The Ember Blade

by Chris Wooding

  Cade was desperate for oblivion, but something hooked him and kept him listening. Distantly, he sensed this was important.

  ‘We go on,’ said Garric. ‘To the last man, if we have to.’

  ‘They had three dreadknights watching him, Garric! This isn’t a game!’

  ‘It never was. There’s still Yarin and Mara. We’ll find others.’

  ‘Haven’t there been enough? How many more need to die?’

  ‘As many as it takes,’ said Garric, and he walked away. Keel threw up a hand in angry exasperation and went the other way.

  Soothed by the fire’s warmth, smothered by exhaustion, Cade gave up the struggle to stay awake, and his memory of the conversation was lost in a jumble of dreams.

  ‘Come on, you. Have some of this.’

  Osman roused Cade with a cup of hot, salty soup. The day was bright and clear and the sun was high. Cade sat up stiffly, took the cup and sipped at it while he came to terms with consciousness again.

  Fen was hunkered down on one knee, scattering the wet ashes of their fire with a stick. Her face was long and narrow, like the rest of her. She was so thickly freckled that they’d joined together in a cluster that covered her cheeks and forehead. Sensing his gaze, she glanced up at him without interest, then back at the fire again.

  ‘Well,’ said Aren. ‘We escaped.’

  Aren was sitting wrapped in a blanket, wearing a weak smile and shivering. He was white and there were dark hollows around his eyes. Underfed and tired, soaked and chilled, the cold had got into his bones. He didn’t have Cade’s constitution: the carpenter’s boy almost never got ill.

  ‘You ain’t looking too good,’ Cade croaked.

  ‘I’m not the one with my own knuckles imprinted on my face.’

  Cade felt his cheek, sore from where he’d lain on his fist. He managed a smile at that.

  ‘You both look ugly to Grub,’ Grub offered helpfully. He stretched his arms and yawned, as if he’d just woken from a refreshing nap. ‘Skarls tougher than Ossians. Grub walk twenty leagues a day, easy.’

  Cade was too tired to even hate him this morning.

  ‘Well, you three are resourceful sorts, I’ll give you that,’ said Osman, doling out strips of dried fish which they chewed with their soup. It was tough and near tasteless, but compared to prison fare it was fine cuisine. ‘Broke out of the camp before we could spring you ourselves. You’re lucky we found you at all, out there in the forest. If the Krodans hadn’t been so keen on blowing their horns whenever they saw you, we probably wouldn’t have.’

  ‘Right,’ said Keel. He looked pointedly at Garric, who was standing nearby. ‘Imagine what’d have happened if they hadn’t escaped before we sprung them.’

  Garric scowled and turned away. Cade sensed there was something in that comment that he’d missed, but he was too tired to chase it and disinclined to talk to their rescuers for fear of drawing their wrath.

  ‘Well, at least we ain’t going to starve now,’ Cade said with forced optimism. ‘We planned to grab food before we left, but we hit a snag.’

  ‘Hallen provides,’ said Osman cheerily.

  ‘That’s not all he provides,’ said Keel, coming over with a pile of clothes in each arm. He dumped one on the floor before Aren, the other between Cade and Grub. ‘These ought to serve you better than those rags you’re wearing on the road ahead. We brought gear for Aren, though we had to guess at his size. The rest I’ve cobbled together from spares. I doubt they’ll fit well, but they’ll do for now.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Aren warily. They still weren’t sure if they’d been rescued or kidnapped.

  Osman helped Cade to his feet. Everything ached, but somehow his legs still supported him. ‘You look like a stout one, friend. I’ll bet there’s some distance in you yet. A little further, then we can get some proper rest. I’ll wager the squareheads will have a hard time tracking us through these mountains with the lead we’ve got.’

  ‘It’s not the squareheads I’m worried about,’ muttered Keel.

  ‘Get dressed and get moving!’ Garric snapped.

  ‘There,’ said Fen.

  Cade peered over the edge of the ridge and tried to find what she was pointing at. All he saw was the bleak saddle of the pass, scattered with boulders and scoured by a rising wind.

  ‘I see nothing,’ said Garric, who was lying on his belly to Cade’s right.

  ‘Look further,’ said Fen, a hint of impatience in her voice. ‘Among the rocks.’

  Cade squinted and redoubled his efforts. When Fen had called Garric and Osman over, Cade had tagged along. Nobody bothered to stop him. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to be here himself. Perhaps he was just tired of not knowing what was going on.

  ‘Ah,’ said Osman. He nudged Cade and directed his gaze with a finger. ‘Beyond the pass, where the mountains meet.’

  Now Cade saw it. A movement glimpsed among the stones. At first, he thought it was a warg or a bear, but a moment later, he saw his mistake and his belly tightened in fear.

  It was a dreadknight.

  He came slinking out into the open, crouched low to the ground, cloaked and hooded. It was the one with the metal mask, the one who slid like a shadow. At this distance he was only a black blot, but Cade knew his shape, and knew what he was doing. Hunting them.

  ‘They’ve gained on us,’ said Fen.

  ‘How?’ Osman exclaimed. ‘We put the gorge between us!’

  ‘And they went round it.’

  ‘Godspit! Don’t they rest?’ Garric snarled.

  Cade was transfixed by the sight of them. Behind the hooded dreadknight came his companions: the scrawny, ragged one with the bow, wary and watchful; the lumbering giant encased in black armour. Faceless, relentless, they didn’t seem like people at all, but mindless forces set upon their trail, implacable as fate.

  What had they done to bring down such terror on their heads? They were just two boys from the coast. They’d thought themselves beneath the notice of the Krodan Empire; they’d thought they could slip away from Suller’s Bluff and be forgotten. And yet the Krodans had sent these things to bring them back.

  They had three dreadknights watching him, Garric. He remembered hearing that somewhere; or had he dreamed it? He wasn’t sure. Still, he thought sourly, it would make sense if it was only Aren they were chasing. Keel had said him, not them. Of the two of them, Cade had always been the unimportant one.

  ‘What are they?’ Cade asked, for now he wasn’t sure how much of the stories he was supposed to believe.

  ‘The Iron Hand’s elite,’ said Osman. ‘Nobody’s certain how many there are. Maybe a dozen in Ossia, perhaps more elsewhere.’

  ‘Are they men, or … I’ve heard tales …’

  ‘Don’t let them frighten you. That’s what the Krodans want. Beneath that fearful show, they’re men like us. Deadly warriors, but men for all that.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Garric, his eyes dull and flat as he watched them. ‘I’m not.’

  Osman gave him a look. ‘Whatever they are,’ he said, ‘when the Emperor needs something done, something vital, he sends the dreadknights.’

  ‘So they’re like the Krodan version of the Dawnwardens, then?’

  Garric pushed away from the ridge with a snort. ‘They’re nothing like the Dawnwardens. Move. We’re wasting time.’

  They joined the others at the base of a pebbly slope. Aren was sitting bundled up, glistening with feverish sweat; they heard him coughing before they saw him. Keel stood guard nearby. Grub sat a way off, picking at his nails with his knife.

  ‘By the looks on your faces, I don’t want to hear what you found,’ Keel said as they approached.

  ‘They’re on to us,’ said Garric. ‘Fen, can we shake them off?’

  She thought a moment. ‘We can change direction. Take the higher, harder route. Maybe they’ll miss us.’

  ‘The harder route?’ Cade said. ‘Aren’s sick. Ain’t you noticed?’

  ‘We noticed,’ said Gar
ric. He turned to Fen. ‘Lead the way.’

  ‘Hoy!’ Cade said to their backs, but neither of them paid him any mind. ‘Hoy! I said he’s sick!’

  ‘It’s alright,’ said Aren as Osman helped him to his feet. ‘I’m not done yet.’

  No, you ain’t, thought Cade, his brow furrowed with worry. But it won’t be much longer till you are.

  They struck away from the passes after that, spurning well-trodden trails for scrambling climbs, narrow fissures and half-visible paths that clung to the mountainsides. More than once, they were forced to backtrack when their route became impassable. At times, it felt like they were making no progress at all, but when Cade suggested taking an easier way, he was told to be silent.

  ‘They’ll run us down sure as the tide if they’ve got our trail,’ said Keel. ‘’Specially with your friend slowing us up. Our best chance is to lose them. Fen knows her craft.’

  The temperature dropped as they ascended and the wind came sharp and fast, whistling down from the peaks. Aren staggered against it, a blanket thrown over his shoulders and Cade’s arm thrown over that. Tired as Cade was, fear put steel in his legs. He was used to looking to Aren for strength, but Aren had turned feeble and frail overnight. The effort of keeping them alive for so many months in the camp had used him up. He had nothing left for this new trial.

  It was Cade’s turn to be leaned on, then. He didn’t have Aren’s force of will, but he had the broad back and strong arms of a carpenter’s son. So he bore his friend onwards, the way Aren had borne him in the past.

  The ways became steeper and harder, and there was no end in sight. They ate while walking, chewing on dried meat, hardapple and biscuit, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy them. Wane of day found them labouring along a trail that snaked up a steep slope of shale and scree. One wrong step would mean a deadly tumble, and the wind was doing its best to push them into the ravine. Cade’s cheeks were numb and his legs quivered. He walked hunched over, with one hand as a shield ahead of him, the other holding Aren up. All the energy from their brief rest was long since spent. Even Garric and Keel, hardy men both, were visibly tiring. Only the need to support Aren kept Cade from sinking to his knees and giving up.

  One foot, then the other.

  Aren’s breathing was wheezy and he stumbled like a drunkard, tripping over his feet. His eyes were half-open and ringed with shadow, and his curly hair straggled across his forehead.

  ‘Just a little further,’ Cade said, but he was so exhausted that it came out a slurred mumble. ‘Just a little more.’

  Aren went boneless and his legs buckled. Cade tried to catch him as he fell, but the shift in weight pulled him down, too, and they collapsed onto the trail together, perilously close to the drop.

  Osman, who was bringing up the rear, called out to Garric as he hurried to their side. The others stopped, grateful for the halt.

  ‘Get them up,’ Garric said dispassionately.

  ‘He can’t go any further!’ Cade said angrily as Osman helped him back to his feet.

  ‘Look at the boy, Garric!’ Osman said. ‘We’ll kill him if we keep on this way.’

  Garric did, his face like stone. Aren’s eyelids fluttered, but he stared blindly into the distance. Garric’s gaze flicked to Grub.

  ‘Carry him,’ he told Grub. ‘That, or get gone. He’s the only reason you’re here, after all.’

  Grub’s lip twitched in the hint of a snarl.

  ‘You have a problem taking orders, Skarl?’ Garric said.

  Cade wondered if Grub might lunge at him; the look on his face said he might. Keel had the same thought, and moved closer with his palm on the hilt of his sword.

  Then Grub raised a hand and slowly pressed a finger to his neck, where tattoos crawled from the collar of his coat.

  ‘See this? It say Grub carried his friend thirty leagues to safety after fight with urds in Sixth Purge. Friend was a fat bastard, too. Grub never saw him without a chicken wing in his mouth.’ He lowered his hand and shrugged. ‘Mudslug skinny. Grub carry, easy.’ He picked Aren up and slung him across his shoulders like a slain deer. ‘So? We go, then?’

  ‘Down!’ Fen snapped suddenly. They dropped into crouches, making themselves as small as they could on the exposed mountainside. Breath quick and short, Cade searched for the source of the danger. Then Fen pointed, and he saw.

  Three dark figures moved below them in the gathering gloom. Cade’s heart sank. The dreadknights still had their trail. Slowly, relentlessly, they were closing the distance.

  Osman breathed a curse. He looked over at Garric, but the Hollow Man’s mouth was a hard line.

  ‘There’s a wayfarers’ hut not far from here,’ Fen said. ‘Warmth. Shelter. Four walls to defend.’ She never took her eyes from the dreadknights below. ‘It’s something.’

  She’s talking about making a stand! thought Cade, wild with fear. She’s saying we can’t outrun them!

  He looked at the others and saw that they, too, understood her. Their gambit had failed. The dreadknights would catch them by dawn.

  ‘Lead the way,’ Garric said.

  Night had fallen by the time they found the hut, standing stark and exposed on a slope of shattered slate. The ground crunched underfoot as they approached, heads down, forcing their way through the wind. The Sisters hung at half-moon among the stars to the north, pale Lyssa peeking out from behind her cracked and glowering sibling. Even obscured, she was far the brighter, and the spectral light she cast was only a little bloodied by Tantera’s presence.

  The hut was mean and low, walled and roofed with the same slate that surrounded it, and they bundled inside, grateful for sanctuary. There was a single room within, cold and long unoccupied, holding a few pallets for sleeping, a stove and a cupboard. Hide coats with furred hoods hung on hooks, and there were packs and blankets and stout travel clothes bundled up in one corner. Fen went to the stove and found a fire already laid within. She set to work with a tinderbox and flint while Grub dropped Aren on a pallet and Cade covered him with a blanket, grim with concern. In the moonlight that spilled through the door, Aren muttered and turned, caught in the grip of a fever dream.

  ‘Thank you,’ Cade murmured.

  ‘Mudslug can’t hear you, stupid,’ Grub said.

  ‘I was talking to you.’

  ‘Huh,’ said Grub. He snorted back some snot, then snatched one of the warm coats from its hook and began to pull it on in place of his own.

  Cade bowed his head over his friend’s chest. When Grub had boasted about Skarl endurance, he hadn’t exaggerated. A life in the far north had made his people tough. He’d carried Aren as if he was no weight at all, and even now showed no sign of fatigue.

  The rest of them had gone as far as they could go. There was no more strength in them, and any hope that the dreadknights had lost them in the dark felt slim indeed.

  Fen’s sparks caught on the tinder and she pushed it into the fire. Flames gathered and light grew in the room until Cade could see into the corners. Keel was ransacking a cupboard which held biscuits, jars of preserves and a wheel of cheese sealed in wax.

  ‘Who lives here?’ Cade asked, unable to understand why anyone would leave such bounty in such a desolate place.

  ‘It’s a wayfarers’ hut,’ said Osman. ‘A shelter for travellers in winter, lost in the mountain snows. A remnant of the old times, before the Krodans, when hospitality was a tradition.’ He looked about approvingly. ‘Someone still keeps it.’

  ‘At least we’ll die with our bellies full, eh?’ said Keel. Then he paused, struck by the weight of his own words, and Cade saw his bravado falter. ‘Damn it to the depths. Mariella. Tad …’

  Garric laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Your brother will provide for them.’

  ‘He will,’ Keel said bitterly. ‘But that task should have been mine.’

  Cade was surprised to hear affection in Garric’s gruff voice. The others were comrades-in-arms, but these two were friends. True friends, of the kind that were more like
brothers. He hadn’t seen it till now.

  ‘Stand guard with me outside,’ said Garric. ‘They’ll not catch us unawares, and we have little need to warm our bones.’

  ‘That’s so,’ said Keel. ‘We’ve weathered worse storms together, you and I, when the seas tossed and the whales were breaching and harpoons were in our hands.’

  Together they stepped outside and closed the door behind them. Whatever talk they’d have, they’d have it in private; their conversation would be between them and the night.

  The heat from the fire built quickly in the small hut and Cade’s fingers prickled as they thawed inside his gloves, but all his attention was on Aren, muttering incoherently beneath his blankets. Fen busied herself stoking the fire, caught up in her own thoughts. Grub, clad in his new coat, had stripped the cheese and was devouring it, apparently intent on leaving none for the others. Osman hovered anxiously at Cade’s shoulder, watching Aren with a worried expression on his face.

  ‘Can’t we do something?’ Cade said at last.

  ‘Would that I could,’ said Osman. ‘I don’t have the craft.’

  ‘So we’re just going to wait here for them to catch us up?’

  ‘It’s that or have them come upon us in a pass, when we’re too tired to raise our blades,’ said Osman. ‘At least this way we’ll give them a fight.’

  ‘Not Grub,’ said Grub, with his mouth full. ‘Grub not staying here. Grub take his chances with the mountain. Right after he’s done with this cheese.’

  ‘You’ll be missed,’ Fen said sarcastically, not looking up from the fire.

  ‘You’ll be dead,’ he replied, dipping a wedge of cheese into a pot of gooseberry jam.

  Cade’s teeth were gritted hard enough to make his jaw ache. Anger pushed exhaustion aside and he wanted to lash out at something. Aren was fading before his eyes and a doom bore down on them in the dark that couldn’t be escaped or overcome. He’d die as he’d lived: without control of his own destiny, dragged along by events beyond his knowledge. He’d been a fool to dream he could change that.