh, aye, that’s a great plan,’ Cade griped. ‘Foolproof. And what if we want to escape?’
Aren went in and the quiet gloom closed around him. He kept the stream to his left, moving in a low crouch, his sword held defensively across his body as Master Orik had taught him. A splash and a string of curses told him that Cade had followed him inside, and that he now had at least one wet foot.
The Ember Blade Page 1
