‘There he is,’ Aren said.
Across the road, Tag was emerging from the cookhouse. He was followed by Gren, the stout, waddling master of the kitchen, buttoning his coat as he came. Gren was an amiable Krodan with a shiny bald head and flowing black moustaches, who was always happy to ramble on about the merits of Krodan cooking to any prisoner who’d listen. Even in the days when Aren had envied all things Krodan, he’d have been hard pressed to agree that their bland, stodgy cuisine was superior to that of Ossia. Ossians knew how to eat and drink; nobody could deny that. Nobody but Gren, anyway, who possessed an evangelical spirit and sense of self-belief wildly out of proportion to his actual ability. Every day he took on the challenge of transforming the meanest and cheapest ingredients into something that would delight the palate, and every day he failed.
Diligence. Temperance. Dominance. The credo of the Sanctorum and the motto of Krodans everywhere. Evidently it didn’t always work, since Gren could barely dominate a potato; but the prisoners appreciated his enthusiasm, at least.
They watched Tag lock up the cookhouse and hand the key to Gren, who popped it in the pocket of his pigskin overcoat. Unlike the prisoners, people from the village got to wear clothes appropriate to the weather.
‘Right side pocket, same as always,’ Aren said.
‘Same pocket always, yes, yes. Grub not as stupid as you. Grub take key, no problem. Grub slip fake key in pocket. Fat man not know difference till morning.’
He brandished the fake key in front of Aren’s face. It was a crude approximation they’d obtained from the workshop, cut from a splinter of metal by a prisoner Aren had bribed with new boots. Grub, like the others who worked on the graves, had more dead men’s clothes than he knew what to do with since the explosion in the mine.
Aren eyed the key uncertainly. This was the part of the plan he wasn’t sure of, mainly because it wasn’t his idea. Grub had pointed out that Gren would notice the missing key first time he put his hand in his pocket. They needed to replace it with something.
‘And you’re sure you can do it? Take one key and slip in the other, without him noticing?’
Grub’s hand twitched and the key disappeared before Aren’s eyes, as if it had vanished into thin air. The Skarl gave him a flat stare.
‘Grub could just pick the lock, but stealing key is easier. Cookhouse got the best lock in the camp. Take time. Grub not want to get caught. Then he have to kill many guards, things get messy.’
‘You’re a man of many talents,’ said Aren. ‘An excellent thief and a peerless warrior.’
‘Grub impresses himself sometimes. Also, he can detect sarcasm. Watch your mouth, Mudslug.’
Aren couldn’t help but be sceptical. He knew Skarl society forbade them to falsify their history; it was a severe crime to lie about their deeds, otherwise anyone could get themselves tattooed and call themselves a hero. There was even some kind of priesthood called the Black Triad that existed to verify their claims. But even though Grub came from a people for whom honesty was a religion, his stories of might and valour were hard to square with this noxious bully nobody liked.
‘So, once you’ve switched the key, what then?’ Aren prompted.
Grub rolled his eyes. ‘Grub go to the graveyard, pick up the package.’
‘Which will be buried where?’
‘Behind big cairn in north-east corner. Grub still want to know who put package there and what’s inside.’
‘Grub doesn’t need to know that.’
‘Grub got two fists says he does.’
‘Then Grub is going to spend what’s left of his life in this prison, and he’ll die with half his body clean as an idiot’s conscience.’
The beatings Aren had taken at Grub’s hands were fresh enough that he still had some fear of the man, but he was no longer the victim he once was. Grub’s threats were empty, and he was desperate to escape. As long Aren refused to tell Grub the details of his plan, he had the upper hand.
Grub bared his teeth in a snarl, but he backed down and said nothing more about his two fists.
‘What are Cade and I doing while you’re at the graveyard?’ Aren asked, as if nothing had happened.
‘You hiding in the bathhouse, which Grub will get you into,’ he said pointedly, sulking. ‘Putting on warm coats and boots which Grub will give you. Meanwhile Grub will get package from graveyard because it less suspicious to see Grub digging there. Seems like Grub doing all the work.’
Aren ignored that. ‘We’ll make a blanket rope while you’re gone, and after that—’
‘Grub got you spare blankets as well. Cold in mountains. Thank you, Grub!’
Aren gave him an are you finished? look which he’d learned from Master Fassen. ‘After that, it should be curfew. We’ll sneak out to the cookhouse, take as much food as we can carry and escape.’
‘Yes. Past the dogs, who will bark and then pull our guts out like shiny sausages. Unless someone has a plan …?’ Grub waited expectantly.
‘Someone does.’
Grub muttered something unpleasant in Skarl.
‘So we get past the dogs. Next are the guards on the walkway,’ Aren continued. His eyes lifted to the archers watching the carts passing through the south gate below them. ‘Ideally we’ll slip past in the fog, but if someone should see us—’
‘Someone will have to kill them. Who could it be?’ Grub put a finger to his lower lip and looked upwards in a parody of deep thought, then gaped in mock surprise. ‘Could it be … Grub?’
‘That’s right,’ said Aren patiently.
‘Using the weapons that Mudslug still hasn’t got.’
Aren didn’t dignify that with an answer. The man in the workshop who’d made him the fake key had promised him three crude blades for the extortionate price of a new coat, trousers and socks, but it would be days before he could forge them. The wait made Aren uneasy. At least he’d managed to get them some makeshift hooks and line for fishing.
‘Once we’re beyond the camp, we can follow the river to Hailfell and then go our separate ways.’
He glanced at Grub, hoping the Skarl didn’t have any ideas about tagging along, but Grub’s attention was elsewhere. He was watching a crow that had perched on the ridge of the cookhouse roof. The crow was watching him back.
‘We go soon, yes?’ His voice was distant.
‘The next fog,’ Aren said. There wasn’t much sign of it, though. The weather had turned towards rain of late and the mine would be open again in a few days. Right now they were less hungry than usual and well rested, but that would change if they had to wait too long. They’d be in no state to run all night through the mountains if they spent all day in the tunnels.
If only the mine would stay shut a while longer. If only the weapons would come quicker. If only the fog would return.
Grub nudged him roughly with his elbow. He suppressed a scowl. ‘What is it?’
‘That your friend?’ Grub pointed, his brow creased in puzzlement. To Aren’s surprise, he saw Cade hurrying up the road from the infirmary. It was clear something was wrong.
Aren hailed him, and Cade, wary of drawing attention, walked over as fast as he could without running.
‘You’re supposed to stay in the infirmary till the flask is full!’ Aren said.
‘There’s a man in town asking for you!’ Cade blurted. ‘With a scar across his throat!’ He noticed Grub, raised a hand in greeting. ‘Cade. Pleasure. Heard a lot about you.’
Grub raised a hand in a grudging half-greeting.
Aren had gone cold with shock at the news. ‘A scar on his throat?’
‘Like it’s been cut, Aren! Like someone cut it! The Hollow Man is here! We have to go!’
‘Tell me exactly what you heard.’ His face was grim, set hard to mask his real feelings. Instinct told him that to show fear and uncertainty in front of Grub was unwise at best, if not outright dangerous, but he could see Grub becoming narrow-eyed with suspicion as Cade finished his tale.
&n
bsp; ‘Who this Hollow Man? What he want with you?’
He’s come to kill me, thought Aren in terror.
His father had warned him about the Hollow Man all his life. What he’d thought was a tale to scare a child was no tale at all, but real, and just beyond those walls. Now all those nightmares came swarming out of the past.
‘We’re not waiting for the fogs,’ he said. ‘We’re going tomorrow night, whatever the weather.’
Grub looked worried. ‘Tomorrow night blood moon.’
‘Exactly,’ said Aren. He hadn’t known that until Grub said it, but he adapted quickly. ‘Lyssa won’t be in the sky. By Tantera’s light alone, it’ll be hard to see. We can slip past the archers then.’
Grub crossed his arms stubbornly. ‘Blood moon bring bad luck. Spirits come out to play, everyone know that! Only stupid men travel on blood moon. Grub think this is bad idea.’ A long shriek echoed through the drab evening, coming from the peaks, mournful and unutterably sad. ‘Even horrible thing in mountains think it bad idea,’ Grub added.
‘Am I hearing you right?’ Aren asked. ‘Aren’t you Grub, the great warrior? Grub who slayed ten elaru single-handed? Grub who bedded a Harrish noblewoman and escaped a household of angry guards when her husband came home? Grub who took on an ice bear and won?’
‘Yes!’ Grub cried. ‘Yes, that was Grub!’
‘Didn’t you slay a whole shipload of Boskan smugglers? Didn’t you fight in the Sixth Purge against the urds and live to tell of it?’
‘Yes! Grub did all those things!’ He beat his chest with his fist.
‘And is this mightiest of warriors scared of children’s stories about ghosts and shades coming out on a blood moon?’
‘Yes! Wait, no! Grub punch ghosts in the face!’
Aren slapped him on the shoulder with as much manful swagger as he could muster. ‘That’s what I wanted to hear! I’ll see you on the morrow. Be ready!’
He strode away quickly, leaving Grub standing on the corner. By the time the Skarl realised that Aren had never answered his question about the Hollow Man, Aren had gone.
Cade caught him up a few dozen yards down the road. ‘Was that the same feller who was pounding your chops in a week ago?’ he asked in amazement.
‘You just have to know how to talk to people,’ Aren said. ‘Have you got the flask?’
Cade patted his pocket. ‘It’s nearly full, though I’ll own a fair bit of it is my slobber.’
‘It’ll serve,’ said Aren. He was flint-eyed with purpose. They’d set their course now, and it had all become very real.
‘Are we really going to do this?’ Cade asked. ‘Escape? I mean, if the Hollow Man’s here for you, maybe you’re safer inside.’
‘Whoever the Hollow Man is, my father was scared to death of him,’ Aren said. ‘If he’s found me, he can get to me.’
He didn’t know how it would happen, but he knew with certainty that it would. A prisoner, bribed to poison him? An arrow from the trees as they marched to the mine? Or could the Hollow Man walk through walls as in Aren’s nightmares, a shade not subject to the limitations of human flesh? Would Aren wake in the night to find his murderer standing by his bunk, a blade in his hand, the wound in his throat gaping?
If you ever see the Hollow Man, you run. You run and you don’t stop.
His father knew of the Hollow Man. His advice was to run. Aren thought it good counsel.
‘There’s something I need to do before curfew,’ said Aren, fear making him brusque. ‘I’ll see you back at the longhouse.’
‘Aren.’ Cade stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Aren saw the look on his face and softened. Cade was as scared as he was.
‘We’re going to make it,’ Aren assured him. ‘When the sun rises the day after tomorrow, it’ll find us free.’
‘Aye,’ said Cade. ‘One way or another.’
Aren clasped his forearm, and Cade clasped his in return, and Aren pulled him into a fierce Ossian hug. It felt like what men did, and it made them feel like men. No words could do more.
Aren headed off, his mind awhirl. There was a bigger story here, he was certain of it. The Hollow Man, his father’s secrets, that glimpse of Klyssen in the windows of the overseer’s mansion. Unsettled animals in the village, sightings of a druid in the forest. Somehow it was all connected.
If he lived past tomorrow night, he’d find out how.
First, though, he was going to the graveyard, to leave a little crow-bone charm by a cairn, where Eifann had told him to place it.
The thought of the boy saddened him. Aren had no love for Sards, but still, it was hard to leave him in a place like this. The tragedy of it was that Eifann didn’t want to leave, that he was too scared of what was beyond the limits of his tiny world to act.
Aren would have tried to persuade him again, but he’d seen nothing of him since that strange night in the fog. He’d gone back during the day but had been unable to find Eifann’s cave. There were several places where trees grew thick against the cliffs, but none looked quite right, and he didn’t want to endanger the boy by investigating too closely. Singing wouldn’t work, either; Eifann would only be found if he wanted to be.
He rubbed his thumb against the mark on the inside of his wrist, the mark left by Eifann to seal the promise Aren had made. Blood against skin, that was all it was; and yet no matter how hard Aren wiped or rubbed it, it refused to come off.
25
Gren the cook was a man of impressive girth, and Grub had to crash into him with considerable force to knock him over.
‘Oh! Grub very sorry!’ he cried. He’d gone down with Gren and was now struggling to get to his feet while trying to pull Gren up at the same time. ‘Grub not look where he going!’
‘That’s alright. Just an accident, no harm done,’ said Gren with forced patience, trying to extricate himself from the tangle of Grub’s arms. The road to the south gate was always busy near the end of the day, and some of the other prisoners were smirking at his misfortune.
‘Cook-man not hurt?’ Grub straightened the sleeves of his overcoat for him. ‘Grub got mud on Cook-man’s coat.’
‘Don’t concern yourself,’ said Gren, stepping away. ‘It’ll wash out.’ He smoothed his moustaches, raised his chin and put on a smile. ‘Those are some magnificent tattoos!’ he observed.
‘They tell story of Grub’s mighty deeds. This one mean—’
He was interrupted by a blow. ‘Get out of here, you clumsy Skarl freak,’ the guard said in Krodan. Grub glowered and slunk away, holding his ear.
‘Was there any need for that?’ Gren asked. ‘It was an accident.’
‘Do I tell you how to cook?’ snapped the guard.
Aren, who’d been loitering nearby, detached himself from the wall of the laundry and slipped away from the road, into the alleys between the close-packed buildings. It was another grey day, and steely clouds hid the highest peaks of the mountains. Cade had told him that he’d been praying to Joha for fog to cover their escape, but if the Heron King heard him, he’d been ignored.
At least they had clouds to obscure the stars and mute the weak red glow of the cracked moon. It would be dark tonight. Very dark.
That would have to suffice.
He’d barely slept last night, kept awake by a cocktail of excitement and nerves. His mind raced with plans and it was a long time before he felt tired enough to close his eyes. When he did, he imagined the Hollow Man standing by his bed, and they flew open again. But dawn found him still alive, and he managed to doze for a while before first bell roused them for breakfast.
He found Grub among the longhouses, at the corner where they’d agreed to meet after his encounter with Gren. Cade was already there.
‘Do you have it?’ he asked Grub.
‘Ha!’ said Grub, producing the key. ‘Easy. Fat man not notice anything.’ He winced and rubbed the side of his head. ‘Grub going to get that guard, though. Rip his throat out and stuff it up his nose.’
Aren wasn
’t certain that was even possible. ‘It was well done, anyway.’ He held out his hand for the key.
‘Ah-ah! Grub thinks he’ll hold on to this. Just in case.’ The key disappeared back into his pocket.
Aren felt a flash of anger. ‘You don’t trust me?’
‘No,’ said Grub, with brutal honesty. ‘And Mudslug doesn’t trust Grub. That why Grub still doesn’t know half the plan.’
‘Reckon that’s fair enough,’ said Cade quickly, seeking to defuse the confrontation he saw coming. ‘We’re all in this together, ain’t we? Let him keep the key.’
Cade was right. They’d never actually agreed that Aren would keep the key. Aren just didn’t like Grub’s defiance. He needed everyone to stick to the plan, and the Skarl’s temperament made him a liability. But this was a battle he didn’t need to fight, so he let it pass.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Let’s go. We have a lot to do.’
The bathhouse was tucked away in the south-west corner of the compound, where the river ran up close against the stockade. It was locked when not in use. Stone walls and a stout door secured by a padlock and chain kept prisoners out.
They stopped at the corner. Nobody was around, and the surrounding buildings obscured the archers’ view. Grub slipped up to the door and pulled on the handle. It opened a short way before the chain stopped it, just enough for Aren and Cade to slip through.
‘Padlock look sturdy,’ Grub told them. ‘Cheap, though. Grub know the kind. Pop open easy if you know how.’ He’d been here earlier in the day, opened the padlock and moved it further down the chain. The bathhouse still looked secure, but the chain was now slack on the handles.
‘Grub go to graveyard now, fetch package like good little errand boy,’ he said, once Aren and Cade were inside. He glared at them suspiciously through the gap between door and jamb. ‘It better be worth it.’ He pulled the door shut and they were alone.
‘That feller’s actually pretty handy to have around,’ Cade observed, once he’d gone.
‘You haven’t spent the last week trying to scrape him off,’ Aren said. ‘We’ll dump him the moment we get to Hailfell.’
The Ember Blade Page 19
