The Ember Blade

by Chris Wooding

  ‘It would be best if you made yourself scarce,’ he advised, ‘before I bring dishonour on us both by beating you soundly.’

  Edgen hesitated, caught between his desire for revenge and his fear of Harod. Harod flared his nostrils slightly. Edgen jumped as if he’d been shouted at, and fled up the corridor.

  The instant he turned the corner, Orica threw herself into Harod’s arms, clutching tight to him. Only the fast thump of his heart revealed the anger and worry he’d kept from his face.

  ‘Did he hurt you, milady?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Thanks to you.’ Then she pulled away, eyes wide, remembering their mission. ‘We must go. Now!’

  A bell tolled in the heights of Hammerholt, a solitary note reverberating through the corridors. The doleful sound of doom.

  ‘First bell o’ dark,’ said Harod.

  ‘We’re too late,’ said Orica in horror. Then, breaking into a run: ‘We’re too late!’

  89

  Darkness. Terror. The icy clutch of black water.

  Aren broke the surface with a gasp and hit his head painfully on the cave roof. Dazed and panicked, he flailed about with his hands, trying to make sense of the space around him. His knuckles burned as he skinned them on the rough rock. His palms found stone, splashed into water.

  ‘Hoy!’ he shouted. ‘Hoy!’

  ‘Aren!’ It was Cade, somewhere nearby.

  Aren could hear Grub gasping and grunting off to his left. ‘Are we all here?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Vika. ‘And Ruck, too.’

  ‘I can’t see!’ Fen cried.

  ‘I know,’ said Aren, trying to keep calm. ‘Nor can I.’

  The water was up under his chin and the top of his head bumped against stone again. The water level was rising so fast that they’d resurfaced into a sandwich of air mere inches thick. His swords were dragging him down – he carried Garric’s as well as his own – but he couldn’t let them go without giving up all they’d come for. Kicking his feet, he fought against their weight as the water tried to drag him down.

  Something hard and heavy nudged his shoulder and his hand found the side of the upturned boat. It had become wedged against the ceiling, pressed upwards by the water, and it didn’t move when he pushed it.

  A memory flared in his mind, of a bright, hot day in the classroom back in Shoal Point. Aren had been struggling to concentrate as his tutor droned on about mathematics and how to calculate volume. The master had demonstrated how you could put an upturned glass tumbler in a beaker of water and it would remain empty. Aren had marvelled at that. How could the glass stay empty even though it was underwater?

  Because it wasn’t empty, said the master. It was full of air.

  ‘The boat!’ Aren cried. ‘Get under the boat! There’s air underneath!’

  ‘Where are you?’ Cade called.

  ‘Swim to my voice!’

  There was bumping, gasping and splashing in the dark. Ruck barked right by his ear and paddled past.

  ‘Everyone found it? Everyone found the boat?’ Aren called, but if there was any reply he couldn’t hear it now. The water was around his ears and he had to tilt his head right back to find air. Taking as big a breath as he could, he closed his eyes and ducked under the water, feeling his way under the gunwale and into the forest of kicking legs beyond. Someone booted him in the chest as he ascended but he hardly felt it in the flurry. He came up and hit his head hard on one of the bench seats. Blindly, he hooked his arm around it. His relief at being able to breathe outweighed the pain.

  ‘Help me with Ruck!’ Vika pleaded. The wet animal smell that engulfed him could have been her hound or her cloak of furs.

  ‘Where is she?’

  Vika pushed Ruck against his body. Paws scrabbled at him as Aren and Vika each got an arm under her.

  ‘Peace, Ruck. Do not struggle so,’ said Vika. Ruck did as she was told and allowed herself to be held above water.

  Cade was whimpering close by. ‘I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die!’

  ‘We’re not going to die,’ Aren told him. Reassuring him was a reflex. ‘Fen?’

  ‘I’m here,’ she said, quietly.

  ‘Grub?’

  Grub swore in Skarl.

  ‘He’s here,’ said Cade, with a burst of shrill hysterical laughter.

  ‘Cade,’ said Aren. Then, more sharply: ‘Cade! We’re not going to die.’

  Cade’s laughter subsided to a muted sniffle.

  ‘They’ll come for us,’ said Aren.

  No one said anything to that. The boat bumped and scraped against the roof of the cavern. Water sloshed around their shoulders.

  ‘Do you know the story of Red Asp, the desert Dawnwarden?’ Cade began.

  ‘We need to save our breath,’ Aren said gently.

  They all hushed after that, and only their breathing told of the private terrors they suffered as they waited in the dark. Aren became detached from the beat of time, floating in a black eternity. The cold crept deeper into his body, overwhelming the warm glow of Vika’s potion, slowing his thoughts. Webs of blue, green and red flashed before his light-starved eyes.

  They’ll come for us, he told himself as his teeth began to chatter. They will. They will.

  After a while, the cold began to recede and he started to feel drowsy. Then, suddenly, he was underwater. The shock of it jolted him awake, sent him spluttering back up to the surface, Ruck scrabbling against him. He secured them both again, arm around the bench overhead, but no sooner had he done so than he felt sleep coming again, pressing in at the edges of his eye sockets. His head ached and the sound of breathing around him had turned deep and slow, as if everyone was on the edge of slumber.

  ‘Crows,’ Grub slurred. ‘Why Grub hear crows?’

  ‘What crows?’ Aren mumbled thickly. He was surprised to find his own voice was slurred, too.

  Grub didn’t answer. Instead there was a quiet slithering splash.

  ‘Grub?’

  It was hard for Aren to concentrate. He’d already forgotten what he’d meant to ask. Something about crows? Next to him, Cade gave a drowsy snort.

  ‘Grub?’ said Fen from the far end of the boat. He heard more splashing as she felt around. ‘Grub?’ she cried. ‘He’s gone! Grub’s gone!’

  It took a moment for the news to penetrate the fog in Aren’s head. When it did, it threw him back to wakefulness. He pushed Ruck towards Vika, filled his lungs as best he could and plunged under the water.

  He heard someone cry out, telling him not to do it, their voice muffled by the roar of blood in his ears. But all he knew was that Grub was sinking into the abyss, and he refused to let that happen.

  With one powerful stroke, he propelled himself down. His next stroke was leaden, muscles aching. The next was like pulling through treacle. His weakness terrified him but he still reached outwards with his hands, casting his arms wide, trusting to luck to make contact with Grub.

  No good. He pushed down again, head buzzing, chest aching. The breath he’d taken had lasted a pitifully short time. He cast out again, waving blindly at the water, and his wrist hit flesh. Desperately he snatched at Grub, found an arm, seized it.

  Now up! Up!

  He hardly had the strength to move himself, let alone the hefty Skarl, but he forced his dulled and throbbing muscles to move to the engine of his will, and he swam.

  One stroke. Another. Now his lungs were twin balls of fire and his vision writhed with sparkling worms. In a lash of mad panic, he thought Where is the boat? and realised too late that he had no idea. It could be anywhere above him, and that tiny island of air was no easy target to hit. If he missed, he’d find only the roof of the cave, and death.

  There was a third swimmer in the water with them. He knew it as clearly as if he could see her. The Red-Eyed Child floated in the dark nearby, her hood wafting in the water around her bald head, her gaze fixed on him.

  One more pull. One more.

  The water parted and sweet cold air burst i
nto his lungs in a rush, dousing the blaze in his chest. He reached back with his free hand, numb fingers clenched around Grub’s collar, and pulled him up into the darkness and dripping silence.

  They were not inside the boat. Dizzy, not understanding, Aren looked about as if he could penetrate the endless dark. His splashes echoed back strangely, telling him the story. There was air here, filling the space all around him, but that was impossible; the water had filled the cave.

  It could only mean one thing. The water level was dropping. Dropping fast.

  Something pulled at his leg, a force that quickly grew to surround his lower body, gathering strength with every moment. In his mind’s eye he saw Sarla, cheated of her catch, her arms wrapped round his legs to drag him down to the depths. He gave a shrill cry as the force became irresistible and he was sucked under again, still holding on to Grub as the water closed over his head.

  They were dragged into a swirling torrent of invisible currents, tumbling through the thundering dark. Something smacked Aren’s leg, sending him spinning; Grub was ripped from his grasp. He flailed as a light rushed towards him at terrifying speed and he was disgorged into the air. For one sickening instant he was flying, then he splashed down onto his side and was shunted helplessly along a stone channel, arms waving in search of a grip.

  His hand was caught and he was hauled bodily from the water and dumped onto a path, where he lay gasping like a landed fish, clutching his belly as he coughed and retched.

  ‘There’s Grub! Catch him!’ Orica shouted over the bellow of the water.

  Aren, too weak and battered to raise his head, could only listen to the chaos around him, his ribs rising and falling in desperate relief. He heard Grub hauled out and dropped alongside him, heard Orica thump his back until he gagged up water. Harod hunted along the waterside, snatching up their companions as they tumbled through the doorway.

  ‘Is that everyone?’

  ‘There’s still no sign of Cade.’

  Cade.

  ‘Hold!’ Harod cried immediately. ‘Here he comes!’

  ‘Grab him!’

  Cade’s distressed wail as he was belched forth from the doorway brought an exhausted smile from Aren. If he had breath to scream, he had breath to live. Harod grabbed him and Aren at last let himself believe they were not going to drown.

  He heard the slapping of wet paws and a warm tongue slurped across his cheek. He rolled onto his back as Ruck barked in his face.

  It was hard to ignore a summons like that. Slinging his arm around the hound’s neck, Aren hauled himself up, fighting off a wave of nausea. He was in an ancient vaulted tunnel, cold and rank-smelling, lit by a pair of lanterns resting nearby. The stone path he lay on was above the level of the water, which burst from the doorway to race down the sewer channel in a torrent. Arranged along the path were his companions, all as bedraggled as he. Squatting among them was Harod, shoulders heaving with effort, his hair plastered to his head and his fine clothes drenched. Orica was kneeling by Vika, helping her to sit up.

  All safe. Thank Joha for that.

  Fen was curled up next to him, tangled in her bow, which had miraculously stayed on her back. Perhaps half a dozen arrows remained in her quiver. She let out a groan and raised her head.

  ‘Told you they’d come for us,’ Aren croaked, and gave her a grin.

  Fen huffed with laughter. ‘I hate you sometimes,’ she said, meaning the opposite.

  90

  The Lords’ Parlour of Hammerholt was busy with guests. They chattered in clusters, smoked cheroots and played cards and castles while a musician struck up a jaunty tune on a harpsichord. Mara drifted among them, her wine glass never far from her lips, eyes restless. Hunting.

  It was a narrow chamber with a low ceiling, more intimate than imposing, warmed by a crackling hearth set into one wall. Brass candelabra hung from elaborate ceiling roses along its length. Frescoes softened the fortress’s stern design, depicting scenes from Ossian folk tales which the Krodans must have thought harmless or obscure enough to escape erasure. One showed Haldric and his companion Bumbleweed trudging dejectedly out of the sea after Haldric’s ill-fated attempt to woo the kraken’s daughter. It was one of Mara’s childhood favourites; the sight gave her a twinge of nostalgic delight.

  A rousing guffaw drew her attention to the Master of Keys. He was standing with a group of men, trading anecdotes. Mara watched them as she picked at the buffet table, and the taste of wine soured in her mouth.

  How she loathed those braying Krodan highborns and the Ossian nobles who aped them. How she hated their clubs and societies that divided the world into who was in and who was out. Every joke and gesture were part of a secret code she wasn’t privy to, meant to exclude anyone who wasn’t connected enough, successful enough, male enough.

  Were they discussing Orica? Possibly. Her exceptional per­formance in the West Gallery had caused much gossip. What were they saying, then? Mocking her, most likely, or speculating what they’d do to such a beauty, given half a chance.

  She felt herself becoming angry on Orica’s behalf. Orica’s song had touched her, and Mara wasn’t easily stirred. Her daring and quick thinking might have saved the lives of their companions down below; she deserved admiration, not belittlement. But Orica was a woman, and a Sard, and it wasn’t in the nature of men like these to admire women, except as objects of desire.

  Peace, Mara, she told herself as she felt the old poison oozing up inside her. You have a task. This is a time for intellect, not passion.

  After the performance, the guests had dispersed to various amusements before dinner. Mara had followed the Master of Keys. If Yarin’s intelligence was correct, he wouldn’t be at any of the feasts, so Mara had to ensure he didn’t go back to his chambers, to give Grub time to find the vault key.

  She’d need to engage him somehow, but to do that, she had to draw him from his circle. For an unaccompanied woman to approach a man was brazen behaviour in Krodan high society, and she’d lost her escort when Harod left her. Alone, these men would ignore her at best, patronise her at worst. Even if her pride could suffer it, that was no way to impress him.

  As she was considering her strategy, she felt a touch at her elbow. She knew who it was before she heard his voice.

  ‘Mara.’

  The Ossian by her side was broad-chested, his proportions bearlike, with hairy hands and a neat brown beard. His Krodan jacket and trousers were cut from expensive cloth, but he was ill at ease in such finery. She supposed all the money in the world would never change that.

  ‘I am Lady Harforth of Harrow, if it please you,’ Mara told him.

  He looked even more awkward. ‘And where is your lord?’

  ‘On some nefarious business elsewhere,’ she said. ‘But I believe I know you. Aren’t you the famed Malliard, inventor of the Malliard Limb?’

  ‘Mara …’ he said again, his tone somewhere between pleading and warning. Mara, don’t torment me. Mara, don’t embarrass yourself. Mara, don’t get out of hand. He was Ossian but his words were flattened by Galtic inflections: a gift from his father, as was his surname.

  She took a breath to say something caustic, then checked herself with a sigh of resignation. She was imagining conflict when there was none. He wasn’t her enemy – quite the opposite – but she’d been caught off guard.

  ‘I did not think you would be here,’ she said, as an apology of sorts.

  ‘I’m leaving soon. I came as a favour to the man who arranged your invitation.’ He had the grace to look shamefaced. ‘He asked me to meet his son. The boy wants to be an inventor.’

  ‘Inspiring the next generation. Admirable.’

  ‘Don’t. I’m only here for your sake.’

  ‘And now you’re checking on me. For my sake.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Exactly. “Lady Harforth”? What are you up to?’

  ‘Merely trying to advance my position in society,’ she said. ‘We women must do what we can to get ourselves noticed in these cha
llenging days.’ She smiled without humour. ‘But you’ve heard my thoughts on that subject many times.’

  ‘Please be careful, that’s all. The Iron Hand are everywhere. I don’t know what you’re doing, but as you’re under a false name, I assume it isn’t good.’

  ‘Good is a relative concept, don’t you think?’ she said. ‘It rather depends on your point of view. I wonder if the Krodans consider themselves villains? Or the elaru? Or the urds?’

  He checked no one was close enough to overhear, then gave her an exasperated glance. She took some small glee in that. She hoped he’d argue the point with her, but he didn’t rise to it. Once he’d enjoyed their sparring, the cut and thrust of argument. Now he found it tiresome, and that grieved her.

  ‘I hear congratulations are in order,’ she said. He gave her a puzzled frown. ‘Ariala is with child again.’

  The horror on his face would have been amusing if she hadn’t been dying inside. ‘Oh, Danric, it’s quite alright. I didn’t want children, remember?’

  But she’d never been a good liar, and her fragile smile did nothing to conceal the hurt of old wounds reopening, all the more painful because his had long since healed. She hated herself for wanting him, hated the wistful need she felt in his presence.

  ‘I should go,’ said Danric as he saw the turn things were taking.

  ‘Not yet!’ she said, more urgently than she’d intended. She composed herself and spoke more calmly. ‘One last favour. Please.’

  ‘This was a mistake,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘Danric,’ she said, growing flinty. ‘Your new baby will be delivered by the best Krodan doctors. They will have the finest education, eat good food and live in a safe neighbourhood. You and yours have health and security and want for nothing. You owe me for that.’

  His eyes lost their softness. He didn’t like to be reminded that his wealth and success came from her, not earned but given. Perhaps that was her goal, when she approached him with the idea in the months after they broke up. She’d thought there was still hope for them then, and meant to chain him close with bonds of obligation, to prove he could never do better than her.