The Copper Promise

by Jen Williams

  ‘Perfect!’ cried Bezcavar. The girl reached over to him, and for a strange moment Sebastian thought she was going to give him a hug. Instead he felt the dry rasp of her tongue against his cheek as she licked the blood away.

  She stood back.

  ‘Now, run,’ she said. ‘You must run.’

  When Sebastian stood again, strength rushed into his arms and legs like a summer’s river overflowing. The armour wasn’t heavy; it was light. He was no longer tired; he was more awake than he’d ever been. And he was ready to run.

  He turned and flew down the hill, feeling like a youth again, while Ip cheered and whooped behind him. Perhaps all was not lost, after all.

  56

  Sir John stumbled back behind the shield wall, one hand clasped to his side. He was very deliberately not looking at the wound, as he was sure it would only put him in a bad mood, but he could feel the heat of his life’s blood passing out of him anyway.

  ‘Shore up the ends!’ he shouted to a gaggle of men within his line of sight. They were as ragged and bloody as him, yet they brightened at the sound of his shout. He could see the relief on their faces that someone was still in charge. Sir John didn’t know where the Lord Commander was – suspected, in fact, that he was face down under the foot of one of these monstrosities. What had the lad Sebastian called them? The brood army, aye, that fit well enough. He watched as the men joined the end of the shield wall and for a few moments their retreat was stilled.

  ‘Sir, they are flanking us.’ A young man, his face white with shock under the dirt, appeared at his elbow. Sir John forced his legs to hold him a little straighter. ‘Do you have orders?’

  ‘Reinforce the shield wall, keep pushing them back. Do we have any of the mounted division left?’

  The boy seemed to turn a shade paler. ‘No, I mean, I don’t know. Sir, shouldn’t we retreat?’

  ‘Yes, why not? Let’s retreat all the way back to Onwai and spend the afternoon eating cheese and drinking iced wine.’ Sir John grunted as the pain in his gut grew sharper. ‘If we retreat, lad, they’ll just chase us down and stab us in the back. We’ll be rabbits running from a pack of dogs. Wounded rabbits. Our only hope is to hold the shield wall.’

  He could see from the look on the boy’s face that this wasn’t the answer he’d been hoping for.

  ‘Go. See if you can round up any of the mounted section.’

  The boy, glad at least to be sent elsewhere, fled. A man in the shield wall fell, a red mess where his face should be, and the dragon’s soldiers surged towards the gap in the line. Sir John redoubled the grip on his sword and forced his feet forward. They must hold, they must. If nothing else, they could never say that he ran from the battle …

  There was a shout from his left, followed by a chorus of shrieking from the brood army. The green-skinned woman that stood in front of him was suddenly knocked to the ground. Sir John recovered his composure quickly enough to thrust his blade through her throat, barely registering the green blood that soaked him to the elbow. When he looked up, there was a giant on the field, a demon in human form, carving his way through the ranks of the brood.

  The men beside him closed up the gap, touching shield edge to shield edge, but Sir John couldn’t take his eyes from the knight in the centre of the fight. His sword moved as a blur, carving limbs and heads from bodies with abandon, while the brood army’s shining blue swords slid off his armour. The armour!

  ‘Who is that?’ bellowed Sir John, but he already knew. The knight wore no helm, and his black hair fell down his back in a tangled wave. Sebastian’s face was a mask of concentration, streaked here and there with the blood of his enemies.

  ‘Rally!’ Sir John urged the men forward. ‘To me! To me!’

  Spotting the confusion in the ranks of the brood army, the men pressed forward as one, shields held tight together and short swords ready. The brood army, never truly regimented, scattered. They were caught now between Sebastian, who had become a whirling instrument of death, and the surging line of knights coming towards them. Sir John caught the eye of one of them and although there was no fear there, he could see uncertainty. For the first time Sir John dared to hope they might survive the day.

  In minutes, the brood army broke, heading away from the camp. Where there had been chaos there was a sudden stillness. The cries of wounded and dying men were everywhere.

  ‘Do what you can for them,’ he snapped at the nearest able knight. ‘Get them back to the tents, and call the surgeons. I’ll need as many of you up on your feet as soon as possible.’ He strode past the men towards the figure standing next to a pile of bodies.

  ‘Sebastian!’ He slapped the big man on the shoulder, then backed away when he turned to face him. For a moment the ex-knight’s face had been entirely blank, and Sir John feared for his life. Then Sebastian blinked, and looked down at the mess around him with an expression of faint surprise on his face. Reassured, Sir John gestured to the bodies at their feet. ‘I don’t mind telling you I think you saved us there.’ The brood army were still retreating. Sir John rather suspected they weren’t entirely sure what had happened either, but that was often the way it went in battle; it only took one brave act, or even a foolish one, to rally the men and turn the tide. He’d seen it happen before.

  ‘I retrieved the armour.’

  ‘I can see that, yes.’ Sir John glanced at the gleaming mail, now covered in green blood. ‘What does it do exactly?’

  ‘I’ve not had much time to find out,’ Sebastian said quietly. The big man still looked distracted, even uncertain as to where he was. ‘You sent me up there knowing there would be no trade.’

  ‘Yes, well.’ Sir John cleared his throat. ‘It was a risk, I’ll give you that. But this appears to be a time for desperate risks, wouldn’t you say? How did you get it, in the end?’

  ‘I killed them all,’ replied Sebastian in that same quiet voice, and despite the heat of battle in his blood Sir John felt cold. He was a man who’d seen a lot of killing, but here was a detachment that worried him.

  ‘I think you’re in need of a rest, Sir Sebastian.’ He tried to take the knight’s arm. It was like moving stone. ‘We’ve lost many, and we need you at your peak. I’d also like to take a look at that armour before the brood army comes back.’

  There was a rumble that started in the ground beneath their feet, and at first Sir John thought Relios was experiencing one of the earthquakes it was famous for, but the sound grew louder, and louder, until it was a force pushing against his ears. The grey clouds above them parted and a nightmare tore through, all shining blue scales and the smell of destruction.

  ‘I think she might have something to say about that,’ said Sebastian mildly.

  The dragon fell out of the sky faster than Sebastian could believe possible. He had a brief moment to really take in how enormous the creature was – she could swallow us in one bite – and then she unfurled her wings, covering everything in shadow. There was a pause, a stillness broken only by the screams of men – how tiny they sounded after that roar – and she opened her mouth and spewed flame down on them all.

  There was light, and heat, unbelievable heat. Sebastian staggered away, grabbing a shield from a fallen knight and holding it up to the onslaught, while around him everything burned. Sheltering beneath the shield he looked at the red clay of the ground, scuffed and strewn with the marks of battle. There was a tiny plant there, somehow not squashed into the mud, but as he watched it burst into flame. He closed his eyes tight. The roar of her flames deafened him, the stench of burned flesh filled his nostrils, sweat rolled down his face and back. I’ll cook in this armour, he thought, and that struck him as funny, so he laughed.

  And then just as suddenly, it was over.

  Sebastian peered out from beneath the shield. Everything was black, scorched into unrecognisable lumps. There were bodies of men everywhere, although it was now impossible to tell who had died in the fighting and who had died under Y’Ruen’s flames; all the bodies
were charred and twisted. Thick swathes of smoke rolled across the ruined landscape. What was left of the camp was now on fire, and he could see no one moving to put it out. No one was moving at all.

  Daring at last to look up into the sky, he caught sight of Y’Ruen’s tail as she flew back up into the clouds. Her job here was done, after all.

  ‘Bezcavar!’ His voice was hoarse, torn by the fierce heat. ‘You lied to me!’ He threw his sword down. ‘I couldn’t save them. I couldn’t save any of them!’

  57

  The stick turned slowly in mid-air, the shells and bones and other items shaking with some unseen force. Frith tipped his hand and the stick began to turn the other way, gradually gathering speed.

  ‘Good, good.’ Jolnir stood by the fire, pushing balls of clay into the embers. It was a clear day on the island for once, and the sky was as blue as the grasses around Jolnir’s hut. ‘You’ve done this one before I think.’

  Frith nodded. In his head he held an image of the word for Hold. He could see it clearly now. Wrapped around his hands were a number of long strips of fabric, all covered in swirls of ink. The Edenier was a constant warmth in his chest, ever present. It was like a loyal dog, eager to obey and to please.

  ‘I did it to a man once. Held him in the air like this, along with a number of other objects.’

  ‘Interesting. Is that what you wanted to happen? Did the Edenier do as you commanded?’

  For a moment Frith was quiet, thinking back to the tower in Pinehold. It was difficult to remember, as though it was a dream he’d had years ago.

  ‘I was angry and the man wasn’t cooperating. He was thinking of fleeing, and I wanted him held in place. So I suppose it did obey me, in a fashion.’

  ‘And what happened to this man?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  Frith changed the word in his head from Hold to Fly. In an instant the stick flew up into the air as if thrown with incredible force, twirled briefly against the blue sky, and then fell to earth somewhere roughly on the other side of the island. Jolnir made a disapproving noise.

  ‘Now you are showing off.’

  ‘It comes so easily now.’ Frith held his hands out in front of him. The strips of fabric that bound his palms were covered in the words for Hold, Fly, Light, Guidance, Control and Fire. They all disintegrated after sustained use, but that didn’t matter. He had the words in his head now, and fabric and ink were easy enough to come by. He had finally mastered the power of the mages. How sweet it would be, he thought, to return to the Citadel and show their ghosts what he’d achieved. The bastards.

  ‘There were times when I did other spells too. I brought a man back to life once.’

  Jolnir looked up from the fire sharply.

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Dead, or as close to it as makes no difference.’ Frith held his hand out to the fire and conjured the word for Hold. One of the clay balls rose shakily out of the flames. ‘I healed his wound and brought him back. Is there a word for that?’

  Jolnir pulled another stick from his hump and poked at the fire. There was an odd, dry rattle coming from within his headdress. It took Frith a moment to realise the mystic was laughing.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You have no idea – what you did was very dangerous, young Lord Frith. Very dangerous. To give life with the Edenier is to lose something of yourself too. It also greatly depletes the amount of Edenier within you. All the other words are essentially about force.’ He waved his spindly hands in the air. ‘Move this over there, hold that in the air. Encourage these molecules to move faster, to become hot. The word for life, for healing, is about giving.’

  Frith scowled.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Tell me, how did you feel after you had brought this man back from the dead?’

  ‘I – well, I passed out.’

  Jolnir nodded as though this were to be expected.

  ‘You are lucky the Edenier was so powerful within you. You could have done yourself serious harm, or expended all the Edenier in one go.’

  ‘I did it twice,’ Frith admitted. He let the clay ball drop to the ground where it split in two, revealing the freshly cooked shellfish within. ‘There was an injured woman …’

  Jolnir chortled.

  ‘Really? You do not strike me as the chivalrous type, Lord Frith.’

  Frith bent down and retrieved the seashell. The meat inside was both salty and sweet, and by far the tastiest thing he’d found so far on Whittenfarne. He chewed for a moment, remembering the night in the Blackwood when he’d healed Wydrin’s fractured arm. They’d both been cold and angry, but the magic had formed a warmth between them. It had been pleasant.

  ‘So you’re saying it would be dangerous to do it again?’

  The birds perched on the conical huts let out a series of squawks. Jolnir waved a stick at them irritably.

  ‘Many of the mages elected not to learn that word, lest they were called upon to use it.’ He cleared his throat. ‘They were a selfish lot, really. I will teach you the word for heal, and give you this advice: remember that it will deplete the Edenier, and you, to use it too often.’

  ‘Fine.’ Frith picked another ball of clay out of the fire and dropped it on the rocks, revealing more cooked shellfish. Jolnir picked the meat out with his long grey fingers and then his hand disappeared under the bird mask. After a few moments there came the sound of noisy chewing, as though the mystic had no teeth and had to gum his food to death. Frith watched him.

  ‘Do you never take it off?’

  Jolnir chuckled and shook his head carefully from side to side. Frith was about to ask why when the old man stood up again, waving his remaining stick.

  ‘There is another secret to show you, young Lord Frith. Come!’ He ran off into the tall grass.

  Once more they walked across the island, Jolnir skittering over the rocks with apparently boundless energy, Frith following on behind. Now that he could use the mages’ powers with some control he was using them a lot more, and that seemed to bring on a particular sort of tiredness. His fingers would tingle after long periods of the magic flowing through them, and he often felt lightheaded. It was a warm day too, and although he’d left his bearskin cloak at Jolnir’s hut he was still much too hot. They walked up and down hills, skirted around pools and jumped across the occasional crack in the ground, until Jolnir stopped so suddenly that Frith walked right into the back of him. Above their heads, the ever-present birds screamed with apparent amusement.

  ‘What is it?’ snapped Frith. ‘Why have we stopped?’

  ‘We’re here,’ said Jolnir. ‘At the final secret of Whittenfarne.’

  They were standing at the edge of a wide pool filled with steaming water. It looked just like all the others to Frith, although he supposed it was rather more circular than usual. In fact, the more he looked at it the more he suspected it was not a natural formation; the edges were too regular, too uniform. A handful of lizards clustered at the far rim, eyeing them warily.

  ‘I have had more than enough of these,’ he said. He raised his right hand, contemplating a fireball at the creatures.

  ‘Pft. Just wait one moment.’

  Jolnir reached down and pushed one of the black rocks at his feet. It sank into the ground as though there were nothing but soft sand beneath it. There was a loud, rasping gurgle, and the water in the pool began to drain away. Frith raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Do they all do that?’

  ‘Of course not. Come on.’

  Jolnir walked into the depression left by the retreating water. Frith followed slightly more cautiously, remembering how he’d almost broken an ankle when he’d first arrived on the island. Sunk into the very centre of the circle there was, of all things, a door. It was round, made of white rock with silver veins running through it, and there was a face carved in the middle. It was a serene face, sexless. The eyes and mouth were closed. Just beneath its chin was a wide silver handle.

  ‘L
ift that,’ said Jolnir.

  Frith wrapped both hands around the handle and tugged. It was just as heavy as it looked, and it took a fair amount of straining before he got the door fully open. It swung upward on hinges that barely squeaked, revealing a set of stone steps leading down into pitch-blackness. Jolnir whacked Frith across the back of the legs with his stick.

  ‘Light, remember,’ he said. ‘Guidance.’

  Frith brought the words to mind, and a soft globe of pearlescent light appeared in front of his hand.

  ‘You go first,’ said Jolnir.

  Frith descended the stone steps. Inevitably he was reminded of the endless walk under the Citadel, where the sense of threat had been heavy on all sides, but these stairs appeared peaceful. They walked for a short time, heading deeper into the island, while the light revealed smooth black walls carved directly into the rock. Eventually the steps ended and they came to a long corridor.

  ‘What is this place?’

  Jolnir said nothing, so they kept on walking. Faces appeared on the walls, just like the face on the door. They all had their eyes closed, and they all gave the impression that they were about to speak. Soon they came to openings in the rock, leading off into identical-looking corridors. Frith followed one of these and found more of the same; more corridors, more faces. Eventually he stopped and turned to face Jolnir.

  ‘There are tunnels like this under Pinehold,’ he said. ‘Tunnels like it under several places in the Blackwood, according to my father’s maps. But you already know that, don’t you?’

  Jolnir nodded.

  Frith took a step, intending to grab hold of Jolnir’s ragged cloak, wanting to shake the knowledge out of him, but something stilled his hand.

  ‘What does it mean? You must tell me. My father studied those maps. He obviously thought it was important.’

  Jolnir reached up to one of the stone faces and ran his wizened fingers across it lightly.