by Den Patrick
‘Damn you, Steiner Vartiainen.’
Something troubles you, Envoy?
‘Your talent for understatement is masterful, Silverdust. Where is the ship? Where are the soldiers?’
Silverdust pointed to the several pieces of burned driftwood.
Your missing ship has been ravaged by fire. It sank close by, or perhaps it washed ashore and the locals broke the hull down out of fear of reprisal.
Silverdust studied the beach. Three weeks had passed since Shirinov’s ill-fated journey. The rain and tide had long since washed away any tracks that might tell a useful story.
‘Emperor save us,’ said Father Orlov from further up the beach. Silverdust and the Envoy made their way to where the Vigilant was pulling something free of the shingle.
‘It seems you have found Ordinary Shirinov,’ said the Envoy. Father Orlov shook the sand from a silver mask with a gently smiling expression. A smear of blood had dried at the corner of one eye.
‘B-but where is the body?’
Silverdust extended one arm and pointed out to sea.
‘Shatterspine,’ said de Vries, invoking the name the novices had used for the man. ‘The old bastard really is dead after all.’
Or gone renegade.
The envoy laughed bitterly. ‘Shirinov would sooner sprout wings and fly than turn against the Empire.’ She stalked off towards the town without a backwards glance. Father Orlov cradled the mask in his trembling hands.
Are you unwell, Father Orlov?
‘No.’ Orlov straightened up and gripped the mask more tightly. ‘I’d never known a Vigilant be killed before the uprising. Now this Vartiainen peasant appears and even the most venerable of our number fall. It is … It is unseemly.’
Did you think us invincible, Father? Immortal?
Father Orlov shook his head, and though Silverdust could not see his expression he knew the man felt disgust. Disgust for Shirinov’s fate and disgust at Silverdust’s insolent question.
Father Orlov tossed the mask onto the stony beach and followed the Envoy. Silverdust watched him go and waited, feeling the wind whip all around him. It must have been a fight to inspire the storyweavers, he decided. A lone peasant boy riding a dragon, taking on a seasoned Vigilant and twenty soldiers. This was the stuff of legend. Something the people of Vinterkveld would grow drunk on. Silverdust stooped to retrieve the mask and drifted into town, though he was certain all the inhabitants had fled. To stay would be madness. To stay would invite difficult questions and a swift death.
They found rooms in an abandoned inn and the soldiers took roles as cooks, servants, and waiters. Envoy de Vries insisted on a hot bath and Father Orlov turned in early. He had said little since uncovering Shirinov’s mask. Silverdust waited in his room, sending his focus out beyond the wooden walls to ponder at the soldiers in their company. His attention brushed against the minds of men drawn from many provinces across the Empire. Most of the soldiers were useful fools that cared nothing beyond getting paid and fed, but one approached, younger than the rest, who he sensed was different. Silverdust opened the door before the young soldier could knock. He held a tray with a bowl of borscht, a plate of dark bread, and a stout mug of ale.
Come in.
The soldier hesitated at the door, then entered the room with a wary expression on his face. Silverdust knew full well what the rank and file thought of him. The way he seemed to glide rather than walk unnerved people. That he never spoke aloud but dropped the words directly into a person’s mind earned him greater mistrust. And there was the question of his loyalty.
What is your name?
‘Streig,’ said the young soldier as he set the tray of food down. He was barely older than Steiner, with a downy fuzz masquerading as a beard, and hair shorn down to stubble across his scalp.
I have already eaten, Streig. So I invite you to stay and enjoy this food.
‘I … I can’t do that,’ said the soldier.
You and I both know that the Emperor has so many soldiers he cannot afford to feed them properly.
‘That’s no secret,’ replied Streig. ‘The peasants in the Scorched Republics eat better than we do.’
And you are hungry, are you not?
Streig’s stomach chose that very moment to growl.
I wish to take the air outside. Being cooped up in these sombre dwellings does not suit me.
Streig had the good sense to remain quiet and watched Silverdust leave. The streets outside the inn were shrouded in the deep darkness of winter night but Silverdust had his own illumination. He drifted along the lonely winding lanes of the town. Something else was in Cinderfell, some other presence that he could not put a name to. The buildings became fewer as he drifted onward, following the steep incline up through the town. The Exarch paused, staring up at the star-flecked heavens, before turning north and advancing into the woods. The leaves and grasses at his feet grew black as he passed by, scorched by the aura of argent light. This was novel; for decades he had only walked the corridors of Vladibogdan and now he travelled in the shadow of moonlit trees, beckoned by an unknown feeling, almost a sound to his arcane senses.
Something wailed in the darkness, something pained and anguished. The trees crowded around Silverdust with dark and threatening branches, then all at once opened out to a clearing. The ruins of a chalet stood on the far side and scores of broken branches littered the ground. Silverdust paused at the edge of the clearing.
You can step into the light, Envoy de Vries.
‘And here I was thinking I’d been so good,’ she said, stepping out from behind an old oak tree a dozen feet behind him. ‘I do so hate the cold.’ She shivered in the night’s chill and stared up into the Exarch’s blank mask. ‘And what brings you out so late at night, Silverdust? What have you seen?’
Silverdust cast his gaze over the clearing where writhing ghostly forms stood weeping and moaning. There had to be a dozen of them, broken in body and mind, cradling old swords and crooning to themselves like tired children.
Can you not see them?
‘What?’ The Envoy drew her knife from the golden belt that hung from her hips.
The ghosts of the Okhrana haunt this place. They linger over shallow graves and cry out for absolution. I hear them.
‘This is nonsense,’ replied de Vries. ‘No Vigilant has ever had such gifts.’
They speak of a peasant girl with terrible power. She summoned the stones from the earth and smashed everyone alive to a pulp.
‘More of your cryptic foolishness. Don’t you think I know you’re hiding something, Silverdust?’
I am not hiding the ghosts of the Okhrana from you, I give you my word on that.
The Envoy looked over her shoulder and for a second Silverdust wondered at how easy it would be to kill her in the darkness of the forest. It was no good, he decided. He needed her to gain audience with the Emperor. Only after the Emperor was dead could he rid himself of the Envoy once and for all.
They haunt this clearing and yet remain hidden from you.
‘There is much that remains hidden from me.’ There was a sour curl on her lips. ‘Not least the events of Vladibogdan.’
The ghosts say one name, over and over.
‘Vartiainen,’ said the Envoy. Silverdust nodded. She stepped closer and dropped her voice to a deathly hush. ‘I don’t believe you can see these ghosts. You’ve told me nothing I did not already know.’
You knew a dozen Okhrana had been sent to Cinderfell, Envoy?
Her silence confirmed she had not.
We could return in the morning and dig them up if you need proof.
Envoy de Vries looked around the clearing as if it might come alive with stalking nightmares at any moment.
‘Perhaps you can see ghosts. I don’t care. I’m going back to the inn. You will keep me informed if you learn anything else.’
Silverdust said nothing and watched the woman leave. He wandered the clearing for long moments, drifting between the phantoms who cried o
r wailed in the night. As a man he might have fled from such a vision, but as a cinderwraith he had no fear of death. Never before had he seen such apparitions, but much had changed since Steiner had taken his hammer to the Ashen Torment.
Finally he came to a grave with a marker. The soul that had belonged to these bones had moved on to whatever rest awaited. Silverdust crouched down and leaned closer to the wooden marker. A name had been carved into the wood.
Verner.
Silverdust stood slowly and nursed a pang of jealousy. How he longed for the peaceful slumber of death’s cold embrace. How he yearned to pass on from this existence. Silverdust glided from the clearing back towards the town. There would be no peace, not while the Emperor still drew breath.
CHAPTER TEN
Steiner
It took two weeks to make their way along the Rusalka River. Steiner had never travelled anywhere by barge before, nor had he ever been so absolutely bored. The persistent damp leeched any good mood out of the three travellers. The owner of the barge was a stooped man called Rezkh who might have been any age from fifty to seventy years old. Long, iron-grey hair emerged from under a battered grubby hat and he rarely said much on account of missing most of his teeth. When he did communicate, in a series of grunts, mumbles and gestures, the conversation was directed at Marek.
‘There’s not even a view to look at,’ said Kristofine, gesturing to the ever-present mist surrounding them. The river was the colour of unquenched steel and the riverbanks were thick with reeds the height of a man on both sides. Trees would emerge from the mist like ghostly sentinels as the barge slunk along the river. In the distance crows called out to one another in strident tones muffled by distance.
Kristofine spent the time learning swordplay from Marek, though there was scarcely enough space for the lessons. Rezkh the boatman would let Marek teach for an hour or so before complaining bitterly about ‘the gods-damned racket of swords crashing against each other’.
It was after one of these training sessions that Kjellrunn and Marek joined Steiner at the prow and stared ahead into the gently swirling mist. They settled down under their cloaks and pressed their hands into their armpits to keep warm.
‘Just our bad fortune to be travelling in winter,’ said Marek.
‘Better this far south than up in Nordvlast,’ said Kristofine, still catching her breath from the lesson.
‘Why is it called the Rusalka River?’ asked Steiner, trailing a hand over the side of the barge and into the water. ‘Why not just the Virag River?’ Marek cleared his throat and looked around to check that the bargemaster wasn’t eavesdropping on them.
‘Before the Empire came into being it was more common to meet things on the road that weren’t human. And sometimes they lingered near the canals too.’
‘Things that weren’t human?’ said Kristofine.
‘The old stories tell of water nymphs who served the land,’ explained Marek. ‘It was seen as good fortune to have one close to home. The fields and forests were more fertile when a nymph was happy, so they said.’
‘And when they weren’t happy …?’ asked Kristofine.
‘The Emperor’s hatred wasn’t merely confined to dragons. He hates all arcane beings. The Empire placed a bounty on the heads of the nymphs and for a time the men of Virag earned coin by murder.’ Steiner pulled his hand back under his cloak, his water-chilled fingers clenched into a fist. Kristofine huddled closer to him.
‘But the Emperor hadn’t counted on the true power of the nymphs. They didn’t pass on to Frejna’s realm and die like the Emperor had hoped. The nymphs came back but now they called themselves rusalka. Where once they had brought life, now they brought only death.’
‘What happened to them?’ asked Kristofine.
‘The rusalka wrought a terrible vengeance on the living for their treachery. Trade by barge stopped completely in Vannerånd, Svingettevei and Drakefjord. The Empire sent Vigilants to kill the Rusalka and many were slain on both sides. Some say the Rusalka were wiped out, but I think some still exist near lakes, where it’s quiet and people are few.’
The barge bumped against something and Steiner flinched. He looked around with one hand on the haft of his sledgehammer, then breathed a sigh of relief. Rezkh had found a small pier to tie up to for the night.
‘Maybe it’s time we went ahead on foot?’ said Steiner. ‘I think I’d like to spend some time among the living. This endless mist is getting to me.’
Marek smiled and clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘We’re close to the final stop anyway.’
‘How do they get you?’ asked Kristofine. ‘The Rusalka, I mean. How do they, you know, kill you?’
‘A rusalka appears as a beautiful woman bathing in the river. When a man gets close by she calls to him, and the man can’t help but draw close to her.’
Kristofine rolled her eyes.
‘And when the men are close enough the rusalka’s hair comes alive and wraps about the man’s neck, dragging him under the water and drowning him.’
‘We should really go the rest of the way on foot,’ said Steiner.
‘Seems to me the people of Vannerånd, Drakefjord and Svingettevei could have maintained their barge trade if they’d had any brains,’ said Kristofine, gathering her bag.
‘How’s that?’ asked Marek.
‘If the rusalka lured only men to their deaths, they should have employed women to run the barges.’
Marek laughed long and deep and Steiner found himself caught up in the sound, laughing along with him. It was the first time any of them had laughed since Tikhoveter had been killed.
The riverside inn was a welcome sight after two weeks aboard the narrow barge. A small village spread out from beside the canal though most of the buildings were little more than shadowy outlines in the mist. Once they had settled in, Steiner took a bath and joined Marek and Kristofine downstairs in the bar.
‘We’ve wasted two whole weeks on the barge,’ he said. ‘I need to start telling my story now.’
‘Steady now, Steiner,’ warned Marek in a hiss. ‘We only just escaped Virag. We need to be cautious. The Empire has ears everywhere.’
‘Even here, in a riverside inn lost in the mist?’
Marek shrugged. ‘I’m just saying we should be careful is all.’
Steiner cast his gaze around the bar and searched the faces of the local men and women. Wasn’t it the business of spies to blend in and look like everyone else? He approached the bar and nodded to a handful of heavyset men in muddy smocks and forced a smile.
‘Hail, friends.’
‘Friends?’ said tallest of them. He was a bull-necked man with a heavy brow and black beard shot through with grey. ‘Were only friends if you’re buying the drinks.’ The men around Bull-neck chuckled and looked away.
‘I bring news about the Empire. A story really.’
‘A story!’ Bull-neck grinned. ‘What a delight.’ Steiner couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic on account of his accent. ‘An’ you come all the way from …?’
‘Nordvlast,’ supplied Steiner.
‘So you come all the way from Nordvlast to interrupt our conversation with a story about the hated Empire. The Empire that took my niece three summers ago.’ The man’s expression darkened. ‘Go back to Nordvlast, halfhead.’
‘There have been two uprisings against the—’
‘Go back to Nordvlast,’ repeated the bull-necked man. ‘There’ll be no uprising in Svingettevei. We prefer to keep our heads attached to our shoulders. Go.’
Steiner headed back to his table where Kristofine waited with an anxious look. Steiner slumped down in the seat beside her and stared into his mug of ale.
‘I need to get better at that,’ he said quietly.
‘People are strange creatures,’ said Kristofine. ‘Territorial. You can’t just walk into their place and tell them a thing. It makes them feel stupid, ignorant. You need to make them curious. I used to see this done a lot in my father’s tavern.
A person would come in and hint that they had just arrived from somewhere or perhaps knew something everyone else didn’t. Just a hint really, to make people curious, make them ask a question or two.’
‘Making people curious,’ repeated Steiner. He looked at his father over the top of his mug. ‘And what do you think?’
‘I think I’m an old soldier who doesn’t know much about storytelling. But I think Kristofine has a point,’ said Marek. ‘Let’s try it her way next time.’
Marek insisted that he needed a room of his own on account of not having a moment’s peace in the last month. ‘We have a little coin to spare,’ he said. ‘One night’s luxury won’t kill anyone.’
And so Steiner found himself alone with Kristofine that night when the bar finally stopped serving and the lanterns downstairs were extinguished one by one. They headed up the creaking wooden steps hand in hand and spent a minute fussing at the candles before Steiner sat on the bed and gave a deep sigh.
‘What’s got you frowning so, dragon rider?’ said Kristofine, running her fingers across his scalp and down his neck. She pressed closer to him and he rested his head against the soft curve of her stomach. Her fingers continued to trace the muscles in his neck and shoulders.
‘Dragon rider?’ He huffed a bitter laugh. ‘They called me the Unbroken back on the ship. At Nordvlast I wielded the Ashen Torment and fought Shirinov in single combat. Out here I can’t even make a handful of men listen to what I have to say.’
‘It will come in time. You’ll work out the trick of it. We’ll work it out together.’
‘Everything will fail if I can’t make people pay attention.’
‘I’m paying attention to you,’ she whispered. ‘And we have our own room for the first time since you were taken by the Empire.’
‘When you put it like that …’ Steiner gave her slow smile and stood up to kiss her.
‘Much better,’ said Kristofine as he began to unbutton her skirt.
They were late joining Marek for what passed for breakfast the following morning, and even the paucity of the fare couldn’t dim Steiner’s spirits.
