The Ember Blade

by Chris Wooding

  His eyes dark coals of hatred, he stalked from the storeroom, his mind set on murder.

  98

  ‘Klyssen!’

  Klyssen’s shoulders tensed as the Commander’s brandy-roughened bark stopped him in his tracks. He took a moment to compose himself, relaxed his scowl and turned. The Commander was standing by a doorway, a cigar in one hand and a glass in the other. Next to him, as ever, was that greasy snake Bettren. Evidently they’d stepped out of their feast to discuss some secret matter. Just Klyssen’s luck to bump into them.

  The Commander switched his cigar to his other hand and crooked a finger at Klyssen, summoning him like a naughty child. Klyssen kept his expression bland, letting the indignity slide off him. The Commander could play his power games if he wished. His days were numbered, and that number was small.

  ‘Commander,’ he said politely as he came over, masking his loathing with an ease born of years of practice. ‘Head Adminis­trator Bettren.’

  The Commander was once a square-jawed, athletic man who’d become fat and saggy with decades of rich food and soft living. He had the sour, sharp scent of the aged and his hands were speckled with liver spots. An eyepatch covered one eye, which had tended to wander since the stroke.

  ‘A Sard singing treasonous songs to the prince?’ he hissed angrily, keeping his voice low. ‘Isn’t that exactly the sort of thing you’re here to prevent?’

  Bettren smirked at that. He was dark-haired, slender and bookishly handsome with his pencil moustache and his immaculate jacket. He was also a shameless flatterer. Pull out his tongue and you’d find it black to the root with boot polish. Klyssen would have loved to pull out his tongue.

  ‘I am looking into it, Commander,’ Klyssen said.

  ‘The prince is incensed!’ the Commander continued. ‘And I see your moronic subordinate is blundering hither and thither with a group of watchmen in tow, questioning all and sundry! We’re meant to be invisible, Klyssen! Behind the scenes! There are representatives of half the civilised world here tonight! At least try to maintain an illusion of competence.’

  ‘It’s all in hand, Commander,’ said Klyssen. Or at least it would be if you’d shut up and let me get on with my job.

  ‘While you’re here, Overwatchman,’ said Bettren, in that fey, airy manner that made Klyssen dream of signing his execution warrant, ‘I have a question.’

  Oh, you do, do you? ‘And what is that?’ he said wearily.

  ‘Some of my men were turned away from the north tower earlier. Apparently you ordered that nobody be allowed inside. I wonder what you’re doing in there?’

  ‘I wonder what business your clerks had in such a remote and unoccupied part of the fortress,’ Klyssen replied.

  ‘Answer the question, Klyssen!’ snapped the Commander. ‘What’s in the tower?’

  ‘Insurance,’ said Klyssen. ‘Something only to be used in the direst emergency. The prince’s safety is more important than preserving the image of the Empire.’ And because I’ll end my days in a work camp in Ozak if a hair on his head is harmed. Which will be a pleasant fate compared to what you’ll suffer.

  The Commander’s expression faltered as he realised what Klyssen had done. He knew what was in the tower, but he couldn’t say a word so he would be able to feign ignorance if anything went wrong. On such hypocrisy rests our Empire.

  ‘You disgust me, Klyssen,’ the Commander said. ‘You’ve always disgusted me.’

  ‘Your honesty is as commendable as it is rare,’ said Klyssen with a hateful smile. ‘But it’s what the Chancellor thinks that’s important, isn’t it? I imagine he’ll be quite impressed when he hears I caught the last Dawnwarden. Now you must excuse me, I’m busy protecting the Empire.’

  With that, he made his escape, leaving the senile old fool and his pet seething in his wake. Such open insubordination was reckless and ill-advised, but by the Primus, it felt good. Besides, the Commander had already made his feelings about Klyssen clear to anyone who’d listen, and it hadn’t stopped him yet. Once Garric swung from the gallows, he’d be untouchable.

  Unless Garric’s followers managed to foul up the prince’s wedding. Then the blame would fall squarely on Klyssen, and the Commander – who was ultimately responsible for the Iron Hand’s operations in Ossia – would go down with him. Only Bettren would escape unblemished. The administrative arm of the Iron Hand had nothing to do with security, so a catastrophe here would virtually guarantee his succession. If that happened, missing out on promotion would be the least of Klyssen’s worries.

  He thought of Lisi and Juna, his golden-haired daughters. He thought of his beautiful wife and the fine home she’d curated at vast expense. He thought of silly old Baron Pickles. He’d lose it all if he couldn’t root out whatever plot was afoot tonight. The idea quickened his heart and made him desperate, so he crushed it down again.

  The things we value make us weak. Now is not the time. Now I am authority.

  He found Harte near the armoury, limping fast towards his next destination with a harried underwatchman trailing behind him.

  ‘A few servants saw the Sard and her companion heading for the lower levels,’ he reported as soon as he saw Klyssen.

  It was a refreshing change to have Harte be efficient instead of sulky and obstructive. ‘Did you search down there?’

  ‘We did and found no sign. But there is something else – all the privies on the lower levels are backing up.’

  Klyssen gave him a dry look that communicated exactly how many seconds he had left to explain himself.

  ‘The sewers are flooded!’ said Harte. ‘I don’t know what it means, but the servants say it’s never happened before. They don’t think the prince’s guests will notice since they’re all on the higher floors, but it’s out of the ordinary.’ He gave Klyssen a challenging look. ‘I thought you’d want to know.’

  It was out of the ordinary, like too many things tonight. ‘Have you heard anything from Dressle?’

  ‘No. I thought he was meant to report to you.’

  ‘He was,’ said Klyssen. He shook his head in frustration. So many signs, not enough evidence. Well, damn what the Commander said. There was something going on.

  He snapped his fingers at the underwatchman. ‘You. Find Watchman Tull in the barracks and tell him to double the guard on the prince. I don’t care how it looks.’ He snapped his fingers again at Harte. ‘Check the dungeons and come straight back to me. I want to know why Captain Dressle hasn’t sent word. I’m going to get the key to the vault. I want half a dozen men guarding the Ember Blade until it’s safe in the prince’s hands.’

  ‘Hail to the Emperor,’ said Harte, fist clenched, arm across his chest in salute.

  ‘You might make watchman first class yet,’ said Klyssen approvingly.

  ‘Master Bann! Master Bann! Open the door!’

  The guards were hammering on the door now. It made no difference. There was no answer from inside.

  ‘Break it down,’ Klyssen told them, but his guts were a ball of ice.

  He’s choked on a bone and died. He’s overdosed on feathermilk. He’s hanged himself for fear of the Iron Hand. Anything, anything but what Klyssen suspected they’d find within.

  The guards barged and battered at the door until the lock gave way at last. They rushed in, swords drawn. Klyssen came after.

  The room reeked of blood. Klyssen took in the empty platter on the desk, the open window with the broken pane. Through the doorway, he could see the Master of Keys’ bloody carcass lying on the bed. He didn’t need to enter the room to know the medallion had been taken from around his neck.

  ‘This has gone too far,’ he said to the guards, his voice flat. ‘Come with me.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘The north tower,’ Klyssen said. ‘It’s time to release the dreadknights.’

  99

  Aren and his companions approached the vault by a circuitous route, through empty halls and corridors rarely trodden. Using Yarin’s k
eys, they had access to whole sections of Hammerholt where the furniture was draped with cloth and their feet left prints in the dust. In this manner, they bypassed the celebrations entirely and reached the heights of the fortress without encountering another soul.

  The vault was in a squat, square tower, far from the heart of the keep. They hurried up spiral stairs, following their map, and went through a door halfway up to find themselves in a short corridor, which soon turned a corner and led them to the vault at the end.

  Aren had hoped to find it unguarded, but there was a single sentry on duty before the door, sitting on a stool, bored witless. His eyes widened in shock as he saw them, and he scrambled to his feet and drew his sword. Aren took a breath to tell him to surrender, but Fen shot him through the eye.

  ‘He might have given up!’ Aren cried.

  ‘He was in our way,’ Fen said coldly. ‘And he was a Krodan.’

  Aren let the matter drop. Perhaps he was naïve in wanting to keep the killing to a minimum when they were about such deadly business as revolution, but he didn’t believe all Krodans were culpable for their masters’ crimes. That man’s death felt needless.

  ‘Grub wondered how he was going to get rid of that sentry,’ said Grub, melting out of the darkness behind them.

  Cade jumped out of his skin. ‘Gods, but you nearly stopped my heart, you sneak!’ he snapped. ‘What’s that stuck to your cheek? Is that roast beef? Have you been eating?’

  For an answer, Grub plucked the fleck of meat from his cheek, popped it in his mouth and smacked his lips.

  ‘Do you have the key?’ Orica asked him eagerly.

  Grub held up a golden medallion on a chain.

  ‘Um …’ said Cade, raising a finger.

  ‘This the key,’ Grub told them, before Cade could say what they were all thinking. ‘Trust Grub.’

  ‘Two words I never thought to hear together,’ Cade said. He clapped his hands. ‘Well, then, who wants to see what’s on the other side of that door?’

  The vault door was hard to recognise as a door at all. There was no handle to be seen. It was a slab of metal set into the wall between two pillars, eight feet high and five broad. Etched into its surface was a dramatic, angular bas-relief showing the parable of Tomas and Toven and the mad ogren. Toven was locked in combat with two hulking brutes, jaws agape in primitive faces, features stylised into geometric shapes in the Krodan fashion. Tomas stood in the background, his hand raised, preaching aloud from a book. In the story, Tomas calmed the crazed ogren with the message of the Primus, and they went away meekly to spread the word among their people. Aren thought that more than a little fanciful. The ogren were the hammer of the elaru, brutish shock troops whose savage strength put even the urds to shame. They weren’t much given to religious introspection.

  ‘Reckon I expected something bigger,’ Cade said, eyeing the door uncertainly. The lanternlight stirred shadows across the design and the figures appeared to move. ‘Big double doors, twenty feet high, that kind of thing.’

  Aren stepped over the sentry’s body. ‘When you tell the tale, you can make it whatever size you like.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Cade. ‘I’ll tell it like it is. Ain’t no need to exaggerate this one.’ He frowned. ‘Hoy – there’s a bit missing in the middle.’

  Aren looked closer and saw a circular depression hidden among the ogren’s limbs, with a multitude of tiny slots cut into it in a curious pattern.

  ‘Grub?’ Aren said, inviting him forward. ‘You found the key. You should be the one to open it.’

  ‘There is blood on the medallion,’ Vika observed as Grub stepped up to the door.

  Grub snorted. ‘Last owner didn’t want to take it off,’ he said.

  He fiddled with the medallion and separated it into two discs, one with a series of projecting teeth sticking out of the inner side. He held it up to show them. ‘Key,’ he said, and placed it into the depression. The teeth fitted perfectly into the slots there. Grub turned it with his fingertips, and they heard the crunch of a lock disengaging from within.

  He turned and bowed with a flourish. ‘Grub will accept congratulations and praise now,’ he informed them.

  ‘How in Prinn’s name did you work out that was the key to the vault?’ Orica asked, amazed.

  ‘Because Grub is a genius,’ he said matter-of-factly.

  They hauled the sentry’s body out of the way. Harod pushed at the door, which did no good, then found that there were handholds cunningly crafted into the scene. He seized them and slowly pulled the door open. Aren’s fists clenched in anticipation and he felt a wave of angry triumph.

  You were wrong, Garric. We did it. We’re here!

  Ruck slid inside as soon as the gap was wide enough to admit her. The others followed more carefully, raising their lanterns to push back the darkness. Beyond the door was a circular chamber with pillared alcoves around the edge. Like the door that led to it, it was surprisingly small. Aren had imagined a great treasure chamber; instead he found a neat, solid room of grey stone.

  In they went, searching the shadowed corners. Grub’s eyes grew large and hungry as the lanternlight fell on the prince’s treasures, arranged among the alcoves. They saw a suit of exquisite witch-iron armour, polished to a mirror sheen, and a jewelled necklace in a glass display case. There was a copy of the Acts of Tomas and Toven bound with gold hinges, the sword-and-book symbol of the Sanctorum crafted from silver and set with a blood-red ruby. They saw strange gifts from faraway lands: precious reliquaries and caskets, a gnawl skull set in amber, a long coat made of iridescent scales.

  Yet for all the treasures that surrounded him, Aren’s eyes were locked on only one. Set upon a pedestal, lying next to a scabbard on a cloth of blue silk, was the Ember Blade.

  His breath became short. For all the tales told of it, he’d thought it only a sword, a symbol they might use to unite his broken people. He hadn’t expected it to have such presence, such magnetic power. The others watched as he approached it reverently, recognising his right to take it. Even Grub seemed impressed enough that it temporarily overwhelmed his instinct to steal whatever he could get his hands on.

  Its hilt was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, forged from polished witch-iron. Upon the pommel were inscribed words in Old Ossian, a tongue now lost to all but the scholars. Black leather had been newly wrapped round the tang and the quillons flowed like water to either side of the ricasso. But it was the blade that mesmerised Aren: a length of pure embrium, the rarest metal known. It threw back the lanternlight with a sullen red tint like the glow of a dying fire, and the sight of it kindled a fire in his own breast.

  Everything had brought him to this: his father’s death, the escape from the camp at Suller’s Bluff, the flight through Skavengard and all that followed. He’d been forged, as surely as this blade had been forged, fashioned into a man capable of breaking into Hammerholt, of entering this vault, of seizing the sword. It was Garric who’d planted the idea in his head, but Aren who’d followed it through. The Ember Blade had called to him, and he’d come.

  His hand closed round the hilt and he lifted it. It might have carried the weight of ages, but it was impossibly light. He understood now; the stories were true. He had no doubt that this sword, forged from the bones of Ossia, would inspire his countryfolk. Just to see it was to believe.

  He was so absorbed that at first he didn’t notice the itch in his hand. Only when it became maddening did he tear his gaze away, and his joy turned to horror. A rash of blisters was spreading up his sword-hand, swelling and bursting, oozing pus. His hand began to burn, and he cried out as the skin under the blisters split and he saw something white and maggoty moving beneath. He staggered away from the pedestal, the Ember Blade still in his hand, but now a new pain was tormenting his scalp. He put his hand to it, felt something wet there, and a chunk of his hair sloughed free.

  The room was full of screams. He whirled and found the others clawing at themselves, pulling at their skin, eyes bulging with h
orror. There were no marks on them that he could see, yet they acted as if they were all touched by the same nightmarish affliction that was spreading throughout Aren. He tried to speak, but his tongue had swollen and his eyes were swimming with tears.

  Then he saw them, standing in the doorway, two figures he’d hoped never to see again. Klyssen, bespectacled, quietly malevolent; Plague, wrapped in belts and straps with a black spiked bow in his hand, his face a stitched mask of dead skin. Behind them stood a half-dozen Iron Guardsmen.

  The Ember Blade dropped from Aren’s hand, ringing loudly on the stone floor as he was seized by a cramp strong enough to bring him to his knees. They were all helpless; even Ruck was writhing on the floor biting at herself. This was the dreadknight’s work, it had to be! But the knowledge brought him no respite.

  ‘Aren of Shoal Point,’ said Klyssen. ‘Now, isn’t this a surprise?’

  100

  The head butler had a ladle of soup to his lips, ready to judge its quality, when he saw the Iron Guardsman approaching through the chaos of the kitchens. He lowered the ladle and straightened his uniform as a frightened scrubber-boy led the guardsman to him.

  ‘He asked for the man in charge,’ the boy mumbled, desperate to escape. The double-barred cross had a way of making even the innocent feel guilty.

  ‘Thank you, Malek. You may go,’ said the butler. Malek needed no second prompting.

  The guardsman was unusually unkempt for his rank. He was coarsely shaven and hollow-eyed, his lips chapped and red marks at the corners of his mouth. Momentary puzzlement creased the butler’s face, but it wasn’t his place to question.

  ‘How may I help you, Guardsman?’

  ‘I’ve been sent by Overwatchman Klyssen. The prince may be in danger and I need your help.’ His voice was a growl of command.

  The butler stiffened. ‘Of course!’ he said. ‘Anything.’