The Ember Blade

by Chris Wooding

  ‘Dredge of Hog’s Wallow?’ Cade whined.

  ‘Shut your mouth, boy. I’m trying to save your life.’ He handed passes to Fen and Keel and took out his own.

  ‘Why do you have so many spare?’ Aren asked.

  ‘They were not spare when we met at Suller’s Bluff,’ said Garric. He nodded at Vika. ‘That one was Varla’s. I have none that would work for the Skarl; his tattoos give him away.’

  ‘You will present your passes!’ said the inspector as he strode into the common room, accompanied by four armoured soldiers in black and white livery. Footsteps sounded in the corridor as soldiers fanned out through the inn. Two soldiers took station by the entrance; the others stayed close to the inspector as he moved from group to group, studying passes as they were presented, snapping out questions. Soon he came to Garric.

  ‘Passes,’ he said, holding out a gloved hand. He was a long-faced man, blond hair combed unconvincingly across a balding scalp. A monocle was sandwiched between eyebrow and cheek.

  Rot in the Abyss, you filthy squarehead dog, Garric thought as he handed over his pass. The inspector unfolded it and examined the spiky calligraphy, the forged governor’s signature, the faked official seal.

  ‘Your business?’

  ‘I’m a guard. We’re transporting goods from Bannerport to Morgenholme.’

  ‘These passes are almost expired. You’ll not make Morgenholme in two days.’

  ‘A broken axle delayed us. We will stop at Arkencross tomorrow to apply for an extension from the governor.’

  ‘See that you do,’ he said. He folded up the pass, handed it back and motioned to the others with the peremptory arrogance of the officious. ‘Now the rest.’

  They produced their passes. ‘That’s quite a wound you have on your neck,’ he observed as he shuffled disinterestedly through them. ‘How did you get it?’

  ‘Low men waylaid me in my younger days. Cut my throat and left me for dead. The land was lawless before the Emperor came.’

  The inspector looked up sharply, alert for signs of sarcasm or mockery. Garric gave him none.

  ‘Indeed it was,’ the inspector agreed. ‘Hail to the Emperor.’

  ‘Hail to the Emperor,’ Garric said as the inspector returned their passes.

  Now the inspector walked over to the Krodan family. ‘Good morning, young fellow!’ he said as he ruffled the boy’s blond hair. Then, to his father: ‘May I see your identity documents, and a pass for the Brunlander?’

  ‘Nine, he’s got a better attitude when he’s dealing with Krodans,’ Keel muttered.

  Garric wasn’t listening. He was staring at the father, who was casting uneasy looks in their direction as he showed his documents.

  Say nothing, Garric thought at him. He hasn’t asked. Don’t tell.

  ‘Everything appears to be in order,’ said the inspector, barely glancing at the paperwork before he handed it back. The father took them with a weak smile, then drew a quick breath: a decision made, he was about to speak.

  Here it comes, thought Garric, and his hand moved towards his sword.

  The father saw it. His gaze flicked to his son and daughter, sitting opposite. He swallowed the words down again.

  ‘Thank you, Inspector,’ he said, looking faintly ill.

  That’s right, keep your mouth shut, Garric thought. You don’t want a swordfight in here.

  A soldier hurried into the room. ‘Inspector! We found a Sard in the stable yard, trying to leave. Her companion is giving us trouble.’

  ‘Stay in your seats, all of you!’ the inspector barked at the room, and he left with the soldiers following him.

  Once he was gone, the travellers in the common room began to mutter between themselves again. Keel relaxed and let out a low whistle of relief. ‘Thought for a moment there he wouldn’t believe us.’

  Aren surged up from the table. ‘They’re going to arrest her!’ he blurted.

  ‘So what?’ asked Cade.

  ‘They’ll take her away, like they did to those Sards at the camp!’

  ‘That’s what happens when they arrest people, Aren. We should know, it happened to us.’

  Aren clenched and unclenched his fists, looking towards the door in evident agitation. ‘She needs our help,’ he said, and then he was past Garric and running towards the exit.

  ‘Hoy! The inspector said to stay here!’ Cade called.

  ‘He’ll get us all caught!’ said Keel.

  ‘Still glad he didn’t leave with the merchants?’ Garric growled, and they set off after him.

  50

  ‘I am a knight of Harrow and a scion of High House Anselm!’ Harod’s voice rang out across the yard. ‘And this lady is under my protection!’

  A small crowd had gathered around the cobbled yard. Others watched the commotion from the gallery. In the gate of an empty stall, Harod had taken up a combat stance that looked at best theatrical, at worst ridiculous. Five Krodan soldiers stood before him; Orica sheltered nervously behind. Nearby, a cart had been hitched up to two horses that were now being held by stable boys. Garric presumed they’d been caught trying to leave.

  ‘Get up on the balcony,’ he told Fen. ‘We may need your bow. The rest of you, stick close.’

  They pushed their way to the front of the crowd, where Garric seized Aren by the arm.

  ‘What’s in your head, boy? This isn’t our fight!’

  Aren pulled away from him with the sullen fury of the young. Garric let him go; a struggle here would attract attention.

  ‘When will it be our fight?’ Aren demanded.

  ‘When the time is right! Pick your battles. There are more important things at stake here than some Sard, no matter how pretty you think her.’

  Aren gave him a look of disgust, but though he was desperate to do something, there was nothing to be done.

  ‘Let’s just shoot the fool!’ said a crossbowman to Garric’s right, his weapon aimed and ready.

  ‘Hold,’ said the soldier next to him. ‘He says he’s a Harrish noble. You don’t want to upset the apple cart right before the prince’s wedding, not with the Emperor trying to make an alliance.’

  The crossbowman spat in the dirt. ‘He’s on Krodan soil now,’ he said, but he didn’t fire.

  The inspector walked out into the yard and put his fist across his chest in salute. ‘Hail to the Emperor!’ he declared loudly, addressing Harod. ‘If you are indeed who you say you are, then you’re a civilised man. Put up your sword. There is no need for violence.’

  ‘You shall not have her,’ said Harod, his eyes never leaving the men arrayed against him.

  ‘If she has the correct paperwork, she will be allowed to continue on her way. If not, she will be detained. There is nothing to fear if you’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘In this land, that has not been true for a long time.’

  The inspector stiffened. He glanced around at the waiting crowd. His air of authority was slipping, and his temper with it.

  ‘This land is part of the Krodan Empire!’ he said, a note of indignity creeping into his voice. ‘And we follow the rule of law here! I say again: put up your sword. We will show you no mercy if you do not! Neither you nor the Sard you protect.’

  Garric didn’t miss the distaste in the inspector’s voice. Sard. Harod didn’t miss it, either.

  ‘Tell me, Inspector,’ Harod said, with that unwavering, haughty calm, ‘what law protects the Sards? We have been to Addisport, Tatterfane, Maresmouth. Once, there were hundreds of Sards in those towns. Now there are none. Disappeared, almost overnight, and taken east in secret. Where do you send them? To the ghetto in Morgenholme? Is that where you will send milady?’

  The inspector’s nostrils flared. That was too much defiance to be borne in public. ‘You have refused to obey a representative of the Emperor before all these good citizens. Your noble birth does not entitle you to act like a criminal here. One last time: put up your sword, or I will have you both executed!’

  ‘Harod!’
said Orica. ‘Do as he says. You can’t fight them all.’

  ‘And surrender milady to whatever fate they have in store? I think not.’ He raised his voice. ‘Come at me, then, if you must; but you will pay a heavy price for it.’

  ‘As you wish,’ said the inspector. ‘Kill him!’

  The soldiers edged closer, keeping him at sword’s length. The crossbowman to Garric’s right sighted but didn’t fire.

  ‘They’re in the way,’ he muttered.

  ‘There’s five of them,’ said his companion. ‘He won’t last long.’

  One of the soldiers lunged. Harod tapped his blade aside, ran him neatly through and reverted to the same awkward, constipated fighting stance as before.

  ‘Four now,’ said Garric, unable to resist.

  ‘Kill him!’ the inspector yelled, his face reddening. Soldiers ran in from the crowd to join their fellows, including the crossbowman’s companion. Garric saw a second crossbowman nearby, circling for a shot.

  Now they all set upon Harod together. He’d chosen his spot well, for with the wooden walls of the stall to either side they could only approach two at a time. His sword flicked this way and that, his movements coiled, economical and disciplined. The Harrish fighting style was designed to frustrate, a patiently defensive art aimed at luring the enemy into overextending themselves. When they did, they died. It was quickly plain that he was an expert at it.

  Another Krodan soldier dropped at Harod’s feet. His companion, angered by the sight, pressed harder and got a blade in the belly for his trouble. But now there were a dozen soldiers moving in on him, and he couldn’t win against those odds. He’d be killed soon enough, though Garric couldn’t help admiring him for putting up such a fight.

  ‘We have to do something,’ Aren said.

  ‘It’s not our business,’ said Garric.

  Aren was rubbing at an odd mark on his wrist. ‘A Sard helped me escape that camp. I’d never have got out if not for him.’

  ‘Dying’s a poor way to honour his efforts,’ said Garric. ‘World’s a bad place, and sometimes you have to turn away. You can’t stop this.’

  ‘I owe him a debt.’

  ‘Boy, you know nothing of debts.’

  ‘I know what lengths you went to in order to pay yours.’

  Garric let that pass. The fight around the stable stall had become a bloody farce for the Krodans. Two men were dead and another was screaming and holding in his guts as blood spurted across the cobbles. Those behind him were trying to step over their fallen, while Harod fended away any who came near.

  The inspector’s fury grew as he saw some Ossians in the crowd daring to smirk. ‘Make space, you moonwits!’ he shouted at his men. ‘Crossbows, take aim!’

  Aren’s hand was clasped around the hilt of his sword, his pulse jumping at his neck. ‘Turn away,’ Garric warned.

  ‘I can’t,’ said Aren, and he surged forward with a cry, drawing his sword.

  ‘Aren, don’t!’ Cade cried from behind him.

  ‘I knew he had a death wish,’ Keel muttered, and he muscled out of the crowd, pulling his own blade as he ran after Aren.

  So be it, thought Garric, and a flare of eager violence lit in his breast. He barged sideways, knocking into the crossbowman on his right. The trigger clicked, the bowstring thumped and the quarrel meant for Harod buried itself in the meat of a soldier’s arm instead.

  The second crossbowman, who also had Harod in his sights, hesitated as he heard the soldier scream. Fen shot him through the neck from above and he fell gargling, his crossbow firing harmlessly into the cobbles.

  Garric wrapped his arm around the first crossbowman’s throat and pulled him roughly onto his waiting dagger. He plunged it in three times, then let the man drop and drew his sword, his blood igniting in his veins. ‘For Ossia!’ he roared, his blade held high; then he charged.

  The inspector scrambled back into the crowd as Aren, Keel and Garric laid into the soldiers from the rear. Aren reached them first and caught his target by surprise. The soldier was still turning when Aren plunged a sword through his ribs. Boy and man stood shocked and still, one realising what he’d done, the other what had been done to him. Then the soldier toppled, pulling the sword from Aren’s numb hands.

  Aren stumbled back, dazed and appalled. The boy was no killer; he wasn’t used to death up close, or the look in a man’s eyes as he died.

  A Krodan soldier bore down on him, his blade raised. Garric moved to intercept, but before he could, an arrow punched through the soldier’s cheeks. It was Fen, still shooting from above. The soldier dropped his sword and staggered back, pawing at his face, blood spilling over his lips. Garric decapitated him while he was defenceless.

  The crowd scattered, screaming and shouting, running for the safety of the inn. Stable boys fled this way and that. Garric pulled Aren behind him.

  ‘Stay back, boy. You’ve done enough.’

  He ran to join Keel and together they laid into the soldiers, while Harod pressed the advantage from the other side. The Krodans panicked as they found themselves surrounded, their discipline crumbling, and after that they were mere meat for the cutting. Garric hacked and stabbed, hot blood spattering his cheek as his blade bit bone. He gave a cry of exultation and hate, swept up in the joyous throes of killing. He was unleashed now, and Nine, how he wished he could slaughter them all this way, how he wished every Krodan could die at his hand!

  But the fight was all too brief, and as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Garric stood panting among the corpses. The stable yard had emptied, the surviving soldiers put to flight. The man with the belly wound was still groaning weakly on the ground. Garric put a sword in him with less thought than he’d give to slaying a chicken.

  He straightened and glanced over at Aren. The boy looked sick. ‘Pick up your sword,’ Garric told him. ‘You killed a man, that’s all. You’ll do worse than that if you mean to follow me.’

  Aren wavered for an instant, then his face firmed. He stooped, pulled his sword out of the dead soldier and sheathed it again.

  ‘Thank you for your aid,’ said Harod formally, ‘but it was not required. I had the matter in hand.’

  Keel laughed in disbelief. ‘You’d have had a crossbow bolt in each eye, Harrow man!’

  ‘I beg to differ.’

  ‘He begs to differ,’ said Keel flatly, looking at Garric.

  ‘Beg all you like, and save your thanks,’ Garric told Harod. ‘Those Krodans will be back with reinforcements. We’d best not be here when they do.’ He eyed the cart, hitched and idle at the edge of the yard, the horses stamping nervously at the smell of blood. ‘That’s yours?’

  ‘Out of the question!’ Harod said. ‘We travel alo—’

  ‘What Harod means to say,’ said Orica, emerging from the stall behind him, ‘is that we are deeply grateful for your help, and it would be our honour to have you travel with us to Morgenholme, in return for your protection on the journey. Isn’t that right, Harod?’

  ‘Milady!’ Harod protested. ‘I am quite capable of defending you myself!’

  She laid a hand on his arm. ‘I know you are,’ she said gently. ‘But there’s no harm in a little help, yes? And these people are no friends of the Krodans.’ Her green eyes found Aren.

  Garric caught her look and wondered what had passed between them last night in the common room. But now wasn’t the time to ask. The battle-fury was leaking away, leaving him trembling, and they needed to go.

  ‘Fortune smiles on us,’ he said. ‘The capital is our destination, too. But the way south is too dangerous now. We plan a safer route, first north and then by sea.’

  Orica inclined her head. ‘That is wise,’ she said. ‘We will go that way.’

  Harod said nothing. The slightest tic of his right eye was the only sign of his anger. Garric cared nothing for his feelings, as long as he didn’t oppose them.

  ‘Well and good, then,’ said Garric. ‘Now where’s that cursed Skarl got to?’

  A do
or at the edge of the stable yard was booted open and Grub emerged, dragging the corpse of the inspector by the arm. He dumped the body on the cobbles and dusted off his hands.

  ‘What did you kill him for?’ Cade asked. ‘He was running away.’

  ‘Grub didn’t like his face,’ he said. Then he popped the inspect­or’s monocle over one eye and grinned a crooked grin.

  ‘One less Krodan to burden the world,’ said Garric. ‘But enough escaped that could recognise us. Get your packs, all of you. We’re leaving.’

  He set off across the yard. Aren stared at him hollowly as he approached.

  ‘I had to do it,’ Aren said, as if Garric had asked for an explanation. ‘You think I’m a fool, but you’d have turned away. You’d have left them to die.’

  ‘Aye, I would. But you didn’t,’ he said as he walked past. ‘That’s why there’s still hope for you.’

  We are none of us responsible for the sins of our fathers, he thought as he went inside. When he was sure nobody could see him, he let a grudging smile cross his lips. And perhaps we’re not doomed to repeat them, either.

  51

  There’s nothing so fleet as news, thought Overwatchman Klyssen as he watched the hills roll by beyond the carriage window. It was a popular saying among the Ossians, who liked talk for talk’s sake and were never averse to stating the obvious. And nothing so slow as justice.

  News of the incident at the Reaver’s Rest had been fleet indeed. By now, every settlement within twenty leagues had heard how a road patrol was humiliated and slaughtered there. How the malcontents would be rubbing their hands with glee.

  Well, let them savour this small act of resistance. Let them gloat at how their masters were given a bloody nose in some backwater den. If the deaths of a dozen soldiers excited them so much, it was only a measure of how powerless they were, how rare their victories. Klyssen had other things to worry about.

  The man once known as Laine of Heath Edge was still alive. Against all odds, he’d evaded the dreadknights and crossed the mountains. As the saying went, justice moved slowly, and it was long overdue for the ringleader of the Salt Fork rebellion. But it was coming, and he was bringing it.