Wintercraft: Blackwatch
JENNA BURTENSHAW
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Copyright © 2011 Jenna Burtenshaw
The right of Jenna Burtenshaw to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2011
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN : 978 0 7553 7124 2
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1 - Hunted
Chapter 2 - Judgement
Chapter 3 - Enemies
Chapter 4 - Bandermain
Chapter 5 - Crossed Daggers
Chapter 6 - Allegiance
Chapter 7 - Ashes & Stone
Chapter 8 - The Secret in the Skull
Chapter 9 - The Messenger
Chapter 10 - The Gatekeeper
Chapter 11 - The Shadowmarket
Chapter 12 - Fate Foreseen
Chapter 13 - The World Beneath
Chapter 14 - Within the Walls
Chapter 15 - The Price
Chapter 16 - Waterways
Chapter 17 - Behind the Mask
Chapter 18 - Into the Dark
Chapter 19 - Blood Work
Chapter 20 - Blade & Claw
Chapter 21 - Lost
Chapter 22 - Fate
Jenna Burtenshaw has been writing regularly since she was nine years old. She grew up reading stories by Roald Dahl, but it was her morning walk to school through a graveyard that first interested her in gothic writing and the supernatural. She is a vegetarian and is very passionate about animal welfare – she once ran a shelter for sick and unwanted guinea pigs, which often had more than fifty residents at one time.
For Adam,
my wonderful brother.
With love.
1
Hunted
A month had passed since the Night of Souls; the night Silas Dane had left the city of Fume as a traitor and begun his new life as a fugitive. He had murdered a councilwoman, slain many of her wardens and threatened the lives of the council’s twelve remaining members. In that one night he had gone from being one of the High Council’s most trusted men to being an outlaw, no better than any of the smugglers and thieves he had brought to justice in his time. Word of his treachery had spread to every town in Albion. The High Council wanted him caught, but despite everything the memory of that night still made Silas smile.
Heavy mists spread across the open wilds of Albion as the darkest weeks of winter closed in. Bitter winds blasted in from the north and every morning a new layer of frost clung to the trees. Silas’s crow soared high overhead as Silas rode deep into the wild counties, making his way between the small settlements that peppered the landscape. For the first time in twelve years his life was his own and he found himself enjoying his freedom upon Albion’s open roads. For now, that freedom was enough.
The settlements were lawless places, beyond the reach of the High Council’s rule: roughly built clusters of houses, trading posts and inns whose residents made anyone feel welcome so long as they brought silver or goods to barter with. Disguised in a travelling robe taken from the body of an unlucky thief who had challenged him upon the open road, Silas blended in among other nameless strangers, hiding his grey eyes beneath a hood during the day and conducting his business at night. Wherever ale flowed, people talked.
As snowstorms moved in steadily from the frozen north, Silas was forced to stop camping in the open each night and began renting rooms within the settlements instead. His most recent shelter was a run-down inn clinging to the edge of one of the larger eastern villages. He had heard that whisperers – information sellers – often visited there and hoped to overhear news of the search that had been mounted against him. During his second night spent hunched in its darkest corner listening to whispers shared over flagons of cheap ale, he was not disappointed.
Just before midnight, a tall man entered the inn with a thick scarf wrapped round his neck. He walked like a soldier and swept his eyes over each face in the room, scrutinising every one. Silas lowered his eyes and turned away. After weeks spent in the company of strangers, he had just spotted a familiar face. He tried not to look interested as the man nodded in greeting to a hooded stranger sitting three tables away and went to join him.
‘There’s been no word from any scouts on the rivers or at the coast,’ he heard the newcomer say. ‘None of the dockworkers have seen or heard anything of Silas Dane along the eastern or southern coasts. Either your information was wrong, or he has paid them well for their silence.’
‘He will head to the Continent eventually. Keep searching. I want to know the moment he is seen.’
‘Have you considered that he may not even be heading for the sea? He might not even have heard of this woman.’
The hooded man shook his head slowly. ‘The council have known about her long enough,’ he said. ‘It will not be long before Silas hears about her too.’
Silas leaned further over his ale glass, trying to identify the speaker. He was dressed like any other common man, but beneath his plain brown coat Silas caught a glimpse of a bright red boot, polished and pristine. Those boots belonged to a councilman. If there was a councilman in that inn, a consignment of wardens would not be far away.
Silas scanned the room and identified two men he had not seen the night before. If they were wardens, they had not recognised him so far.
‘Dalliah Grey is an enemy to our country,’ continued the councilman. ‘We have reason to believe that she will try to contact Dane when she discovers he has turned against us. Dane may have murdered a councilwoman, but Dalliah Grey committed far worse crimes before she was driven out of our lands. If the two of them join forces against us the consequences could be disastrous.’
A burst of laughter broke from a group of smugglers close by and Silas made use of the distraction. He stood up, walked straight past the two men and pulled open the inn door, stepping out into the snow-filled night. A black carriage stood waiting to his left with two wardens on board, their shoulders hunched against the falling snow. Neither of them looked his way as he headed right, slipping into the dark. If an attack was planned, the wardens’ training would force them to do it now, while their target was in the open, out of sight of any witnesses.
No one came.
The inn door creaked open five times to disgorge various drunks out into the street until, on the sixth, the councilman stepped into the open with the man he had been speaking to close behind him.
‘The longer Dane remains at large the less generous I shall be,’ said the councilman. ‘Find him. You have had long enough.’
The man nodded. ‘As soon as I hear anything, you’ll be the first to know.’
Silas’s hand stood ready upon his blade as the hooded man walked to the carr
iage and the driver cracked a whip to drive the horses on. The other man stayed by the inn door, counting money out of a small coin purse into his pockets. Silas moved silently up behind him.
‘How have you been, Derval?’
The man reached for his dagger in surprise.
‘There will be no need for that,’ said Silas, pulling his hood back a little to expose his full face.
‘Silas?’ The man relaxed at once. ‘You have the luck of a demon, my friend,’ he said. ‘Do you know how many wardens were just here?’
Silas led him back into the shadows where they could talk unseen. ‘What are you doing here, Derval? I hear you have been hunting me. And not very successfully.’
‘I have far better things to do than hunt you down,’ said Derval. ‘I like living too much, but the High Council don’t need to know that, do they? Where there’s fear, there’s coin, and you have got them all quivering in their boots since the Night of Souls. Twenty wardens killed, half the city swearing they saw spirits of the dead, and a councilwoman finally getting what she deserved.’
Silas nodded slowly. ‘How is the hunt progressing?’
‘It’s not,’ said Derval. ‘The council don’t know where you are, and if anyone else does, they’re not talking.’
‘So the councilmen have decided to head out into the wilds themselves?’
‘This was an arranged meeting,’ said Derval. ‘He chooses the location. I spin him a lie or two and I get paid. It works for me.’
‘I don’t believe in coincidences,’ said Silas, keeping a close eye on the street, still primed for an attack. ‘Since you are here, I need something from you.’
‘What kind of thing?’ asked Derval, suddenly suspicious. ‘I’m not giving you my horse. Not after what happened last time.’
Silas smiled. ‘I need information,’ he said. ‘This woman the council are worried about. I want you to tell me everything you know about Dalliah Grey.’
‘From the sound of it, she’s as bad as you. Trouble,’ said Derval. ‘Word is she caused Albion a lot of trouble a few hundred years ago. Got on the wrong side of the council, killed a few of them, messed with things she shouldn’t.’
‘A few hundred years ago? Why are the council worried about her now?’
‘Because, according to our councilman friend, the old girl isn’t dead,’ said Derval. ‘Now, I have an open mind, you know that, but even I think the High Council have got it wrong with this one. Five hundred years later and they’re convinced this woman is still going strong, with a grudge against Albion even longer than yours, I’d bet. All that business in the city square a few weeks ago jogged a few memories within the council. I wish I’d been there to see their faces when the veil opened like that. Some of them think Dalliah Grey was involved and it’s got them worried. Let’s face it, if there was a five-hundredyear-old woman out there with a grudge against me, I’d be worried too.’
‘And the council believe she is still alive?’ asked Silas.
‘They sound convinced,’ said Derval. ‘Something to do with the veil, so I’ve heard. The old councils tried everything they could to kill her off when she was in Albion last, but nothing touches her. She bleeds, she heals. Just like you.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘On the Continent somewhere. All I know is the council don’t want you crossing the sea to find out. But if they’re worried about this woman, she can’t be all that bad. She sounds like an interesting one, if you ask me.’
Silas emptied his pocket and pressed a coin pouch of his own into Derval’s hand. ‘This is for your silence,’ he said. ‘If I find out you have told the wardens about me, I will hunt you down, slit your throat and watch your blood drain out of your lifeless body drop by drop. Do you understand me?’
‘As always,’ said Derval. ‘You keep the money coming and I keep my mouth shut. It is always a pleasure dealing with you, my friend. I hope we meet again soon.’
Silas nodded and a slight smile flickered across his eyes. ‘With luck, we will.’
The two men clasped hands in farewell and Silas skulked away from the inn as quietly as he had arrived. His horse was stabled in the blacksmith’s yard, right where he had left it. He unhitched the stall gate, saddled the restless beast, and rode out of the village without looking back.
Silas spent the whole of the next day on the move, staying away from the main trails. He rode his horse over snowcovered hills, through frosted fields and alongside frozen rivers. The presence of a councilman in the wilds and the council’s fear of the woman called Dalliah Grey had helped him to make a decision.
It took two days to find a hidden dock where smuggling ships set sail for the Continent. Once there, he convinced a captain to allow him passage on the next vessel to leave that night by offering his horse in trade. If what Derval had said about Dalliah was true, Silas had to meet her. Given enough time he could hunt down anything, and his reputation as the High Council’s most capable collector was known as far as his name had travelled. If he could find her, one of the council’s oldest enemies could well become his greatest ally.
The ship set sail just before sunset on to a calm ocean, and as soon as he was at sea, watching his homeland drift out of sight, Silas knew he was doing the right thing.
The journey to the Continent would have taken only a few hours in fine conditions, but the northern countries were in the middle of a freezing winter. Ocean currents were carrying sheets of ice southwards down the Taegar Sea, forcing ships to push their way through and making the crossing a slow and treacherous one.
Silas spent most of the journey out in the open on deck, but as the hours passed and the evening slipped into the dead of night he crouched in the centre of the cargo hold, cleared a space in the dirt on the floor with his hands and pulled open the neck of a black drawstring pouch. Rows of fat leather sacks swung from bars lined up above him, each one swaying gently, following the slow motion of the ship as it cut through the icy waves. He could hear chunks of ice grinding against the hull, scraping at the wood like a thousand fingernails as he emptied the pouch’s contents out on to the floor.
A handful of coins rattled out first, then a silver ring and three rolled notes. Two of the notes were sealed with buttons of wax, but the third had cracked open and was busy unfurling itself slowly across the floor. Silas pocketed the coins and the ring and picked up the open note. The seal was dark green and stamped with a rolled scroll: the mark of Albion’s High Council. He struck a match and held the flame close to the paper to read its words.
Order is Hereby Given for the Capture of
Silas Dane.
Traitor, Thief & Murderer.
Collectors May Claim a Substantial Reward of
Gold and Land
upon Presentation of this Dangerous Criminal to
the Warden of the Watch.
North Tower, High Council Chambers, Fume.
Silas looked over at the dead man who had owned the pouch. His body was still warm, his neck twisted awkwardly against the floor. Collectors were resourceful and persistent, but he had not expected one to find him on the open sea.
‘Good work,’ he said, nodding towards the man’s lifeless eyes. ‘You came closer than most.’ He rubbed a streak of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. A shallow cut burned there for a second or two before the skin sealed itself perfectly, healing in moments, leaving no sign that there had ever been an injury. The collector’s attack had taken Silas by surprise. It would not happen again.
He allowed the match flame to catch upon the corner of the page, consuming it in a burst of heat and embers. ‘The council does not give gold to dead men,’ he said. ‘You should have known better.’
Silas stood up, grabbed the collector’s wrists and dragged him roughly across the floor. Then he unhooked an empty leather sack from its hanging place, wrestled the body into it and hooked it heavily back into place. No one would find it until they arrived at port, and by then he would already have left the s
hip behind.
Silas left the sack swinging with the rest and made his way to the front of the hold, where a trapdoor led up on to the main deck. He climbed a short ladder, grabbed the door’s handle and pushed it open, letting moonlight spread across his face. The deck was rough and untidy, tracked with deep scratches and stained with everything from wine to animal dung. The smugglers did not care what they carried, so long as it brought them a profit at the end of the journey. There had been eight men on the ship when it left the dock, including Silas and the captain, whose clothes bristled with hidden weapons since he trusted his own crew as little as he trusted the strangers who had paid their way on board.
Silas carried a weapon of his own: a sword forged of blue-black metal that was still sheathed beneath his stolen robe. He stood out in the open, listened carefully and made a note of every man’s position on the ship. The captain was pacing in his cabin; he could hear his bootsteps scraping on the floorboards. The helmsman was at the wheel and two young men were climbing among the rigging, bundled in thick clothes and arguing loudly with each other. The fifth man was in the galley cooking potatoes and old beef, another was snoring in his sleep, and the last would give him no more trouble: the dead collector, swinging gently in the hold.
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