The Ember Blade

by Chris Wooding

  ‘You invented the Malliard Limb?’ Orica asked.

  She saw how the name pained Mara, and just for a moment the older woman faltered in her demolition of Orica’s forces. ‘The Malliard Limb,’ said Mara. ‘Yes. Originally it bore another name, but the community had its way in the end. They fell over themselves to celebrate the new inventor in their midst. What genius! What a service he’d done for the lame and unfortunate! How they toasted him.’

  ‘But he paid you, yes?’

  ‘Oh, in that he was as good as his word. And he still is, hence my fortune. He has done me no wrong. That I did to myself.’

  ‘You couldn’t bear seeing another take the credit,’ Orica said.

  ‘I couldn’t bear seeing a man take the credit!’ Mara snapped. ‘Even a good man like him! I couldn’t bear to see other men make him a hero, to see him laughing among them, all content in their own cleverness while I languish with my riches, unknown and forgotten! And all because of the Krodans! Because of a damnable book scribbled down by some ill-educated preacher! They took our futures away from us, they made us nothing, and Ossian men let it happen!’

  In her fury, she’d raised her voice. Now she calmed again, took another sip of wine and glared through the tall windows to the patio outside. ‘I wish they’d invaded twenty years earlier. At least then I would not have grown up with hope. That is the worst of it.’

  Orica surveyed her meagre forces on the castles board. She was heavily outnumbered now. Not even the best player could fight their way out from that.

  ‘I grieve for your plight. I do. But I am a Sard before I am a woman. My people have been nothing for a long, long time.’

  Mara looked back at her, her face frosty. ‘Let them treat you like nothing for long enough, they’ll start to think it’s true. Look what’s happening to your people now. Vanishing from the face of Ossia, and who will stop it? Not the Sards: you have too long accepted your lot. Not the Ossians, who can barely raise themselves to throw off their own shackles. Who is fighting for you?’

  ‘Are you fighting for my people, then?’ Orica asked sarcastically.

  ‘We are fighting the Krodans,’ said Mara, ‘and a common foe makes allies of the wariest strangers.’ She picked up the assassin that Orica had forgotten about. ‘Or you can go east and be arrested. Or you can turn away, and go north.’ She slid the assassin across the board through a hole in Orica’s lines and tapped it against Orica’s king, knocking him over. ‘Game.’

  Orica finished her wine in a single swallow. ‘I will think on what you have said,’ she told Mara as she got to her feet and picked up her lute. ‘I must return to my song now.’ She looked down at the board. Mara had barely lost a piece. ‘My apologies. I didn’t offer you much of a challenge.’

  ‘That’s quite alright,’ said Mara. ‘Nobody ever has.’

  73

  It was early evening by the time Aren reached Mara’s house and the shadows of Morgenholme’s ancient ruins lay long over the reddening city. He hurried up the tree-lined avenue to the gate with a rolling nausea in his stomach. His skin felt clammy and, despite the mild day, he couldn’t seem to get warm. As he approached the gate, he checked over his shoulder, intending to walk on by if he saw anybody.

  There was no one in sight. That was a little reassuring, but not much. The fear of the Iron Hand was deeply rooted; they were near-mythical forces of dread, like the Hollow Man who’d once stalked his nightmares. Even if he couldn’t see them, they could still be out there, following him.

  He’d insisted on being taken back to the Burned Bear, so as to offer no clue as to his friends’ whereabouts. From there he’d set off in the opposite direction to Mara’s. Klyssen was canny enough to have him tailed, and if he led them back to Mara’s house, the Iron Guard would be on them before nightfall.

  It had been a fraught few hours trying to shake off the men he knew must be there. Sometimes he thought he’d identified one, a cold thrill of recognition as he glimpsed a face he’d spotted a few streets earlier; but then they’d head off a different way, and he’d be left doubting again.

  In the end, he had to accept that if the Iron Hand were tailing him, he wasn’t skilled enough to know it. As a last resort, he slipped into an inn, left through the rear door and clambered over the wall of the yard. Once he’d found his way back to the street he felt a little better and, having done all he could to shake his pursuit – if there had ever been any – he headed to Mara’s.

  Now he was here, he took a moment by the gate to collect himself. He needed to calm down or the others would suspect something. His hands still trembled when he thought of his encounter with Klyssen. He could hardly believe what he’d said in there. Only now did he realise what a gamble he took, how high the stakes were. Only now did it start to sink in, what he’d done, what he’d committed to do.

  He’d come terrifyingly close to the end today. He still had the scratch on his neck where Harte’s blade had nicked it. Somehow he’d talked himself into a second chance, but there wouldn’t be a third. Not for him, and not for Cade.

  He rang the bell outside the gate and Clia, Mara’s dour bodyguard and driver, emerged from the house. She approached along a short path that ran across the front lawn and unlocked the gate to let Aren in.

  He was halfway to the house when Cade burst from the doorway and came running towards him. He barely had time to brace himself before his friend swept him up in a crushing hug.

  ‘You made it! Gods, you had me worrying! Keel just got back, he told us what happened!’

  ‘You know it’s possible to hug someone without using all the strength in your body?’ Aren said, with what breath he had left.

  Cade dropped him back on his feet with a grin. Clia had gone into the house, passing Fen as she came hurtling out with relief writ plain on her face. She halted awkwardly as she reached them, hesitated a moment, then plunged forward and threw her arms round Aren, too.

  Aren was surprised enough that he didn’t react at first. Then, gently, as if she were a fragile thing, he put his arms around her. Her thin body was pressed against his; he felt the rise and fall of her ribs. A pleasant flush of warmth spread through him.

  Over her shoulder, he saw Cade struggling to keep his smile. He gave his friend a helpless look. What could I do? She hugged me. But the guilty pleasure of her touch made it hard to feel any honest regret.

  She pulled away abruptly, brushed a frond of ginger hair behind her ear. ‘I’m glad you’re back,’ she said, without looking at him.

  ‘It took me hours to make sure they were off my tail,’ he said. ‘Have you seen Grub? He was there, too.’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Cade. He was still looking suspiciously from Fen to Aren, deciding if he had grounds to sulk. She’d never embraced him like that.

  ‘Did you see him get away?’ Fen asked. Their eyes went to the gate now, as if expecting him to appear at any moment.

  ‘It was chaos in there,’ said Aren. ‘But if any of us could give them the slip … Well, surely it’s him?’ He didn’t sound confident, and he wasn’t.

  ‘Aye, he’s a slippy one, alright,’ Cade agreed. Then, with a note of unexpected worry in his voice: ‘You don’t reckon they got him, do you?’

  ‘Got who?’ asked Grub, who’d appeared behind them and was craning his neck to see what everyone was looking at.

  ‘That mudheaded Skarl who keeps following us about,’ said Cade, without missing a beat.

  ‘Pretty sure they didn’t get him,’ said Grub.

  ‘Was there something wrong with the gate?’ Aren asked.

  ‘Grub thought we were trying not to be seen. Came over the wall. Is Bitterbracker back?’

  ‘He’s back,’ said Fen. ‘Shut himself away in his room.’

  ‘Then all of us back!’ said Grub happily, spreading his arms. ‘Ha! Stupid Krodans can’t catch us! Come here, friends!’

  Horrifyingly, they found themselves corralled in his arms, pressed close to the sour stink of him while they squi
rmed and fought to get away.

  ‘Get off me!’ Cade cried. ‘Ugh, you reek like the back end of a hog! Enough friendliness!’ But he was laughing through his outrage; the Skarl’s joy was infectious, and relief had made them all giddy. None of them had been lost, none of them condemned to the unspeakable tortures of the Iron Hand. Even Fen was laughing now. She was less wary these days, more involved. Her defences were lowering; she was becoming one of them.

  Aren tried to laugh, too, but an icy cramp in his stomach turned it to a sickly smile. He saw the burgeoning happiness in her, the new light in her eyes, and it was beautiful. She was beautiful. But that light would be smothered soon, that happiness would die because of him. In that moment, he could hardly bear to be himself. He wanted to blurt out what had happened, the deal he’d made with Klyssen, the betrayal hidden in his mind.

  But it had gone too far for that. He’d made his choice. He’d chosen Cade.

  They laughed, and it was an alien sound, strange and grating. He felt himself apart from them, a stranger in the circle. Only he knew the truth here. Only he could see their adventure was doomed to fail. Only he knew there was a traitor in their midst.

  ‘You addle-headed idiots!’ Garric snapped as he came storming from the house, towering in his rage. ‘Get inside, all of you! You can still be seen from the street out here!’

  The laughter died in their throats as he seized Cade by the collar and propelled him towards the door. With his other hand, he grabbed Aren; but Aren, with a surge of fury, knocked his arm away hard.

  Garric rounded on him, fists bunched, eyes blazing. Aren met his gaze without fear. He was long past fear of this man.

  ‘Don’t you dare to test me,’ Garric warned. Aren could see the effort of will it took not to punch him. ‘I told you to stay here. Instead you all went wandering into the city without permits, and walked right into a Krodan ambush! If just one of you had been caught, you’d have ruined everything we’ve worked for!’

  ‘Well, then,’ said Aren, churlishly defiant, ‘it’s lucky we weren’t.’

  Garric stared at him, unable to believe his ears. Then the rage drained out of him, and he chuckled bitterly and shook his head.

  ‘You’re something, boy. You bleat and mew about how you want the truth, how you deserve to know everything. Well, I trusted you with knowledge of our mission and you repaid me by endangering the lives of everyone here. You are all children and fools, and you don’t deserve to be part of this. Now get inside.’

  The force of his scorn withered Aren to silence. Cheeks hot, he lowered his head and slunk towards the house. Garric was right, and Aren hated him for it. He’d been holding back information for good reason; by treating it carelessly, they’d squandered his faith in them.

  ‘Yes, my lord. Inside, my lord. Right away, my lord,’ Cade muttered sarcastically, once they were safely out of Garric’s earshot.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Aren murmured sourly. A quote came to his mind. ‘“Let each humiliation be paid back a hundredfold, and let no slight pass unavenged.”’

  It was only once he’d said it aloud that he remembered where he’d heard it. It was from the Acts of Tomas and Toven, and he’d spoken it in Krodan.

  Cade gave him an uncertain look, perturbed by a tone in Aren’s voice he’d never heard before, and said nothing more after that.

  Aren gave Garric an hour to cool off, then sought him out again. He found him beside Vika, sitting on a stool by her bedside, dabbing her mouth with a damp cloth. A jug of honey mixed with milk stood on the side table.

  He entered the room warily. Not for the first time, he noted the reverence and respect with which the old warrior treated the druidess. What did she mean to him? he wondered. A remnant of bygone days, before the Krodans came, when Ossian gods still ruled the land?

  ‘How is she?’ he asked.

  ‘Healed, as far as the eye can tell,’ said Garric, without turning around. ‘When she will wake, I do not know; but I reckon it must be soon.’

  Aren came closer. She’d lost weight, face gaunt and collarbones stark in the red light of evening that spilled through the window. There were more threads of grey in her long black hair than before. Her lips moved as she muttered inaudibly.

  ‘Does she still speak of Kar Vishnakh and the Torments?’

  ‘She speaks of nothing else. Once she spoke in a voice that wasn’t hers, in a language which I swear was no human tongue. Godspit, I wish I could unhear that.’ He put the cloth aside with a sigh. ‘What do you want?’

  Aren’s eyes were still on Vika. He’d been fretting about her since Wracken Bay, but he was glad she wasn’t awake to hear him now. She had a knowing way about her, and she’d always seemed kind. She might have seen through him, and her disappointment would have been hard to endure.

  ‘I want to apologise,’ he said. Even insincere as he was, it was hard to say it.

  Garric looked up at him. The scar at his throat gaped as the ruined flesh stretched. That’s where his throat was cut. That’s where his soul fled his body. The Hollow Man.

  ‘Aye,’ said Garric. ‘You should.’

  ‘I …’ Aren found himself unexpectedly fighting for words. ‘I was angry at you. I’m still angry at you. But what I did … that’s not …’ He cursed. He’d had a plan of what to say but it had deserted him, and he found himself saying something else instead, closer to the truth. ‘I was always the leader, back home. It’s hard to be kept in the dark, hard to obey without knowing the reason. I didn’t … I didn’t realise the trust you were putting in us, telling us about the plan. Thought I was entitled to it. I suppose … I’ve always had a hard time knowing my place.’

  Garric grunted. ‘Aye, well, sometimes that’s no bad thing. And there was no harm done, this time. But you came damned close, Aren. Damned close. You could easily have been caught.’

  ‘I know! And I want to make it up to you. Let me come with you tonight, into the ghetto.’

  Garric snorted. He got up from his stool, flexing stiff knees. ‘After what you just did? I reckon not.’

  ‘I want to prove that you can trust me.’

  Garric shook his head. ‘You’d be dead weight in there. You can barely handle a sword.’

  ‘I can handle one well enough. I’ve killed men, you know that. And I’m fleet of foot. I escaped the Krodans once today. Besides, who else would you take? Keel? He’s a mess. Fen can draw a bow, but she’s no use in a close fight, and in those alleys—’

  ‘I don’t need help,’ Garric said.

  ‘Then why are we all still here?’

  ‘As I recall, you didn’t give me much choice. I tried to send you away. You got us into a fight and brought the Iron Hand down on us.’

  ‘That’s an excuse. You could have sent us away any time after that. But you didn’t, because you can’t do this alone. You said it yourself: we’ll all be needed when you have the Ember Blade. To carry the flame forward, spread the word, inspire the people.’ Aren was breathlessly earnest now, caught up in his own argument. ‘So let me show you, Garric! Whatever you thought of my father, he and I are not the same. There shouldn’t be bad blood between us if we’re bound to the same cause. Let it be over.’

  A strange light had come into Garric’s eyes as Aren spoke, something Aren couldn’t read. Sizing him up, perhaps. Assessing him anew.

  Trust me, he thought at Garric. Trust me.

  At last, Garric sighed. ‘Aye,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Let it be over. Come with me.’

  He led Aren from the room and down a corridor to Mara’s study. Aren gawked at the multitude of books while Garric brought down a scroll from a shelf and flattened it out on the desk. Printed in faded ink was a crescent-shaped tangle of curving streets and alleys enclosed within a meandering wall. The legend beneath, written in Krodan, read: A Map of the Sard Quarter of Morgenholme. Aren studied it with amazement. Seeing the extent of the ghetto gave him a sense of how many must have lived there, how many had been taken away.

  Garric
jabbed a finger at the map: an unremarkable street on the east side. ‘There. Third house along. That’s Yarin’s place. That’s where he’s stashed the information we need.’ He straightened, surveying the ghetto critically. ‘We’ll find somewhere dark and quiet to climb the wall and make our way in. It’s too long for the Krodans to watch all of it. There’ll be patrols on the other side, watching for looters and any Sards still in hiding, but we’ll be on our guard. If we’re seen, we run, or fight if we have to. Get yourself killed, by all means; just don’t get yourself captured. Clear?’

  Aren nodded. Just like that, he had their destination; now he could take it to Klyssen. He was dazed by how quick it was, how easy. Usually Garric kept his cards close to his chest until the last minute.

  Fortune favoured the treacherous, apparently. The thought made him feel sick.

  ‘Study the map,’ said Garric. ‘Memorise it as best you can. If we have to run, you should know these streets.’

  ‘I will,’ said Aren.

  Garric grunted. ‘I have other things to arrange now. I’ll come for you after sixth bell o’ dark. Be where I can find you.’

  He made to leave, but Aren’s voice stopped him at the doorway. ‘Thank you,’ he said gravely. ‘For giving me this chance.’

  Garric regarded him with a grim face, his eyes cold. ‘It’s your last,’ he said. ‘Tonight, you’ll show me what you’re made of.’

  The click of the latch was loud in the silence as he closed the door behind him.

  Aren tried to commit the map to memory, but his thoughts were too turbulent for anything to stick. Still he couldn’t get warm. Fear had chilled him bone-deep. Fear of getting caught, fear of what would happen if he didn’t get caught, fear of being discovered afterwards. Fear of what he had to do.

  Finally, he could stand it no longer. He found a quill and some blank paper and wrote a quick letter, his ears straining all the time for sounds of Garric’s return. When it was complete, he folded it up and put it in his pocket, where it weighed far more than a single sheet of paper should.