The Ember Blade

by Chris Wooding

  With a cry of triumph she surged forward, fingers finding the buttons. Now this one, now this one, now that! Something clanked behind the door. She seized both key grips together and twisted. They turned inwards with a crunch and she pushed hard. There was a moment of resistance as the membrane of the invisible barrier stretched and snapped, then a line of white daylight split the doors as the way to Skavengard opened.

  ‘Help her!’ someone shouted as the light swelled and filled her vision, and the grinding of the ancient hinges drowned out all else. Like a drunkard, she tottered through the doorway and came to a halt, amazed.

  She stood on a broad balcony set into the side of a valley enclosed by snow-tipped peaks. A delicate balustrade ran around the edge of the balcony, and at each corner was a pedestal on which stood broken stumps that might once have been guardian beasts. To her right, a stairway led down, but she ignored it, captivated by the sight before her: the magnificent and sombre stronghold of Azh Mat Jaal.

  The sun was directly ahead, moments from rising over the eastern slopes. Warm light was creeping down towards three rocky islands in the still, weedy lake which covered the valley floor. One island was massive, dominating the valley. The others were small by comparison, lumpen outcrops hugging close to their larger brother. Skavengard covered all three, clinging to their sides, perching on their tips, sprawling where there was space to sprawl. Narrow bridges linked the islands. She saw skeletal spires, mournful towers, colonnaded walkways brooding in dusty silence. It was a castle, perhaps, or a palace, or a manse; a folly of a fallen empire, the size of a town. In the last of the morning’s shadow, it was sad and hollow, crumbling beneath the weight of its emptiness.

  ‘Close the doors!’

  Garric’s shout jerked her from her daze. She looked back to see Fen, the last of them, sprinting through the doors onto the balcony.

  ‘They’re right behind me!’ she yelled.

  Garric and Keel had each taken a door and were shoving against them. Grub dumped Aren on the ground and ran to help. Cade went with him while Fen and Osman readied their bows. The heavy doors began to close, screeching on their thousand-year-old hinges. Vika stared into the dark between them, and horror grew in her heart as she heard the thumping of heavy feet and saw an armoured giant come charging out of the gloom.

  ‘Brace yourselves!’ she cried. Before the doors could close, Ruin crashed into them from the other side, throwing them back enough for his huge hands to grip their edges. He loomed into the gap, holding them apart.

  ‘Push!’ bellowed Garric, and they dug their toes in and re­doubled their efforts. Yet even with four of them against him, the dreadknight forced the doors wider with irresistible strength.

  Vika, her mind still scrambled from the overdose, gazed at Ruin in terror. In that moment, she saw beneath that tarnished armour and found only emptiness beyond, a void so vast and profound that she shrank from it.

  Osman and Fen let fly with their bows. Osman’s arrow caromed off Ruin’s armour, but Fen found a gap in the plates at his thigh and her arrow struck flesh. Ruin gave a roar of pain and stumbled back, his grip loosening. The doors began to grind closed, but Ruin gathered himself and seized them again, arresting their progress.

  A whisper of premonition warned Vika of danger and she pulled her head aside as an arrow shot past Ruin and sailed over the balcony towards Skavengard. It had been aimed at her. Her blood began to boil with poison and rage, and she felt her fear turn to loathing. She’d run from these creatures long enough. There was something in the dreadknights’ very existence that was in opposition to her nature, something that repulsed her. Whatever they were, these agents of the Krodan Empire, their presence could not be borne.

  Unnatural. Hateful. Enemy.

  Osman dropped his bow, drew his sword and ran to attack Ruin, seeking to drive him back from the doors. His blade was caught by another before it could find its target. Sorrow darted under Ruin’s arm, his shortsword thrusting for Osman’s belly, but Osman leaped back before it could find its mark.

  Like a snake, the dreadknight slipped through onto the balcony, his fangs the points of his blades. Osman retreated hastily before him. Leaving Grub to hold one door, Garric lunged at Sorrow from the side, sword in hand, and then all three of them were thrusting and dodging in a deadly dance of steel with Sorrow at the centre. Yet even two against one, Garric and Osman were overmatched, barely able to keep up with their opponent’s speed. It was as much as they could do to defend themselves.

  Fen nocked, drew on Ruin and released. Sorrow’s shortblade swept out, faster than the eye could follow, and batted the shaft from the air without missing a beat in his battle with Osman and Garric. It was done with such casual ease that it was almost an insult.

  Seeing his friend in difficulty, Keel drew his blade and threw himself into the fray with a yell. The three of them together managed to check Sorrow’s advance, but that left only Cade and Grub holding the doors, and they were no match for the armoured giant beyond. Steadily the doors were forced back. Once Ruin got through the gap, Plague would follow, and it would all be over then.

  As if moved by some will that wasn’t her own, Vika stepped forwards and raised her staff. The chaos of the Shadowlands surged and roiled about her, churning beneath the skin of the world, half-visible to her potion-clouded eyes. She felt something well up within her, some blazing force undammed by the fury and terror the dreadknights inspired.

  ‘Back, you demons! In Joha’s name, you shall not enter here!’

  At that moment, the sun rose above the peaks behind her and cast its light full upon the balcony. Within that light, she fancied she saw a greater light, which blazed out from her staff to dazzle her. It burned in the eyes of the dreadknights and they cringed from it.

  ‘By the Nine, I forbid you!’ she shouted, thrusting her staff towards them. Ruin staggered back from the doors, his arms before his visored face, and Sorrow disappeared through the gap, flowing out of sight like quicksilver.

  ‘Now!’ yelled Garric, and they put their shoulders to the metal and heaved.

  Vika kept her staff held out as the doors screeched together. Light filled her and surrounded her, scorching through her veins, consuming her in agonising ecstasy. Only when the doors to Skavengard finally crashed shut did the light snuff out like a candle, and she collapsed into darkness.

  34

  The boom of the closing doors echoed around the valley like thunder. Cade kept his weight against the metal, panting, waiting for an impact from the other side. None came. Whatever Vika had done, it had discouraged them for now. Eventually, half-disbelieving, they all stepped away from the doors. Cade caught Keel’s eye, and the Bitterbracker grinned.

  ‘Reckon that’ll hold ’em,’ he said.

  Cade slumped against the door and grinned back, warmed by the unexpected camaraderie. Now he was no longer in fear for his life, an immense tiredness stole into his limbs. They’d climbed and run and fought past the limits of their endurance, and there was a toll to pay.

  Aren lay unconscious where Grub had dumped him, ropes still tangled round his body. He was frighteningly pale and his breath fluttered past dry, cracked lips. Cade stumbled over and knelt by his side.

  ‘Hoy,’ he said quietly. He put his hand on Aren’s shoulder and shook him, but there was no response. ‘Hoy. We made it.’

  ‘Did you see?’ Osman said. He was staring at the druidess, who’d fallen in a heap of stitched hides and straggly black hair, her lightning-glass staff lying beside her. ‘Did you see what she did?’

  ‘We saw,’ said Garric. He surveyed the balcony, his eyes lingering on the strange castle on the lake. ‘We can’t stay here in the open.’

  Cade lifted his head in despair. The idea of getting up again was almost inconceivable.

  ‘Skarl. Pick up the boy,’ said Garric. He looked down at Vika, and when he spoke again, Cade heard new respect in his voice. ‘I’ll carry the druidess.’

  Ruck, who’d been circling her mis
tress anxiously, growled low in her throat as Garric approached. He stooped and held out a hand to the hound.

  ‘Peace,’ he said. ‘She will not be harmed.’

  Ruck sniffed at him and appeared satisfied with that. Garric picked her up carefully and Osman took her staff.

  ‘On your feet, eh?’ Keel said to Cade. His tone was rough but not unkind, and when Cade pulled himself upright, Keel clapped him on the shoulder.

  Grub sloped over and hefted Aren onto his back again. ‘Come on, Mudslug,’ he said with weary cheer. ‘Grub think you not dead yet.’

  A wide stairway with a crumbling balustrade meandered down the cliffside, broken up by landings cut from the same white stone as the balcony. They followed it to a boathouse of some kind nestled beside the lake, with delicately moulded cornices and a domed roof as smooth and rounded as an egg. Entering through a doorway on the upper floor, they found themselves in a large room, empty and dusted with rubble from cracks in the roof. Arched windows gave a view of the lake.

  Garric looked it over critically. ‘Fen, Osman, find something to make a fire. Everyone else, get some rest. No one sets foot on Skavengard till we’re recovered.’

  Cade was pathetically relieved to hear it. Grub put Aren down and Cade wrapped him in blankets, then lay by his side. Briefly, he entertained the thought of trying to stay awake, as if that could prevent Aren from being taken by the illness that wracked him. But his eyes were already drooping, and sleep wouldn’t be fought off. The last thing he saw was Aren’s face, white as a corpse.

  Don’t leave me here, Aren. Don’t leave me here alone.

  When he woke, it was night. A low fire smouldered in the centre of the room with humped bodies lying round it, wrapped in blankets. Ruck was curled up at Vika’s feet, her muzzle hidden beneath her tail.

  Cade listened to the sound of sleeping sighs, the murmur of the fire, the lapping of the lake outside. It was quiet here, and the fire was warm, and he felt at peace. Then, with a jolt of alarm, he remembered Aren and lurched upright.

  Aren had turned onto his side, facing Cade, his eyes still closed. Cade’s panic eased a little as he saw Aren was still breathing. More, his breath was deep and steady, and there was colour in his cheeks again. Cade brushed lank strands of curly hair back from Aren’s forehead and checked his temperature. He was no expert, but he felt no fever-heat there.

  His face brightened with hope. Had the druidess’s brew worked? Was Aren over the worst of it?

  He watched his friend for a while, but it soon became clear he’d get no further signs of recovery, and he could do nothing but leave him to sleep. He lay back and worried, staring at the ceiling, but that did no good either. Sleep was beyond him. Though his body was tired, his mind was wide awake and his stomach was growling.

  He got up quietly and looked around. Everyone was sound asleep, but Osman’s pack lay open by the fire. Digging into it, he found dried meat and hardapple. Mean fare, but he wolfed it down all the same, glancing about to make sure no one was watching. He took some more and stuffed it in his pockets for Aren when he woke, then he took even more, because the lessons learned in the work camp were still fresh in his memory. He wasn’t sure if it counted as stealing or not since they’d been sharing their food anyway, but the small rebellion of taking without permission made him feel better.

  That’s for calling me baggage, he thought at the sleeping bodies surrounding the fire.

  Then he remembered that Osman, of all of them, had been the friendliest, and he felt a little guilty. Not guilty enough to put the food back, though.

  There was a small stack of broken planks nearby, so he fed a few to the fire to keep Aren warm. That done, he decided to stretch his stiff and aching legs. He left the fire behind and found a narrow stairway that took him to the lower floor of the boathouse.

  Downstairs was another room like the one above, with one side open to the lake via a row of pillared arches. Beyond, a small stone wharf pushed out into the dark water, where a few rotten rowing boats bobbed at their moorings, capsized and half-sunken. One had been dragged out and smashed. Cade guessed that was where Fen and Osman had found the fuel for the fire.

  There was another boat, too, larger and finer than the rest, braced in a wooden cradle to one side of the room. Cade wandered over and examined it. It looked relatively intact, even after all this time. He could still make out the swirling details of whales and waves along the gunwale and prow. He found himself thinking of the elaru galleon that had foundered off Shoal Point, how its whitewood hull had resisted the ravages of time. Maybe this boat was made of something similar. He ran his hand along it, and it was as smooth and hard as ivory.

  A soft noise made him raise his head: the sound of some small movement amplified by the eerie silence of the valley. Warily, he crossed the room to the pillared arches. A low stone wall ran around the edge of the wharf, and sitting on it, one leg dangling, was Fen. She was looking out over the water, where the islands of Skavengard rose silver in the night. The Sisters were caught in a net of stars overhead, on opposite sides of the sky.

  Cade studied her profile by their light, her long face and heavy-lidded eyes. She’d thrown back her hood and her red hair was gathered in a loose ponytail that hung over one shoulder. They’d all been running since the moment they met, and Cade had found her chilly and terse until now. But in the moonlight his imagination recast her, making her thoughtful, aloof and mysterious.

  As if she could hear his thoughts, she turned her head and saw him, hiding in the shadows of the pillars. He jumped, caught staring, then raised a hand in greeting to cover his embarrassment. She held his gaze for a few moments, then turned away with crushing disinterest.

  Crushing disinterest was no deterrent to Cade, however. He was used to it from the girls back home, and Fen wasn’t much older than they were. He walked out onto the wharf, climbed atop the wall next to her and let his legs dangle over the water.

  ‘My ma loves the night sky,’ he said, gazing upwards. ‘We’d go up on the roof of the workshop with mugs of cocoa and she’d tell me how the constellations got their names, and point out the planets. You know the story of Sabastra’s Ribbon?’

  He pointed one stubby finger at the east end of the valley, where a cloudy swirl of red and yellow hung faint in the dark.

  ‘Well, one day, Sabastra, Aspect of Love and Beauty, was dancing in a forest, and Ogg – he’s the Aspect of Beasts and Nature—’

  ‘I know who Ogg is,’ said Fen, annoyed.

  ‘So Ogg, he’s on a hunt and he comes across Sabastra dancing alone in the night. And Ogg, being a lusty sort, he thinks he’s got to have her. So he creeps close and lunges for her!’ He lunged to show her and came dangerously close to overbalancing and falling into the lake. ‘But Sabastra’s too quick. She dances away, and all Ogg gets is a single ribbon torn from her dress. He’s so mad, he flings it away, and it floats off into the sky. It’s still there now.’

  Fen made no reply and showed no further interest in talking. Cade blew his cheeks out and tapped his heels against the wall. She was a tough audience.

  ‘But it wasn’t only Ogg chasing Sabastra,’ he said, brightening as he remembered another story. ‘Joha was, too. That’s how the moons came to be. See, Joha is the Heron King, Aspect of Sea and Sky—’

  ‘I know.’ Cade suspected by her tone that her teeth were gritted. That was alright by him. At least she was paying attention, and Cade had always believed that any attention was better than none at all.

  ‘One day,’ he went on, ‘a fish told Joha that Sabastra desired his company for the night, and he was to meet her in a secret grotto. Except the fish was no fish at all, but Vaspis the Malcontent, up to his mischief. So Joha went to the grotto, and there he found a potion and a note from Sabastra telling him to drink it and wait for her.

  ‘Eager with lust, Joha did as he was told. But the potion had been put there by Vaspis, and it was a love potion. Whoever drank it would fall for the first person they saw. Then w
ho should turn up, guided there by Vaspis’s trickery? Meshuk! Meshuk the Stone Mother, fat old Meshuk, with skin of rock, and lava in her belly, and great big boobs right out to here—’

  He was still miming their enormous size when he became aware that Fen was looking at him with the kind of mild disgust generally reserved for garden vermin. He coughed and scratched his jaw.

  ‘Anyway, Joha fell for her on the spot, and they went at it. Meshuk got with child, and when the time came she had two of them. One was pale and fair; the other was like her ma, cold outside and fiery inside, full of rage. Well, Joha, he loved the first but not the second, and Meshuk’s a cruel, hard mother who don’t care much for her children. Joha tried to convince fair Lyssa to live with him by Joha’s River – that’s that big, bright smear up there near the Hangman – but Lyssa wouldn’t abandon her sister, and she said no. See, nobody could take care of Tantera but her. Nobody else could keep her sister’s fury in check.

  ‘Joha was impressed by his daughter’s kindness, so he set them both in the sky together, between the stars and the earth. And every night, Lyssa goes chasing after Tantera, who’s always trying to slip her sister’s watch. On the nights Tantera escapes, when Lyssa’s not around, that’s when it’s a blood moon night. Then Tantera gets up to her mischief, and the spirits come out to play, and it’s ill fortune all around.’

  ‘Certainly turned out to be ill fortune for Varla,’ said Fen. ‘And Tarvi. And Otten and Dox.’

  Cade sobered as he remembered Fen’s dead companions, and the terror of the dreadknights’ first assault. ‘Reckon it did at that,’ he said. He glanced at her but she didn’t seem sad, only indifferent.

  ‘Anyway,’ he went on, seeking to lighten the conversation, ‘even if Joha only loved one and not the other, the sea knows his daughters. That’s why it strains towards the moons whenever they pass over. And … er … that’s the story of the Sisters,’ he finished, somewhat lamely.