by Jen Williams
‘What about you?’ jeered one of the pirates. ‘You’ve still got yours.’
‘Morgul’s men, of course, will still be armed. You want this island to be unprotected? It is our duty, as guards, to protect all of Morgul’s allies. You are his allies, aren’t you?’
The pirates exchanged glances. None of them wanted to be in any group that wasn’t an ally of Morgul. That was generally a dangerous place to be. They grumbled and complained some more, but they untied their sword belts and threw them in the boat. The guard smiled thinly.
‘Very good. There’s going to be a lot of celebrating later, and we don’t want any unhappy accidents, do we?’
‘Are you ready, my lady?’
It took Wydrin a moment to realise that the man was addressing her. She turned to the guard who’d helped her onto the dock.
‘Yes,’ she said, hoping she sounded holy enough. ‘Can you fetch the cask in my boat? It is the wine for the blessing.’
The guard gestured to one of his men, who passed up the cask. Wydrin nodded and made for the wooden steps leading up to Morgul’s hall, but the guard laid a hand on her arm.
‘Just one moment, my lady.’
Wydrin bit her lip. So they were going to search her anyway. Damn Reilly and his stupid plans. She tried to think of a reason why a Graceful Lady would have a dagger and a packet of powder strapped to her inner thigh, but couldn’t think of one.
‘What is it?’
The guard looked apologetic. ‘I must announce you first.’
Wydrin tried not to look too relieved, and let the guard walk up the steps ahead of her. There was a roar of noise coming from the hall, and as he pulled open the wooden doors, Wydrin was hit with a blast of heat, heavily laced with the scent of beer, sweat and roasted meat.
‘Lord Morgul, I bring you our Lady of the Graces!’
The guard had to bellow to be heard, but a huge man at the top table stood and held both arms out for quiet. Morgul was in his late middle years now, old for a pirate, but he looked as large and powerful as ever. His long dirty brown moustaches were tied into plaits and braided into his hair, which was tied back with gold rings. He’d lost an eye since Wydrin had seen him last, and now he wore a patch that glittered with rubies. There was a boy sitting next to him, looking tiny and slender next to his father; Morgul had decided to become a father late in life.
‘Silence, you dogs!’ yelled Morgul. ‘Show some respect for our Graceful Lady, come to see our Morben into manhood.’
Rather than silence the men and women gathered at the tables jeered and shouted rude suggestions, at which Morgul laughed heartily. The boy sitting next to him turned crimson. Wydrin glanced at the tables; they were all heaving with food and drink. Clearly the feast had been going on for some time already. Time to show them some holiness.
‘Daughters and sons of the sea!’ she called, remembering the woman in the Marrow Markets with the mud-brown eyes. ‘It is time to welcome another into the sea’s salty embrace!’
There were some shouts and laughter at the words ‘salty embrace’, but largely the crowd quieted down. Men and women who made their living from the sea were hard folk who lived hard lives, and they clung to their beliefs and superstitions. When a storm could mean being swept overboard or plummeting from the crow’s nest, the idea that there were bigger forces at play than the sheer uncaring nature of life was somehow comforting to them. The Graces represented the destructive force of the sea, and showing respect to them was saying that you understood what you were dealing with. The oceans gave you a living, and they could take away your life. You mocked that at your peril.
‘Bring the boy to me, and the Graces will see him a man.’
Morgul dragged the lad to his feet, and propelled him down the centre of the hall. Up close Morben looked even younger. Wydrin made a show of inspecting him, holding his chin and looking closely at his jaw line. Some of the watchers at the tables shouted encouragement while his father stood to one side, grinning broadly. He was still wearing his sword, she noticed.
‘He is ready,’ she declared to the room in general. ‘Fetch the sacred wine.’
One of the guards brought her the cask, and a single silver goblet. The cask was opened and a dark red wine poured into the vessel. Wydrin held it out in front of her and shook the Bone Whisperer over it.
‘Fermented from the tears of the children who returned to the sea at the end of their lives, we will drink the blessed wine.’ She paused and drank deeply of the goblet; in truth it was a cheap dry red, but the boy wouldn’t know any different. ‘Your blood is the blood of the sea. Your soul is the soul of the sea. Drink!’ She refilled the goblet to the very top and gave it carefully to the boy, who looked terrified by the whole business, and while he drank it down she circled him, shaking the Bone Whisperer and muttering under her breath. He had to drink the entire goblet before she’d completed the circle, so she walked slowly, her eyes half closed as if in deep concentration.
Thankfully, the boy managed it, so she took the goblet from him and held it up.
‘Morben, son of Morgul, is a boy no longer!’
The hall trembled with the roar of celebration. Men and women threw their drinks at each other, stood up on the tables and kicked plates onto the floor. Morgul demanded that more ale and wine be brought out so that everyone could toast his boy again, and several minor fights broke out over broken tankards.
After that, the party got rowdy.
46
Wydrin collected her cask of ‘holy’ wine and retreated to the back of the room. Now the serious part was over with, it seemed that Morgul’s crew were determined to get his son as drunk as possible, although she suspected downing an entire goblet of wine on a nervous stomach was a pretty good start. She cast around for a safe path to the door, but Morgul appeared out of the crowd and laid a meaty hand on her shoulder.
‘Good work, my lady, good work. All those words, all proper like, just like when I were a lad.’ For a moment Wydrin thought his one remaining eye was getting misty. ‘We’ve got him a woman up from Crosshaven, to make him a proper man, if you know what I mean.’ He squeezed her shoulder and leered. Wydrin wondered how quickly she could slip the dagger from her leg, but, thankfully, he let her go, his attention caught by a brawl happening in the sawdust. ‘Good work,’ he said again over his shoulder as he went off to join the fight. ‘Proper godly, like.’
Wydrin grimaced. It was time to get out of here.
Outside there were only a few guards left on the dock, sitting and supping their ale, or playing cards on upturned crates. She moved silently into the shadows at the side of the raised platform. Above her the rumble of the great hall carried on, but it was the sturdy wooden box it was built on that interested her: Morgul’s loot house.
Circling around to the back she found the guards she was looking for. Three of them, all young and all fairly miserable; rather than the exciting duty of frisking the guests or watching the party, they’d been left to keep an eye on the loot-house door.
She paused behind a stack of barrels where the shadows were darkest, and rolled up her robes to expose her legs. She untied one of the two packets of powder and poured the contents into the cask; combined with the cheap wine the powder made an extremely powerful sedative. Pulling her robes back down she walked round the corner to the three guards. At the sight of her they all stood to attention. Behind them was the door to the loot house, with a heavy bar across it.
‘Men, I bring you the blessings of the Graces on this night.’ She lowered her head solemnly and held out the cask of wine.
They looked unsure for a few seconds, but the severe make-up and purple robes of a Graceful Lady was a reassuring sight. They took the cask with gratitude, and Wydrin retreated to a shadowy corner and watched as one by one they slumped to the floor. Strong stuff.
With that done she frisked their pockets for the keys, slipped the ring into her robes to stop them from clinking, and walked swiftly round to the front of the hall
once more. Now she had performed her tasks she was eager for this to be over with.
For a few seconds everything was quiet, just as though the world were waiting for her to make a decision. The sky above was clear and studded with stars, while the sea was a moon-kissed carpet of darkness. Sebastian would have said this was a stupid job, too risky, and, let’s face it, too morally dubious, but because she was here no one would have to lose any blood. She would signal Reilly now and they would come around to the back of the island, empty the loot house and leave. With a bit of luck, Morgul would only know he’d been robbed when he woke up with a hangover in the morning.
Under the cover of night, Wydrin smiled.
Just to be sure, she wandered over to the boat containing the guests’ weapons and untied the rope, letting it drift off. The men perched at the front of the harbour were so intent on their card game that they barely noticed she was there. Once that was done she pulled the last packet of powder from within her robe and chucked the whole thing into a nearby fire pit. There was a blast of brilliant white light, and this the guards did notice, but Wydrin stood in front of the pit with her arms raised up and shouted some more things about the sea and waves of adulthood and they went back to their game. Priests do get away with a lot of nonsense, she thought.
Reilly appeared round the back of the loot house with several long, graceful ships that would move quickly over the water. She led them silently to the door and passed over the keys before they piled in, sacks at the ready. Wydrin and Reilly stood outside, keeping watch. From above them came the steady roar of the great hall.
‘It all went smoothly, then?’
Reilly looked unreasonably pleased with himself, particularly considering he’d barely done anything so far.
‘It seems so.’ Wydrin watched the first of the men coming out with a bulging sack over his shoulder. ‘It’s too easy. Is Morgul really such an idiot?’
Reilly shrugged.
‘He’s old, getting complacent. He thinks no one can touch him. And he puts a lot of store in this religious nonsense.’
Wydrin pursed her lips. Mocking the Graces at this stage made her uneasy.
‘You’re a pirate too. Don’t you believe in it?’
‘I’d believe in it more if all the Graceful Ladies looked like you.’ He grinned at her, his golden tooth catching the light. ‘Once we’re done here I’m planning a little celebration of my own. You, me, a few more casks of that wine. Do you fancy keeping those robes on? There’s something about a godly woman …’
‘Don’t push your luck, Reilly.’
One of his men appeared in the doorway, an excited look on his face. They conferred in harsh whispers for a moment. Reilly turned back to her.
‘The guests in the hall. Are they armed?’
‘Of course not. Morgul isn’t stupid enough to let drunken men and women wave their weapons about under his roof, it’d be a bloodbath. Besides,’ she added smugly, ‘I got rid of the boat with the weapons in it.’
Belatedly she recognised the expression of greed on Reilly’s face.
‘What is it?’
‘There are steps leading up to the hall, and a trap door. We can open it from this side.’ His eyes were wide. ‘We can wipe out half the competition in one night. It’s risky, but the rewards—’
She caught hold of his arm.
‘You can’t do that!’ she hissed. ‘We’re here to get the gold and get out.’
‘Think of the opportunity,’ said Reilly. She could see the shine of ambition in his eyes. ‘When will I get this chance again?’
‘There’s a thirteen-year-old boy up there, a stupid kid getting drunk for the first time,’ she said, hating the desperation in her own voice. ‘Don’t do this.’
But he was already turning away from her, giving the order. He ran into the loot house, and after a moment there was a huge crash from above. Wydrin swore as the noise from the hall suddenly increased tenfold.
She untied Frostling from her leg and moved cautiously towards the front steps, pausing as a crowd of guards thundered past, having finally realised that something was wrong. If she could get in the front door there was a chance she could reach Morben and get him out safely.
She had her foot on the first step when a host of desperate people came storming out of the hall doors; these were the sensible ones, the men and women who’d decided not to attempt to use fists against men with steel. They were followed out by Reilly’s men, who cut them down mercilessly, and the night rang with screams. Wydrin flew up the steps, avoiding the bloodier fights, when Morgul staggered out, his face thunderous. He caught her eye, taking in the dagger in her hand.
‘You!’ he bellowed, but there was a gust of flames from behind him and Morgul’s hair caught fire.
Reilly’s men are burning the whole bloody place down.
Wydrin fled. She took one of Reilly’s narrow ships, cursing him as she did so, and headed away from the island as quickly as her rowing arms could take her. Morgul’s hall was burning merrily now, and she saw other ships fleeing Sandshield, certain that some of them were Reilly’s men escaping with the loot. Or perhaps they would stay, and Sandshield would belong to another pirate in the morning.
As she rowed, she thought about how close she’d got to that door, and the smell of smoke and burning flesh from within. She had had no armour and only one weapon, she’d been encumbered with robes and had not a single ally. She couldn’t have saved the boy, not without getting herself killed in the process.
Even so, it felt like running away. Again.
47
The brood army were not difficult to track.
Sebastian sifted through the ashes with the point of his sword. Under the layer of soft black powder there were charred bones, scraps of blackened cloth, and here and there a twisted lump of metal that might have been a sword, or a hoe, or some other household implement.
Judging by the surroundings, Sebastian guessed that the scattered debris had once been farming equipment. And people, of course.
Relios was a fiery red land, thick with clay and fruit trees thriving under the relentless sun. There had been orchards here, before the army came; he could see the occasional blackened remnant of a tree dotting the landscape. There had been a village here too, no doubt full of people making a living from fruit and olives, but nothing remained of that save for smoke and ashes.
He stood, stretching out the tired muscles in his back, and looked to the north. There was a wide, black smear across the lands, leading to a distant heat haze and a smudge of grey smoke. Sometimes, when the day was especially clear and still, he fancied he could see movement there, and the occasional glint of light as the sun shone off their golden armour. He could see them, and when he tried to sleep, he could hear them.
Of Y’Ruen he’d seen little, although he had spotted her once or twice in the last few days. She was a shadow on the clouds, scouting ahead, seeking out fresh lands to destroy.
Sebastian rubbed his fingers over his newly grown beard, remembering the first time he’d seen her, flying over the coast of Relios. The fever that had been slowly growing within him ceased for one terrible moment and his entire body had grown icy cold. Wydrin was right, he’d thought, what can we do against such a creature?
After weeks of following the army and its monstrous leader, the terror had sunk deep into him, becoming anger instead. Becoming fury. If it was hopeless, it was hopeless. He would still die with dragon-blood on his sword.
Today he was more interested in a second group, far to the east of the brood army. He’d spotted some movement in the distance the day before, the tell-tale glinting of sunlight on steel. Initially he thought it was the final stand of the Relitian army, who had made frequent and increasingly desperate attempts to destroy the dragon’s brood, but today he could see it was not them; the Relitian army carried banners of the Regnisse – red silk pennants covered in a language he couldn’t read. This group carried a rainbow of different banners, and with a strange
mixture of dread and excitement Sebastian realised he recognised them. They were Ynnsmouth knights.
Of course, he thought as he watched their manoeuvres under a distant hill. How could the Order pass up an opportunity like this? A dragon and an army of monsters, just like a tale from the legends.
He slung his sword across his back once more and walked away from the remains of the farm.
The novice yawned hugely and picked at the starched cloth of his uniform, trying to peel it away from his sweaty skin. It was too damn hot. He imagined being back under the mountains, slipping his feet into one of the icy lakes, or sleeping on the cool grass. Sleep, in fact, was a fine idea …
‘Not much of a lookout, are you?’
The novice jerked awake. There was a man approaching through the low bushes, and he was alarmingly close. How had he got so close? The novice snatched up his spear and scrambled to his feet.
‘Halt! Who are you?’
The man paused. He had an unkempt black beard, and long black hair unbound to his waist. His face was streaked with dirt and his clothes were little better; he looked as though he’d been sleeping out in the open for weeks. And there was something about his eyes … The novice gripped the shaft of his spear a little tighter.
‘If I were an enemy, do you not think I would have let you sleep? Right up until I cut your throat?’ The man paused and shook himself, as though waking up from a dream. ‘I’m sorry. My name is Sebastian. I am one of your Order. Or at least, I was.’
The novice frowned.
‘You don’t look like a knight.’
Sebastian smiled wanly at that. ‘Here.’ He pulled something from his cloak and held it up for the boy to see. ‘I am sworn to the God-Peak Isu, and I carry his sigil.’
It certainly looked like one of the badges the elder knights wore. The novice hoped to wear one himself one day.
‘I guess you’ll come with me, then,’ he said, and then added, because he felt he should have made a better impression, ‘and don’t try anything!’
