The Ember Blade

by Chris Wooding

  With that, he strode off down the corridor, his lantern swinging at his side. Fen and Aren exchanged a glance, then Fen shrugged and followed him.

  107

  There was vengeance in Sorrow’s cries. Aren could hear it. Somehow he’d sensed Plague’s death. Until now, the dreadknights had kept up some semblance of humanity, but that was all over. They were servants of the Outsiders, and his angry, haunting screams were the voice of the Abyss.

  They went deeper into the underkeep, maintaining a punishing pace despite the threat of more traps. Sorrow sounded like he was almost on top of them, but they could only keep moving, and hope. They didn’t have the strength to stand against him. Vika was their only weapon, and she was spent.

  The darkness bore down on them as they hurried through abandoned chambers, their lanterns lonely flickers of light. They headed towards the lake, following Grub’s lead, but they kept hitting dead ends and were forced to backtrack many times. Stairs took them up and down, tunnels split and split again, and the more detours they took, the more Aren began to despair of ever finding an escape. All the time, Sorrow drew closer.

  Eventually, they emerged from the maze of tunnels and halls and found themselves on an ancient bridge over a breathtaking chasm that extended far beyond the limits of their lanterns. At the edge of the light, they could dimly see other bridges crossing theirs, both overhead and below, some straddled by squat, silent gatehouses with empty black windows. There were other buildings along the side of the gorge, angular dwellings descending into the dark. A great stone promontory held up a huge structure that had the look of a temple, but which was more intimidating and awesome in its setting than any Sanctorum building Aren had ever seen.

  ‘How far do these tunnels spread?’ Mara exclaimed. ‘We must have left Hammerholt far behind by now.’

  ‘The Knights Vigilant of Mitterland spoke of finding underground cities during the Purges of the lowlands,’ said Harod. ‘It is thought that they are pale shadows of those built across Ossia when the First Empire was in its pomp.’

  The bridge ended at a gaping portal leading to another cave, where they found a bewildering tangle of steps and platforms spreading out before them. There were half a dozen exits they could see, and probably more they couldn’t.

  Aren’s heart sank a little. ‘Which way?’ he asked.

  Even Grub’s confidence waned, faced with so many options. He surveyed the scene helplessly, trying to guess the route onwards. Then Ruck barked, and Vika stepped forward and laid a hand on her back.

  ‘That way,’ she said, pointing to a doorway high above them with her staff.

  ‘How can you tell?’ asked Orica, her green eyes shining bright in the gloom.

  ‘Ruck can hear night birds, calling on the lake.’

  ‘Fleabag tell you that, did she?’ Grub asked, eyeing Ruck suspiciously. Ruck growled at him.

  ‘In a way,’ said Vika, and offered no further explanation.

  Aren was in no mood to turn down any offer of hope. ‘Lead on, then,’ he told Ruck, who loped off ahead. They followed her, Grub grumbling under his breath about the indignity of being replaced by a hound.

  The prospect of escape spurred them to new speed. Though they were tired and footsore, they pushed past gruesome carvings, through grim halls thick with shadow and chambers full of pillars and pits. The scowling craft of the urds oppressed them, and with every step they feared to trigger some new trap; but whether by luck or divine favour, they made their way unhindered.

  At last, they emerged through a doorway into another cavern. Before them was a gorge spanned by a narrow bridge. They could hear water running somewhere below. At the far end of the bridge, rough steps zigzagged upwards, ending in—

  ‘Light!’ Orica cried. And it was: the cool glow of the moons, knifing through some unseen gap at the top of the stairs. Ruck barked joyfully and went running ahead, Vika running with her.

  ‘Wait for Grub!’ said Grub, bounding after them onto the bridge.

  Aren was no less eager, chasing the others towards the moonlight. He knew haste was foolish, but he couldn’t help himself. It was only when he was some way across that he remembered Fen’s fear of heights and stopped to check she was coming.

  To his surprise, she was right behind him. The bridge wasn’t wide, but it was wide enough that she was in no danger of falling, and there were crumbling parapets to either side. Her face was alight, and the sight of it warmed him, a small comfort in the vast, numb waste left by Cade’s death.

  He looked past her to the others: Mara was close on Fen’s heels, then Harod, with Orica just behind him.

  And behind her, swirling like ink from the dark mouth of the doorway, a shadow in a black cloak, his metal face frozen in an anguished howl.

  ‘Look out!’ he screamed; but already he knew that no warning would be enough.

  The dreadknight lunged from the doorway. Orica’s eyes went wide as she was enfolded from behind. A blade flashed in the blackness, and plunged.

  Time slowed to a crawl. Orica went stiff, caught inside that tangle of darkness, her gaze drifting far away to something they couldn’t see. Sorrow drew back his blade and released her, and she crumpled in a heap on the ground.

  Harod stood at the end of the bridge, frozen in place. He’d turned in time to see Orica stabbed, but too late to intervene. Now he quivered like a plucked string, his eyes filling with horror, his Harrish composure peeling away before the heat of his emotion.

  Sorrow raised his paired swords, the short blade and the long, and took his stance. His first strike had been murder; now he meant to do battle. A scream of rage and grief ripped from Harod’s throat. He drew his sword and charged, and Sorrow ran to meet him.

  They met in a storm of blades, a flurry of strikes almost too fast for the eye to see. Sorrow’s swords were everywhere, and at first Harod was equal to it. Though he wasn’t so inhumanly quick, he anticipated every blow and was ready when it came. Back and forth they went, but Sorrow’s speed gave him the edge in the end, and Harod was driven steadily onto the bridge and further from his fallen love.

  Shock had stayed Aren’s hand at first, but now he drew his sword, intending to run to Harod’s aid. Fen grabbed his arm before he could.

  ‘Don’t,’ she told him. ‘You can’t win.’

  It was truth, and he knew it. He couldn’t even beat Harte in a straight fight; walking into that whirlwind would be suicide. But he couldn’t stand by and do nothing. It wasn’t in him to do that.

  ‘Come on, Mudslug!’ Grub was back with them now, tugging him towards the stairs. ‘Bowlhead buying us time!’

  Aren shook him off. ‘Vika! Help him!’

  ‘I want to,’ said the druidess, her painted face tortured in the lanternlight. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Fen has no arrows,’ Mara said. ‘Only you and Grub can help, and the bridge is not broad enough for you both.’

  ‘And Grub isn’t stupid. He not fighting that!’

  ‘We must save the Ember Blade!’ Mara urged. ‘Out in the open, maybe we can escape him.’

  Aren watched the battle raging on the bridge and knew that Harod couldn’t win it. The dreadknight was tireless, and Harod wasn’t. He’d be worn down and killed eventually, and if they were still here when that happened, they’d be killed, too.

  But he was one of them, and that meant more than any sword did.

  ‘Wherever we go, Sorrow will find us,’ Aren told them. ‘We stand united, or we fall apart.’ So saying, he ran into the fray.

  It took all of his courage to cross swords with the dreadknight. It was a thing of shadow, the only bright points its witch-iron blades and twisted mask. Terror surrounded it like a mantle. Yet for all his fear, Aren moved alongside Harod and took his place in the fight. They’d both lost someone they loved today, and there was brotherhood in that. Aren wouldn’t lose Harod, too.

  He expected to be outclassed and fought accordingly. He wasn’t there to kill the dreadknight but to divide his attenti
on. If he could defend himself awhile, he might give Harod the chance he needed; but even that was almost beyond him. The dreadknight’s blows came so fast that he was barely able to fend them away. Were it not for the fact that the dreadknight was focusing on Harod – clearly the more dangerous opponent – Aren would have been cut down like wheat.

  To overcome your enemy, you must first understand him. But how could he possibly understand what lay beneath Sorrow’s mask?

  Harod let out a high, raw scream that sounded wrong coming from a man who’d once seemed a stranger to emotion. Yet even taken by purest fury, he was in control. Still he didn’t overreach, still he kept his straight-backed stance while his blade flickered here and there. Perhaps Sorrow had hoped to unbalance him by attacking Orica first, but Harod was too skilled a swordsman for that.

  Hard and quick they fought, by the light of the moons and their lanterns. Aren wasn’t aware of what the others on the bridge were doing, if they’d fled or not, and he had no space to care. All his focus was on this battle, every fibre of his being dedicated to the fight.

  It wasn’t enough. Sorrow’s blade whipped out, and as Aren pulled his head out of reach, his leg was kicked from under him. He fell backwards and crashed against the parapet, which broke beneath his weight, ancient stone giving way to pitch him into the black gorge.

  Harod grabbed him by the scruff of his jerkin, lightning-quick, and hauled him away from the edge. Instead of falling over the side, he tumbled onto the floor of the bridge. But that distraction was what Sorrow had been counting on. The instant Harod took his eye from his opponent, Sorrow hooked his shortsword around Harod’s weapon. There was an instant of struggle, then both blades went spinning into the void.

  Harod stepped back from his opponent, weaponless now, without armour. Sorrow drew himself up to his full height, his long blade hanging from his gloved hand, that anguished face gaping. A snake about to strike.

  ‘Harod!’ Aren cried.

  Harod whirled in time to catch the sword Aren flung towards him. Sorrow lunged in the same moment, thrusting for the kill, but Harod spun back to face him, the sword singing free from its scabbard as he turned, and it wasn’t Aren’s sword he held but the Ember Blade, a streak of sullen fire in the dark which smashed the dreadknight’s blade to shards.

  Sorrow stared in surprise at the sundered weapon in his hands, and in that moment of hesitation, Harod swung again. The dread­knight gave an unearthly shriek as the Ember Blade clove into him, the force of it sending his body over the parapet. Still shrieking, he tumbled raggedly into the gorge, and kept falling till they could hear him no more.

  ‘Orica!’ The Ember Blade clattered to the ground, forgotten, as Harod raced to Orica’s side and gathered her up in his arms. ‘Orica!’

  The sound of his grief pierced them all. Aren stood wearily, gathered up the bloody Ember Blade and sheathed it. The others were clustered uncertainly at the far end of the bridge. They hadn’t run, but nor could they celebrate Sorrow’s death. All sense of triumph had been swept away by the loss that came with it.

  Aren approached Harod, drawn by the need to see if Orica lived, but he stopped at a distance. This was Harod’s tragedy; he didn’t want to intrude.

  ‘Speak to me,’ Harod begged, holding her head up. Her eyes found him and focused, and he broke into a smile of desperate hope. But there was no coming back for her. Aren knew it, and he saw Harod’s face fall as he realised it, too. Sarla was here to claim her.

  ‘I love you,’ he told her, gasping the words, tears dripping from his eyes. ‘I love you. I should have said it all along. Don’t leave me, Orica. I love you!’

  Orica’s hand lifted, trembling. Her eyes stayed fixed on his as it slid inside her clothes, searching for an inside pocket. Her gaze was fierce, as if to break connection with him would be to lose the last thing anchoring her to the world.

  ‘I love you,’ he sobbed, as if by saying it again he could undo what had been done to her. ‘Don’t go.’

  From out of the pocket she drew a folded sheaf of paper, wet at the edge with her blood. She took his hand and pressed it there. He hardly seemed to notice.

  ‘I love you,’ he whispered again.

  Her lips parted as if to speak, but giving him the paper had taken the last of her. Her face went loose, and her body relaxed with a long sigh.

  Harod’s desolate scream cut Aren to the heart, and he had to turn away. Nothing he could do would make anything better. All he could do was leave, and let Harod have his grief.

  He walked across the bridge to the others and passed without looking at them. Above and ahead, close enough to smell it, was freedom. With the Ember Blade in hand, he trudged towards the light.

  108

  A mossy stone door stood ajar at the top of the zigzag stair. By the looks of it, it hadn’t been moved for centuries. The work of some forgotten Delver, perhaps, or an old escape route lost to time. Aren didn’t care. He just wanted out.

  Beyond was a narrow cave passage, moonlight shining through a gash at the end. Aren stepped out into the speckled night.

  He found himself on a ledge on a mountainside, the moons hanging side-by-side in the sky before him. Behind him, out of sight, Hammerholt burned bright enough to light the undersides of the clouds. Spread out below was Lake Calagria, the black water glowing with the fire’s reflected rage. Scattered lamps picked out the towns on the shore.

  He breathed in, smelling the smoke on the wind, and let it out again. He was alive. Just to exist was enough in this moment. He dared not think beyond that, to what life without Cade would mean. He was here, breathing, and that was victory of a sort.

  The others followed him onto the ledge, sank to the ground and rested, looking out over the vista or leaning against the rock. None of them spoke. No one had the words.

  Harod was the last to arrive. He walked with Orica cradled in his arms, his blood-smeared face puffy and red with tears, his ridiculous hair in a mess. Silently, they got to their feet again and Fen led them off the ledge, picking a way down the mountainside for them to follow.

  At Mara’s suggestion they’d buried maps, weapons and supplies in some woods by the lake the day before. A contingency plan, in case they had to escape cross-country. Fen guided them back to the spot and they unearthed their stash, washed the blood from themselves in a stream and changed their clothes. Harod put Orica’s body down next to the water and cleaned her face and hands with a cloth, wiping it carefully across her skin, murmuring to her as he did so. When he was finished, he lifted her again.

  ‘She will not lie here beneath the trees,’ he said, his voice dull. ‘She always loved the open sky.’

  ‘We will find a place for her,’ said Vika.

  They laid her to rest beside a shallow tarn in a reedy mountain meadow as dawn broke over the mountains. In the distance, visible between the peaks, Hammerholt still burned, a torch that could be seen as far as the Krodan border.

  As was the Ossian way, she was placed in the ground with no marker, given to the mercy of the Lady of Worms. She’d go back to the earth she’d come from, dissolving into the land she’d loved. And as they grieved for Orica, they also grieved for Cade. While the others threw soil over her still body, Aren’s eyes were on the burning fortress that had taken his best friend.

  Vika prayed to Sarla, for Orica and Cade, and Garric, too. Aren couldn’t even muster any anger at that name, even though he still blamed him for Cade’s death. He’d been emptied by the past few hours. In the end, Garric wasn’t the villain Aren’s father had warned him about, nor the hero he’d once appeared. There were no heroes or villains here, or anywhere. He was just a man, flawed as the next, and he made his choices like the rest of them. Whether they were good choices or bad was a matter of perspect­ive.

  When Vika was done, she stepped back from the grave and looked to Harod.

  ‘Will you speak?’ she asked him. ‘You, who knew her best?’

  He moved to the foot of her grave and looked down upo
n it. He was wearing his armour again, his velvets discarded, a knight once more. At last, he lifted his head, and in a high, frail voice, he sang.

  The king stood at his window in his castle on the shore.

  His family were sleeping, his foes were no more.

  As he looked o’er the sea he heard knuckles on the door.

  ’Twas his seer, white as a ghost.

  ‘Sire, please beware, for a storm does draw near

  That will tear down your walls and take all you hold dear.’

  But the king laughed and knew he had nothing to fear

  And he turned his old eyes to the coast.

  His voice was weak and he could hardly hold a tune, but it didn’t matter somehow. Aren felt something stir inside him as he listened, a shred of defiance and battered pride amid the empty sadness. He couldn’t let Harod continue alone, and after hearing it so many times from Orica’s lips, they all knew the words. Aren lifted his voice with Harod’s, and one by one the others did, too.

  He said, ‘I see no clouds, and the waves are not high.

  Your omens mislead you, your bones fall awry.’

  But the seer said, ‘Sire, not all storms come from the sky.

  There are depths to which you cannot see.

  ‘The tide is returning, and coming right soon.

  It brings with it those you have sent to their doom.

  There’s a wolf in the waves who yet howls from its tomb

  And the fallen keep long memory.’

  Then the king said, ‘You lie! For this land is my land!

  Passed on to me by fate’s bloodied right hand.’

  ‘But sire,’ said the seer, ‘though you think you command,

  Your rule is but fleeting here.

  ‘There are elder things yet than the god you obey

  And none may lay claim to this soil, try you may.

  For this land will be here after you pass away

  And its children will still persevere.’

  By now, all of them were singing, even Grub. Despite everything, Aren’s heart swelled at the sound. His hand went to the Ember Blade at his hip. For all it had cost, they’d done something miraculous tonight. Cade would have appreciated that.