by Jen Williams
‘Just as long as there’s a warm fire and a roof over my head at the end of it, mind you.’ Wydrin paused. As fond as she was of the sound of her own voice, this was starting to become tiresome. She put her hand on Sebastian’s arm.
‘Sebastian, if you do not tell me what is wrong, I shall christen my new sword by lopping your annoying head off with it.’
That earned her the ghost of a smile.
‘It is nothing. I am just tired.’
Wydrin returned his smile. ‘I’m fairly bloody knackered myself.’
‘Do you remember when we first met?’
Wydrin snorted laughter.
‘Of course I do. You were so drunk you couldn’t get your weapon out of its scabbard and you were still winning a brawl against several of Crosshaven’s worst. One of my most treasured memories, that.’
‘I was so angry.’ Sebastian kept looking ahead, his face shrouded in dappled shadow. ‘I wanted to burn the world down, for what they’d done to me.’
‘Understandable. You’re better off without the Order, Seb.’ Wydrin kicked a stone off the path with more force than was strictly necessary. ‘They were ignorant fools.’
Sebastian shook his head slowly.
‘I should have been better. They were wrong, but what we have done …’ He paused, and rubbed at his eyes. ‘I am so tired.’
Wydrin nodded.
‘We’ll have a rest from adventuring for a while, then. Head back to Crosshaven, drop in at the Marrow Markets, perhaps, and see if we can find my brother.’ She grinned at a sudden upturned memory. ‘Do you remember last time? I don’t know why they call it a festival if they can’t take a joke. Might be an idea to ask around before we visit, actually; there could be one or two merchants with long memories …’ Her voice trailed off and she looked up at Sebastian, but he was gone again, his blue eyes grave and searching a landscape she couldn’t see. They walked in silence the rest of the way, and for Wydrin the forest seemed ominous once more.
When they reached the Secret Keeper’s house they found Crowleo standing out on the path, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows and one of Holley’s old aprons around his waist. There was a rug beside him covered in various instruments and pieces of old glass, and an old iron bucket filled with broken things. He waved as they approached.
‘We’ve brought you lunch,’ said Wydrin, placing a basket full of bread and cheese down on the rug. ‘What are you up to?’
‘Sorting through everything that is left,’ said Crowleo. He gestured at the stone room where the Secret Keeper had worked. ‘There is not a lot, truth be told, but much of the equipment was too sturdy or heavy for the Children of the Fog to break, and so I have that.’
‘What will you do now?’ asked Sebastian.
‘I have decided to stay here and rebuild what I can,’ said Crowleo, a small smile on his lips. ‘The priestess woman, Dreyda, has promised to help and she seems to be well versed in getting the people of Pinehold to do as she pleases. There will be people coming with timbers. But listen, I have something for you.’ He reached into his apron and withdrew a piece of yellowed parchment. He looked apologetic for some reason. ‘Your friend was here this morning.’
‘Frith?’ Wydrin eyed the parchment uneasily.
‘He came up to visit the vault. Walked all the way across there by himself.’ Crowleo shook his head. ‘I don’t think I shall ever get used to seeing a man walk across thin air. He said he was retrieving some final items, and he asked me to give you this.’
Crowleo handed Wydrin the parchment. She unfolded it. In simple, neat handwriting was a brief message: Your assistance is no longer required – Lord Aaron Frith.
In spite of herself, Wydrin laughed.
‘Not even a thank-you from our princeling,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why I’m surprised.’
‘There was also this.’ Crowleo bent to the rug and retrieved two heavy-looking coin purses, which he passed to the two adventurers. ‘He said that should be the last of the copper promise. You know what this means, yes?’
‘I know what it means,’ said Wydrin, surprised at the sour note in her own voice. ‘Did he say what he was doing next?’
Crowleo shook his head.
‘He will go to the Nowhere Isles,’ said Sebastian, tying the coin purse to his belt. ‘To Whittenfarne, if it exists.’
‘Then he is a fool,’ said Wydrin. ‘The people of Pinehold think he’s their saviour. He could take back the Blackwood piece by piece from there, but –’ She shrugged suddenly. ‘What does it matter? Let him go wandering all of Ede, for all the good it will do him.’
‘There is something else,’ said Crowleo. ‘But let us sit. I would rather have food in my belly before I impart this news.’
With the afternoon growing warm around them, they sat on the grass and shared out the bread and cheese. There was a bottle of Litvanian wine, light gold in colour, which they drank from chipped clay cups. Eventually Crowleo brushed the crumbs off his fingers and sighed.
‘A tinker came by here yesterday. The man dealt with Holley quite regularly, bringing supplies and news from all over. The poor chap was outraged when he saw the house, and devastated at her death, although he was well enough to buy up my scrap. He’d travelled down from the Horns with a barrel of dried fish strapped to his back. Stank to the heavens.’
‘He brought news?’ said Sebastian. His face was tense. He squeezed the bread between his fingers until it broke into pieces.
‘The Horns is afire with it, he said. News that a terrible army has come from nowhere to destroy Creos, and now it marches up to Relios. The rumours say that they do not wish to capture territory, for they burn everything and leave no force behind. They kill everyone, take no prisoners. And they say it is a monstrous army, although everyone argues over the details of it. Some say they are all women, that they are hideously ugly or that they are entrancingly beautiful, that they carry weapons that sing and they drink the blood of their enemies. And that is not all. It is said that the one that commands them is a true monster, a great lizard that haunts the land like a plague.’ Crowleo leaned forward, his eyes wide. ‘You may laugh at me, my friends, for believing such wild tales, but I beg of you, do not travel back to the West. Whatever it is that has destroyed Creos, it is dangerous.’
‘It is dangerous,’ agreed Sebastian, dropping the bread onto the grass. ‘And I have never felt less like laughing.’
Later, Wydrin stood with Sebastian at the cliff’s edge as the sun dipped below the horizon. The forest beneath them was deep and black, while the sky overhead raged through its pinks and oranges in a last defiance of the coming night.
‘It’s not our problem,’ she said quietly.
‘And why is that? Because we’re not being paid?’
Wydrin frowned. ‘What can we do? Against an army? Against a dragon? Sebastian, be realistic.’
Sebastian turned to face her. There was an anger in his eyes she hadn’t seen before, and she flinched away from it.
‘What can we do? We let it out, didn’t we? It is our fault! All those deaths, all that destruction, all of it is down to us. When those buildings collapsed and the people were screaming, it was like I was there, watching the people burn. I could smell it, Wydrin, the burning flesh. And it’s happening right now. Y’Ruen intends to destroy us all.’
‘Fine. Then tell me how we kill it?’ She could feel her anger growing to match his. ‘I have one dagger left, after all, and it is pretty sharp. Or perhaps if we ask the dragon politely it will just go away.’
‘You will never understand, will you?’ A crowd of birds flew up from the trees below, standing out against the orange sky like black shards of glass before settling elsewhere and vanishing again. ‘I must try to stop it. If I don’t, then I will not be able to live with myself. I must at least try, whatever the cost.’
Wydrin sighed and rubbed a hand over her eyes wearily. The Ynnsmouth knights had caused Sebastian so much pain, had shamed him and driven him from the
mountains, but in his heart he was still one of them; honourable, stoic, pompous and stupid.
‘Fine,’ she said, feeling the anger leave her, only to be replaced with a kind of tired sadness. ‘But first you must rest. You’re not strong enough to go fighting entire armies right now. We both know that, right?’ She punched him on the arm lightly, and risked a smile. ‘Promise?’
‘A rest,’ he said, looking out into the dying light. ‘I promise.’
By morning he was gone.
Wydrin looked at his note and waited to feel surprised, but there was nothing. His words were warmer than Frith’s, at least.
There can be no rest for me until this is over, I think you know that. Have a drink on me and go and see your brother – if he can’t keep you out of trouble, he can at least lend assistance. Take care of yourself, and don’t come after me.
Your friend, Sebastian
He’d left his half of Frith’s payment, as if that eased his leaving. She packed all her stuff, paid the tavern keeper for both their rooms, and walked out the gates of Pinehold. She hadn’t the will to say goodbye to Dreyda or Crowleo. More than enough goodbyes for now, she thought as she gazed at the ruins of the Queen’s Tower.
Outside the town walls she paused by the rusted marks where the cages had once hung. The townspeople had taken them down and planted the grass there with wild rose bushes and yellow poppies, and the air was filled with the soft scent of summer. There were a few men and women there now, their arms around each other, talking quietly and crying. Wydrin let them be and walked on into the trees. There was a map in her pocket that would see her to the coast, although for a time she left it there. It was enough just to walk and enjoy the quiet.
After a while she drew the sword the people of Pinehold had given her and turned it over in her hands, watching the morning’s pure sunlight filter through the blue crystal in the pommel.
‘You are a pretty little thing,’ she said. Somewhere above her birds called to each other, shrill messages of warning and hope. ‘I will call you Glassheart, I think.’
She looked up, half expecting to hear Sebastian’s usual light-hearted mockery – he always found her fondness for naming weapons amusing – but there was no one there.
Wydrin slid the sword back into its scabbard and walked deeper into the forest.
PART THREE
Prince of Wounds
40
The dead man stood and stared at the ruined tower.
He was aware of a number of things at that precise moment. The bustle of the town around him; people going about their lives, shouting greetings, orders, half-joking threats, the harsh sounds of wood being sawn and hammers striking nails, the smell of sawdust and tar. They were rebuilding.
The dead man was aware of the crawl of fresh air against his skin, curling and sticking there like a handful of worms, and the solid presence of his blood, black and unmoving. And there was the twitching, unnatural energy that sparked up and down his limbs, tugging at his eyelids and keeping him moving, always moving, never a moment’s peace.
Peace. When Gallo had been alive he’d had no use for peace. Now he could think of nothing else.
‘Young man, you are not looking especially well, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
A woman had appeared next to him. She had the tattoos of a fire-priestess across her cheeks, and her eyes were narrow and shrewd.
‘I have travelled a long way, mistress, and I am weary.’ He tried out his old grin, and watched her grimace in response. ‘I was looking for some friends of mine, actually. I wonder if you’ve seen them? They would have been here, oh, around six weeks ago.’
The priestess pursed her lips into even thinner lines.
‘Six weeks ago Pinehold was a bad place to be,’ she said.
‘You would remember them,’ continued Gallo. In the street behind them a door opened and the contents of a bucket of offal were strewn across the stones. He was glad; it would cover up some of the smell. ‘A young woman with short red hair, and a tall man with big shoulders and a broadsword. A knight of Ynnsmouth. You could hardly forget him.’
The woman folded her arms over her thin chest. The skin from her wrists to her elbows was crowded with tattoos.
‘And what would you want with them?’
Gallo shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His legs were so heavy these days.
‘Nothing untoward, my good woman. I understand, of course, that persons such as those might have a number of enemies, made in the course of their work. Sebastian and I were once business partners and I wish to speak to him again.’
The use of the knight’s name seemed to soften the harsher lines on the woman’s face.
‘Yes, well. I can’t tell you where he went. He left unexpectedly, and without telling Wydrin, as I understand it.’
‘They do not travel together?’
‘No more. She went back home to Crosshaven, or at least that was her plan.’ For a moment it looked like she would say more, then she frowned. ‘That’s all I know.’
‘Crosshaven, of course.’ Gallo grinned. ‘That is so like Wydrin. Thank you.’
The priestess sniffed.
‘You’re welcome. Get yourself some rest, child.’
Gallo nodded absently, looking back at the shattered tower, but when the woman turned to go he grabbed hold of her arm. Under his cold fingers her skin felt very warm.
‘Relios is burning,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Your home is a smoking ruin, can’t you smell it? Shouldn’t you be there?’
The woman snatched her arm away. Her face drained of colour.
‘The rumours are true?’
Gallo smiled mildly. The urgency that moved through him sometimes was gone again, and instead he was left with the steady thickening of his own blood.
‘Yes, all the rumours,’ he said lightly, ‘and all the nightmares.’
41
The Marrow Markets were the pulsing heart of the island of Crosshaven. A diseased, misshapen and congested heart, perhaps, but if you needed something rarer than the fish and spices sold on the docks, or an afternoon’s entertainment, this was where you wanted to be. It was also a good place to find an errant half-brother who had a few days off from pirating.
Wydrin stood on the dusty steps of the enormous hexagonal building, watching as people thronged between the tall marble pillars. It was early afternoon, so it was still reasonably quiet. These were people come to buy and sell, or men and women with swords looking for work. As the sun neared the horizon the atmosphere would change, the rabble would grow louder, and a strong scent of beer and cooking meat would waft over these old stones. She loved the Markets at night.
Wydrin raised her arms above her head and stretched, glorying in the warmth of the sun. It was fine to be out and about, exploring again. Even if the Marrow Markets were as familiar as the back of her own hand, it was better than sitting in a tavern nursing a pint that tasted roughly the same going down as coming up. She glanced back at the glittering blue ribbon of sea still visible over the rooftops, and joined the crowds moving into the Markets.
Within the supporting pillars was a small bustling town of tents and shacks and walled pits. Long banners hung from the distant ceiling announcing the various districts and trading areas in a hundred different languages, a thousand different colours, so that to glance above your head was to look into a rainbow of words and symbols. In the centre of the chaos there was a narrow space of peace and quiet like the calm in the centre of a storm: the Temple of the Graces. At this time of day there would be many people making offerings and contemplating the deadly waters, but it was unlikely she would find Jarath there, so she turned away from the light of the Temple and headed deeper into the murk, moving towards the fighting pits.
As she neared the area she heard a ragged cheer go up, followed by the flurry of new odds being offered. There was a crowd around one of the shallow pits, and, judging from the betting slips being passed back and forth, a fight was about
to start.
‘Thurlos Beaststalker versus Jarath the Crimson Scar!’ called one of the men in the high seats. ‘Place your bets, place your bets now please!’
Wydrin laughed to herself as she pushed her way to the front of the crowd. The Crimson Scar?
There were two men in the shallow pit. One was a broad man with thick black hair covering most of his body, culminating in one of the biggest, wildest beards Wydrin had ever seen. It was just about possible to see a ruddy nose and a pair of eyes peeking out from behind all the hair. He wore leather breeches secured with a heavy studded belt and sandals on his huge, dirty feet.
And there he was. Younger, shorter and slimmer, yet Jarath was clearly the crowd’s favourite. His body was toned and his skin, the warm brown of dark toffee, was carefully oiled to glisten prettily under the lights. His curly black hair was cropped close to his skull, and he was cheerfully ignoring his opponent, preferring to spend his time grinning and winking at members of the crowd. There were, Wydrin noticed, an inordinate number of young women at today’s fight, and they were all gazing lovingly at the Crimson Scar. He also sported a red splash of paint, a long diagonal line from the right-hand side of his chest down to the taut muscles of his lower belly. Otherwise he wore simple cloth shorts that came down to his knees, and his feet were bare.
One of the adjudicators in the tall chairs declared the betting over, and the two men began to circle each other warily. Jarath was still grinning. He held his arms out as if welcoming the larger man into an embrace.
‘Come and dance with me, Thurlos!’ he called. He had a strikingly deep voice. ‘I have longed for a dance partner such as you!’
Thurlos Beaststalker growled, loud enough for Wydrin to hear him over the shouts and jeers of the crowd. The hairy man flexed hands the size of hams.
‘Tell me,’ called the Crimson Scar again, ‘do you get animals trapped in that beard? It looks like you’ve left half your lunch in there already.’
