‘She was like a wolf, but like no wolf you ever saw!’ Darra had said, his eyes bright and earnest. ‘A she-warg, high as your shoulder, broad as a cart, teeth like daggers! I saw her walking through the trees in Sander’s Wood!’
‘My brother saw her, too,’ Mya had said. ‘Next day, three of my father’s flock were gone, only blood and torn wool left to mark them.’
Aren tried not to think of the beast’s size, or her teeth, or the fact he wasn’t one-tenth the swordsman Toven had been. Instead, he imagined the townsfolk cheering their return, the nods of respect from the Krodan honour guard, the pride in his father’s gaze as the governor praised them. Best of all would be the sight of Sora’s delighted face when he presented her with the she-warg’s paw, a hero’s token to his lady.
Ahead, the cave bent sharply to the right and the way was obscured by a bulge in the rock. The light from the cave mouth was feeble this far back, and Aren wished they’d thought to bring a lantern. Facing the beast in darkness wasn’t something he’d anticipated. Perhaps an ambush did make sense. He’d always preferred the stories about clever Tomas to those of his mighty brother Toven anyway. Tomas won through wit and craft rather than force of arms.
But what if there was another way out of the cave? After all this time searching, he wasn’t about to let the beast get away.
Staying close to the cold rock, he peered round the bend and saw a small underground chamber beyond. There was a jagged fissure in one wall, wide enough to squeeze through. The stream ran across the chamber and away down another passage. Nothing moved but the restlessly tumbling water.
‘How’s it look?’ Cade asked.
‘Come and see,’ said Aren, and stepped in.
The darkness was pushed back by a thin shaft of daylight which cut diagonally across his path from a dripping hole in the ceiling. An assortment of slimy plants had found purchase along the stream’s edge and glowed dimly there. He saw phosphor moss and riddlecap, and other moulds and mushrooms he couldn’t identify.
Cade slunk in behind him. ‘Don’t much like the look of that horrible great crack in the wall,’ he said.
As if in reply, they heard a furtive rustle of movement from the fissure, the sound of something unmistakably alive. They turned to face it together, with mounting dread.
‘You know, I heard a tale about a cave hereabouts,’ Cade murmured. ‘A cave at the end of a ravine, with a little stream coming out of it. An old hermit lived there, rotten to the core, with a hook for a hand.’ His voice dropped and he leaned closer, eyes like saucers. ‘More than one traveller took shelter in that cave on a rainy night and never came out. He hung them up like meat. Story goes he died alone and hateful, but his shade walks here still, and the last thing you’ll hear before he gets you is his hook, scratching along the stone …’
Aren gave him a flat look. ‘You just made that up so you can go home,’ he accused.
‘Aye, I did,’ said Cade, shrugging. ‘Worth a try.’ He picked up a rock. ‘Shall we see what’s in there, then?’
‘Not like tha—’ Aren began, but he was too late to stop Cade tossing the rock.
A maelstrom of thrashing wings exploded from the fissure. Aren yelled and swung his sword at the air as flapping creatures beat at his face. His blade clanged off stone and numbed his fingers, nearly jolting out of his grip. Cade capered about, slapping wildly at his own head, trying to dislodge a bat which had become tangled in his hair. Half-seen shapes darted past them, whirling in panicked circles before flurrying away towards the entrance of the cave, leaving the two boys panting and gasping in fright.
Cade rubbed his hands through his hair and looked at them in disgust. ‘Flying rats. Ugh.’ He spotted Aren leaning against the cave wall with his sword drawn. ‘You get any?’ he asked dryly.
‘Next time you think you have an idea, why don’t you float it past me first?’ Aren said breathlessly.
‘I ain’t the one who just led us into a cave to face a she-warg without any lanterns.’
‘No, you’re just the one who followed him in.’
From the passage they heard a splash of water and an animal snort that set them rigid.
‘Well, reckon that’s me done for the day,’ said Cade, heading off after the bats.
Aren grabbed him. ‘No you don’t,’ he said, dragging Cade back to his side. Together they stared into the dark passage. Cade’s fingers flexed nervously on his knife-hilt, his expression dubious. ‘Sure you don’t want to go for an ale at the Cross Keys instead?’
Aren slapped him on the back for encouragement. Cade rolled his eyes and tutted. ‘Go on, then. Let’s get this over with. But I ain’t going first.’
Aren had no intention of letting him. This beast was Aren’s to kill. It would make a poor tale for Sora otherwise.
High as your shoulder. Broad as a cart. Teeth like daggers.
They trod quietly as they followed the stream deeper into the cave. The blackness thickened and they were forced to hunch over as the ceiling bore down on them. Just before they reached the limit of the light, they found a new passage leading off to the right. They heard another snort, loud and close enough that Aren jerked back and held out an arm to bar Cade’s way.
The beast was right around the corner.
Cade’s eyes glittered with fear and he grabbed Aren’s elbow, shaking his head. But Aren gripped his friend’s forearm firmly and stared hard at him. Now it came to it, there was no question of turning back.
‘We strike together,’ he hissed.
Cade wavered, but Aren wouldn’t let him go.
‘We can do it!’ he said, and this time he saw reluctant determination settle on his friend’s face. ‘Aren and Cade,’ he whispered, with a reckless smile. ‘They’ll call us heroes.’
‘They’ll call us something, that’s for sure,’ Cade agreed grudgingly.
‘Are you ready? On my word.’
Cade nodded, but not without a look that made plain what he thought of being dragged into this adventure.
Aren listened. There was another grunt; the sound of the beast moving. He drew a breath, held it for a moment and then let out a cry, as fierce as he could make it. They plunged round the corner, blades raised.
Utter dark faced them. Utter dark, and no sign of their quarry. They faltered, not knowing where to strike, not daring to go onwards, and in that moment the beast was on them with a terrifying scream.
Aren and Cade stumbled back, sloshing into the stream as it charged. Aren slipped on a wet rock and his leg went out from under him. His head struck the wall, stars exploding before his eyes as he dropped to his hands and knees in the chill water. Pain sang from his shins and palms. Somehow his sword had jarred free of his grip. He cast around frantically in the stream but it was nowhere to be seen.
He heard Cade shout a warning, and he was swatted by the beast’s hot, bristly flank, its musty stink filling his nostrils. He tried to wrap his arms round it, to wrestle it down rather than let it batter him, but the beast bucked and skidded in the stream, slamming Aren against the wall, its coarse fur scratching his face. Teeth gritted, he struggled to hold on to it.
‘Cade! Stab it!’ he yelled, though he couldn’t see his friend through all the water splashing in his eyes.
The beast kicked, catching him low and hard in his gut, and his arms came loose. A heavy haunch slammed into his cheek, and then the beast was away, charging downstream, grunting and squealing frantically. The sounds faded as it reached the freedom of the open air, leaving Aren kneeling in the stream, bruised and winded, a dull ache in his belly and groin.
‘Aren?’ Cade hurried up to him. ‘Are you hurt?’
He blinked dazedly, popped his eyes wide a few times to clear the fog in his head, then laboriously got to his feet. ‘Where’s my sword?’
‘I don’t know. You dropped it somewhere. There it is, in the stream.’
Holding the back of his head with one hand, Aren stooped to retrieve his weapon. His face felt hot, and not jus
t from the battle.
‘That was no she-warg,’ he said at length. ‘That was a wild pig.’
‘Looked like one,’ Cade said. Then, to make them both feel better, he added: ‘It was a really big wild pig.’
Aren, sodden and dripping, saw the edges of Cade’s mouth turn up, and that set him off. The two of them leaned on each other and laughed until tears streaked their cheeks. Eventually, Aren showed signs of calming down, but then Cade oinked at him and they were away again. By the time they were done, Aren’s stomach hurt and Cade was in danger of fainting.
‘Maybe best we don’t tell anyone about this,’ Aren suggested as they made their way out of the cave and into the sunlight.
Cade crouched by the stream, wadded up a rag from his pocket and soaked it in cold water. ‘As if I would. They’d never let us forget it. Here, put this on your bump.’
Aren pressed the rag gratefully to the back of his skull. The laughing fit hadn’t helped his headache much. ‘So what do you think? Next time we try the east ridge?’
‘You ain’t still after that she-warg?’ Cade said, amazed. ‘Four times we’ve gone hunting for her now! That’s every day I’ve had off work in the last two weeks! Can we at least explore the possibility that Darra’s a liar and Mya’s just gullible?’
‘We’ll explore that possibility,’ said Aren, ‘right after we’ve explored the east ridge.’
‘There ain’t no she-warg!’ Cade cried.
‘You give up too easily,’ Aren said over his shoulder as he started to trudge up the ravine.
‘Aye. And you don’t give up at all.’
3
‘Step, step, feint! Now parry, feint, thrust!’
Cade sat against the base of a dry-stone wall, eyes closed and face turned up to the sun, content as a basking cat. Bees droned lazily nearby and the breeze stirred the long grass of the meadow. In the dappled shade of a lone spreading oak, Aren jabbed and darted at imaginary foes, practising his sword drills.
‘Are you even watching?’ Aren demanded. ‘I’m trying to teach you something.’
Cade cracked one eye open to look at him. Aren stood with a fist on one hip and his blade lowered, sweating in the heat. Beyond him, the fields spread down the hill to the coast, a patchwork of green and yellow dotted with farmsteads and speckled with sheep and cows. From their vantage point, Cade could see the Robbers’ Highway snaking from the east and the Cross Keys Inn on the outskirts of town, where he and Aren had sucked down more than a few foaming ales under old Nab’s indulgent eye. Shoal Point was a cluster of buildings along the coast, mostly hidden by a fold in the land. West of that there was only ocean, glittering bright enough to dazzle.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Cade said at length.
‘Have you now?’
‘All this business with the she-warg … do you reckon Sora even wants a dirty great wolf paw?’
Aren made a quizzical noise.
Cade elaborated. ‘If you were the highborn daughter of a rich Krodan family, wouldn’t you want jewels and flowers and such? I’m just saying she might be less than thrilled when you hand her a dismembered piece of a recently dead animal with the stump all crusty with blood.’
Aren opened his mouth to make a sharp reply, then shut it again and frowned. The question hadn’t occurred to him before now. ‘Well, obviously I’ll clean the blood off first,’ he said testily.
‘It’ll still smell pretty bad,’ Cade said. ‘What’s she going to do with it, anyway? Wear it as a necklace? It’d put her back out if the beast’s as big as we’re told.’
A sour look passed over Aren’s face. ‘Do you want me to show you Master Orik’s new drills or not?’
Cade levered himself up, satisfied that they wouldn’t be exploring the east ridge on his next day off. Aren handed him the sword. It felt heavier than usual, but that was probably because he was feeling lazy.
‘Ain’t it a bit hot for sword practice?’ he tried half-heartedly.
‘Stop complaining. Come autumn I won’t be here to teach you any more.’
Cade saddened at that, but he tried to make a joke of it. ‘Just promise you’ll send me the paws of any mighty wargs you slay. I’ll have them, if Sora won’t.’
‘Ha! Get to work, you layabout!’
Cade let Aren demonstrate the new moves again and copied them as best he could, but his mind wasn’t on the task. As a highborn Ossian approaching his sixteenth birthday, Aren would soon leave for his year’s service with the Krodan military. Cade, a carpenter’s son, wouldn’t be joining him. Krodans didn’t want working boys like Cade. They only cared about the sons of rich Ossians, who could be trained as loyal and useful servants of the Empire.
He had other friends, but they were the children of bakers, potters, fishermen. None were like Aren, who could speak fluent Krodan, who knew history and mathematics and etiquette and had a permit to carry a sword, even if he had to keep it sheathed and wrapped within town limits. In truth, Cade was a little in awe of the highborn boy, and secretly dreaded the day Aren realised he could do better than a dockside lad with little education and no particular skill in anything.
The year ahead loomed large and empty. He feared it would be a different Aren who returned, one he didn’t know.
He made a passable effort at sword practice, enough to show his appreciation, but it was exhausting in the heat and he gave up as soon as he thought Aren would let him. He didn’t like the sword much, and he’d never be permitted to own one anyway, but Aren always enjoyed showing off what he knew.
‘Maybe it is a bit hot for sword practice,’ said Aren. ‘Do you want to learn some Krodan instead? I could teach you how to make a diminutive noun.’
‘Why don’t I tell you a tale instead?’ Cade suggested, with an enthusiasm that verged on desperation. ‘I’ve got a new one. You’ll like it!’
‘Is it a Krodan story?’ Aren asked.
‘Naturally,’ Cade lied. ‘Do I tell you any other kind?’
He wished his mother would tell him some Krodan stories sometimes, so that he could pass them on to Aren; but though she had a bard’s tongue, she refused to recite the legends of their oppressors. Aren, on the other hand, loved anything Krodan, and said the old Ossian folk tales were for bumpkins. To get around the problem, Cade changed the names in his mother’s tales and passed them off as Krodan. He suspected Aren knew, but the deception let him enjoy the stories of his homeland without admitting it to himself.
Aren settled himself by the dry-stone wall while Cade launched into the tale of Haldric – renamed Lord Merrik – and his companion Bumbleweed. It began with the hapless pair stumbling across a maiden bathing naked in a rock pool, a woman so fair she stole Lord Merrik’s heart. But clumsy Bumbleweed stepped on a twig with a loud snap, and the alarmed maiden melted away as if by magic before Lord Merrik could introduce himself.
Against his companion’s advice, Lord Merrik decided he had to find the maiden and marry her. So they went to see an old woman who told him that the maiden was the daughter of a kraken, and she only walked the earth one day every ten summers, spending the rest beneath the sea. Lord Merrik wasn’t of a mind to wait ten years for another glimpse of her creamy skin, so they set off in search of her, finally reaching Joha’s River in the sky – recast as a magic stream so as not to give the game away – where they learned to breathe water from a fish with scales of fire.
Suitably prepared, they descended to the depths of the sea where Lord Merrik challenged the kraken to a battle of wits, ably assisted by Bumbleweed, who’d happened upon all the answers to the kraken’s riddles during their journey. When Lord Merrik won, he claimed the right to ask the kraken’s daughter for her hand in marriage. The kraken granted his boon, but his daughter promptly refused, asking why she should marry a man who made a habit of spying on naked women in rock pools.
Aren howled with laughter as Cade aped Lord Merrik and Bumbleweed trudging dejectedly from the sea onto the shore, and cheered when Lord Merrik swore off women f
or ever and promised eternal friendship to Bumbleweed, who’d supported him faithfully through all his adventures.
‘Your best yet!’ Aren said when he was done, and Cade glowed, though he knew it was flattery, and bowed. Then he shaded his eyes and looked towards the sun.
‘Best be getting on,’ he said. ‘I have to be home for supper, and Da will tan my hide if I miss it again.’
‘“All things can wait but supper and lovers”,’ Aren quoted happily as he got to his feet.
‘That’s an Ossian proverb,’ Cade said. ‘Bumpkin.’
Aren shoved him down the hill.
4
By a wooded path on the edge of town stood an old boundary stone, weathered to a nub. There they paused while Aren wrapped his sword and scabbard tightly in burlap cloth.
‘I’ll bet you can’t wait till you don’t have to do that any more,’ Cade observed. He was sitting on the boundary stone, tapping his heels against it and patting a rhythm with his hands.
‘When I get back from my service they’ll have to give me a full permit,’ Aren said. It galled him to see the sons of Krodan highborns swanning about Shoal Point with their swords on display. He wouldn’t feel a man till he could match them.
Cade drew his knife from his belt, the blade he used for whittling and cutting his meat, and studied it without enthusiasm. ‘Reckon I’ll have to make do with this.’ He tutted. ‘It’d be easier if we could all carry swords, like before the Krodans came.’
‘Are you joking? You know what it was like back then. Drunken swordfights in the street, armed gangs in the alleyways, bandits on the road. It’s not called the Robbers’ Highway for nothing. It was lawless!’
‘That ain’t how my da remembers it,’ said Cade.
Aren gave him a warning glance. ‘Then he’d best be careful who he remembers it to.’ He stood and secured his bound-up sword across his back with a strap. ‘Ossians are too hot-blooded,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘We don’t have the discipline the Krodans do.’
The Ember Blade Page 2
