The Copper Promise

by Jen Williams

  ‘My brother didn’t want you on his ship at all.’ She led him over to the chair, and then glared at him until he sat down. ‘Sea-faring men get anxious if a seagull so much as gives them a funny look, so you can imagine they’re beside themselves over a dead man on board. If you don’t behave, I’ll have you put on the other ship, where I won’t be around to stop the men chucking you overboard.’ Jarath had two ships in his modest fleet: The Sea King’s Terror and The Briny Wolf, the latter of which was carrying a bunch of jobbing adventurers, intent on collecting the bounty on a certain dragon. Wydrin had rolled her eyes when she heard about that. ‘Very superstitious men, sailors.’

  Gallo glared down at his hands, his fair eyebrows bunched together in a knot. He was sulking. Wydrin was quite familiar with that look, had seen it many times during his frequent arguments with Sebastian. It was strange; he looked so much like Gallo. Laughed like him, moved like him, sulked like him. The only thing that wasn’t familiar was the stink. Gallo had always liked to smell good, even when covered in the dust and dirt of adventuring. Now he smelled like a dog left to vomit itself to death in a barrel of offal. She leaned against one of the boxes and folded her arms, staring down at him.

  ‘Is it really you, Gallo?’

  He glanced up at her and said nothing, apparently deciding the question wasn’t worth answering. Instead he kicked the heel of one of his boots against the floor.

  ‘Sometimes I can’t feel my feet,’ he said. ‘Like I’ve forgotten they’re there, and I have to hit them against something to remember.’

  Wydrin sighed.

  ‘What do you think you’ll get out of this? Do you really believe Sebastian will want to talk to you?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter if he wants to,’ he replied. In the dim light it was all too easy to see the shape of the skull beneath his skin. ‘There are things he needs to know.’

  Wydrin patted Glassheart where it hung at her hip.

  ‘You know, if Sebastian gives the word, I will quite happily chop you into pieces. Big ones, small ones. I’ll be very interested to see if you keep talking when I’ve separated your head from your neck.’ Certainly, the axe wound he’d taken in the alleyway didn’t appear to have caused him any problems. He’d covered the hole over with a scrap of linen and said no more about it. ‘I’d do it now, in fact, but I think that’s up to Sebastian to decide. It was him you stabbed, after all.’

  ‘I told you, that wasn’t me! It’s like I was trapped inside, unable to stop it.’

  Wydrin turned and walked to the door, ignoring his excuses.

  ‘Just stay in here and keep quiet,’ she said. ‘And stop frightening the pirates.’

  Moonlight streamed in through the narrow window. Outside the night was still, with only a faint wind bothering their sails. Sighing, Wydrin turned over in the bunk, facing the wall with its stained and warped wood. She could hear the sounds of men working on the deck, performing all those small tasks that keep a ship moving swift and sweet. As bunks went Jarath’s was remarkably comfortable – she’d certainly slept in worse places – but she’d been tossing and turning for hours now. Sleep wasn’t coming.

  She wriggled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Where was Sebastian now? Closer, hopefully, than he had been. They had been sailing for days, crawling down the coast of Relios. With the mood he’d been in the last time she’d seen him, there was a part of her that wondered if he’d got himself killed already. Her stomach tightened at the thought, but Wydrin forced herself to think on it. He’d travelled back to Creos alone, without giving her any real choice, and sought out a dragon with little other than the sword on his back. And that wasn’t to mention those sharp-toothed bitches with their shining swords and golden armour. What chance did he have, really? It was stupid. And he’d lied to her too, risking everything to repair his precious honour.

  Slowly the fear in her stomach gave way to anger, and Wydrin relaxed. Anger was better. Anger was easier. Fear caught you rigid and held you in place, helpless, but anger got you moving.

  Reluctantly, her mind moved on to Frith. He deserved even less thought, truth be told; a pompous princeling with a dangerous talent for self-preservation that rivalled even Wydrin’s own. But there he was, in her head anyway. Those stormy grey eyes, the way his jaw tensed when he was angry, which was pretty much all the time …

  Wydrin kicked her legs under the blankets, half annoyed and half amused. Sebastian had always been right about her taste in men, at least.

  ‘Trouble sleeping?’

  In an instant Wydrin was out of the bunk, her short sword held steadily in one hand. She hadn’t heard the door, so she knew it wasn’t Jarath returning or one of his men bringing a message. There was a figure standing in front of the window, blocking out the moonlight. It was tall and slender, and its hair, which came down past its shoulders, shone in the silvery light.

  For one confused moment Wydrin thought it was Gallo, but then the figure held out one arm to her, and it ended in a stump.

  ‘Roki?’

  Glassheart was comforting in her hand, keeping a good distance between her and the man. She was dressed only in her underclothes and the cabin felt unnaturally cold. Her flesh prickled as every hair tried to stand on end.

  ‘You remember me, then.’ He took a step forward. ‘Tell me, do you remember my brother’s name?’

  The gauntlet was on his left arm, the shapes engraved there glowing softly.

  ‘I don’t remember the names of all the idiots I kill,’ she said. ‘But his death was amusing. Enri, his name was Enri. You’re not really here.’

  Roki came closer. There was no sword in his remaining hand, and she could see no weapons on him. He looked paler than he had before, and there were dark circles under his eyes and a gauntness to his cheeks that suggested he was still recovering from a long illness. He smiled at her faintly.

  ‘Not here,’ he agreed. ‘But close.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  He laughed at that. ‘You know what I want.’

  ‘Then come yourself, and bring a sword.’ To put her own mind at ease Wydrin struck out with Glassheart, stabbing into Roki’s chest. The sword met no resistance. He was indeed a phantom, a creature of fog.

  ‘That would be too easy. Where would the satisfaction be in just killing you? The Copper Cat is a creature of risk. You spend every day under the spectre of death, and you enjoy it. The real pleasure will be in watching you suffer first.’

  Wydrin shifted her weight. How close was close? What sort of range did the enchanted gauntlet have? Could he be on The Briny Wolf, or even on land somewhere?

  ‘I just wanted you to know,’ continued Roki, ‘that I am here, and I will be watching you. Don’t forget.’

  And with that he was gone. Moonlight streamed into the room once more. Wydrin looked down at her feet, bare and white against the floorboards. She pushed Glassheart back into its scabbard.

  ‘Not much chance of that.’

  ‘Take me to The Briny Wolf.’

  Jarath looked up from the map he was studying.

  ‘I thought you were asleep. If you’re not, I’ll go and reclaim my bed.’

  ‘No time for that, come on. I want to visit the other ship.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m older than you and I said so.’

  For some reason Wydrin found she didn’t want to tell Jarath about the visit from Roki, at least not yet. She had told him something of her recent adventures, emphasising the parts that made her look daring and heroic and skipping over some of the more troubling details. Even so, speaking of Roki under the clear night’s sky felt too much like summoning him. There would be time to talk later, when she was sure that both ships were safe.

  But Jarath was giving her a sour look.

  ‘I’m the captain here, Wyd.’

  Wydrin took a deep breath. ‘Please?’

  Jarath sighed and rolled up the map. ‘Bill? Signal the Wolf to tell her we’re coming aboard.’


  ‘Don’t,’ said Wydrin, putting a hand on her brother’s arm. ‘Let’s just go now. No need to tell them we’re coming.’

  ‘Wydrin, what is all this about?’

  ‘Just trust your older sister for once.’

  In the end they went across in a small boat, approaching The Briny Wolf under a canopy of stars. Jarath, who knew his sister well enough to listen to her more serious requests, gave her a full tour of the ship, taking her into each cargo hold without needing to be asked. They found nothing.

  When eventually they returned to the deck the sky was turning from deep indigo to that frail, impossible blue that comes just before dawn. Wydrin rubbed her arms, trying to draw off some of the chill. Where was the little bastard?

  ‘So, are you going to tell me now, Wyd?’

  Jarath was giving her a look of unimpressed and weary patience.

  ‘It’s nothing. I’ve just been jumpy lately. The stuff with the Citadel, with bloody Sebastian doing a runner. I guess I’m looking for monsters in shadows these days.’ Which isn’t all that ludicrous, she added silently.

  ‘You know, I remember you being a better liar than this.’ Jarath sighed. ‘Look, maybe you just need more sleep. I don’t mind—’

  There was a burst of laughter from behind them, and Wydrin turned to see two figures approaching. There was a tall, solid-looking man with a carefully combed red beard, and a slim woman with black hair and sharp cheekbones. Wydrin recognised them from around Crosshaven: Draken the Dragon’s Ire and Errine Hoarsfrost.

  ‘Ho,’ called Draken when he spotted them. ‘The Copper Cat, as I live and breathe! What rare company this is.’

  Errine Hoarsfrost frowned slightly, then inclined her head in greeting.

  ‘Hello, Draken, Errine,’ said Wydrin. ‘How goes it?’

  ‘Good, good.’ Draken took hold of Wydrin’s hand and shook it brusquely, squeezing just a shade too hard. ‘Couldn’t be better really. Have you heard how much the King of Relios is paying to get rid of this creature? A king’s ransom, literally! But of course you know, otherwise, why would you be here?’ Draken might look like a fool, reflected Wydrin, but he was actually quite a suspicious little shit. ‘Although rumour has it you might have more than one reason to be getting out of Crosshaven at the moment, aside from chasing after coin.’

  Wydrin extracted her hand.

  ‘That’s what they’re saying, is it?’ She turned to Errine. ‘And how are you, Hoarsfrost?’

  ‘You are going after the dragon?’ said the black-haired woman. Her voice was soft, but Wydrin sensed a fair amount of threat in it all the same.

  ‘Straight to the point, as ever.’ Wydrin smiled brightly at the pair of adventurers. ‘It’s none of your business.’

  ‘It is if you’re planning on taking our bounty,’ said Errine. ‘Draken and I have communicated with the king’s envoy directly and terms have been agreed.’

  ‘You and Draken can take a quick dip in the sea with your heaviest armour on for all I care.’

  ‘Now then …’ started Jarath as Errine stepped up to Wydrin, a long slim blade sliding from her silk sleeve.

  ‘The dragon is ours.’

  Wydrin bunched her hands into fists. Idiots. As if the creature that crawled out the ruins of the Citadel was something they could barter for. As if actually killing it was no more than an afterthought, a problem to be considered later.

  ‘Yours?’ She saw the sliver of steel in Errine’s palm and it only made her angrier. ‘You won’t get within a mile of it before it cooks you in your own bloody armour, you stupid, arrogant, embarrassing excuses for—’

  There was a shout from the rigging then, breaking into Wydrin’s rant and causing a flurry of activity on deck. Suddenly everyone was looking beyond her shoulder.

  ‘What is it?’

  Jarath pointed. Wydrin turned to see the coast of Relios, the first blush of dawn highlighting the waves in soft violet and pink. And far inland, lighting up the sky like an impossible sunset, the bright orange glow of dragon-fire.

  55

  Travelling with the armour, the mule and Ip, it took Sebastian another full day to hike back to the Order’s camp. By the next morning, he already knew he was too late.

  ‘By all the gods.’

  They stood at the top of a low hill, looking across the plain to the north. The sky was dark with cloud, promising rain, but it was still easy enough to see the battle raging in the distance. The brood army had clashed with the Order and their troops just beyond the camp, although it looked as though the Ynnsmouth knights were being pushed back. He could feel the brood’s joy in the fight like the aftertaste of something sweet on his tongue, and he even felt an itch to join them, to be down there in the writhing chaos. He shook his head briskly, trying to brush those thoughts away. He forced himself to think of the knights down there, young recruits who were likely new to the Order and lacking in any battle experience, particularly against beautiful dragon-women with blood on their teeth. They must be terrified. At least there was no sign of Y’Ruen. Yet.

  Ip, who was leading the mule on a rope, raised an eyebrow at him.

  ‘Looks like they’re in trouble.’

  Sebastian ran a hand through his hair. It was thick with dust now, and tangled. His fingers, he noticed, were trembling ever so slightly.

  Sebastian took a deep breath.

  ‘It’s my fault. I have to do something.’

  ‘Then may I make a suggestion?’

  Sebastian turned at the sound of that voice – it was soft and cultured and old, not the voice of a child at all. Ip still stood next to the mule, but her icy blue eyes were filled with blood from lid to lid. Seeing his surprise, she grinned, revealing her unnervingly white teeth. When she opened her mouth it wasn’t Ip that spoke.

  ‘I have been watching you, Sir Sebastian. I must say I very much enjoyed your efforts at my shrine. You can’t pay money for a desecration that good these days.’

  ‘What are you?’ Sebastian drew his sword and pointed it at the girl. ‘You’re not Ip.’

  ‘Well spotted. Ip is one of my children, a life dedicated to me. Once she would have been a sacrifice, but I rather prefer her as a disguise. She will, I think, be a priestess one day. I am Bezcavar.’

  ‘Demon,’ said Sebastian. ‘You will get out of that child. Now.’

  Bezcavar laughed.

  ‘Or you will do what? Kill the girl? You might have done it in your blood-rage, but a thinking, calculated act? I very much doubt it. Besides which, you don’t have time for this.’ Ip turned her blank, red gaze up to Sebastian. ‘Your men and women are dying, Sir Sebastian. It’s such a waste. All that pain and suffering, and none of it in my name.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Sebastian still held the sword at arm’s length, the point levelled at Ip’s throat.

  ‘I am offering you a deal, good sir knight. Dedicate your sword to me, and all those you kill with it. All the pain you cause will be mine.’

  Sebastian felt bile rising in his throat.

  ‘Never! My sword is sworn to Isu. I could never be in thrall to a demon.’

  ‘So you would abandon those men and women, Sir Sebastian? It is the only way to save them now, we both know that.’

  Slowly, the sword dropped towards the ground.

  ‘In return for my sword?’

  ‘I will ensure that you have the strength to reach the fight before it’s over.’

  ‘That’s not enough.’

  Ip inclined her head once.

  ‘And at least some of your army shall survive the battle. I will keep their wounds from being fatal as long as I’m able.’

  ‘You can do that?’

  ‘I am the Prince of Wounds, am I not?’ Ip tipped her head and smiled.

  ‘I swore an oath to the mountain,’ said Sebastian. He could hear the wavering in his own voice and hated it. ‘To be pure of heart, to do only good.’

  Bezcavar snorted.

  ‘And how much good
is that doing you, exactly? Swear your sword to me, Sir Sebastian, wear my armour, and let me show you what you’re really capable of.’

  A gust of wind blew the smell of smoke and blood across the plain to them. There were voices in pain, although he could no longer tell if he were hearing them in his head or on the air. Sebastian ran a hand over his face. He needed strength to fight again, and he had none.

  ‘Tell me what I must do.’

  Sebastian pulled on the armour, Ip’s small fingers deftly untying and tying straps, helping him position the plate and mail in all its intricate pieces. He thought it would be much too large, but as each section was slotted into place the metal would shift and contract, until it fitted him perfectly. Eventually he stood, moving his arms around, feeling how the armour settled against him. It wasn’t even as heavy as he’d expected. Ip regarded him critically with her red eyes.

  ‘Yes, it looks fine on. I would even say you were born to wear it.’

  Sebastian rubbed at a speck of rust.

  ‘I was not born to do a demon’s bidding.’

  Bezcavar laughed.

  ‘You’d be surprised how often I hear that. Now, kneel, sir knight. And present your sword.’

  Kneeling in the dust, Sebastian held out the blade lengthwise. Ip stood in front of him, small and slender and solemn.

  ‘Do you swear to wield your sword in the name of Bezcavar, Lord of Pain and Prince of Wounds? Do you swear to offer up every drop of blood spilled to me?’

  Sebastian thought of the mountains in Ynnsmouth. The Shrine of Isu, with its ice and moss and rocks. It would be cold there, and the snow washed everything away. He felt very far from home.

  ‘I swear.’

  Ip laid one tiny hand on the blade and the metal shimmered until the dull, practical steel turned a brittle grey, the colour of ash.

  ‘It is done.’ She smiled. ‘Now seal it in blood.’

  With almost every part of him covered in leather or mail or plate, Sebastian hesitated. In the end he pressed the edge of his blade against his cheek and felt a sharp sting as the skin parted. Ip grinned, delighted.