by Jen Williams
Wydrin ran to his side.
‘You have to go! Leave them!’
‘Wydrin—’
‘Now!’ She pointed wildly to the dragon above them. It seemed fascinated by the burning ship. ‘They will have to fend for themselves, Jarath. I’m sorry, but if we don’t get moving now we’re as good as dead.’
There was sorrow in her brother’s dark eyes, and it broke her heart. Reluctantly he gave the order to pull out, with all speed, and every man and woman leapt to action. Many of them would have had friends, even relatives, on board the Wolf, and now they were fleeing to save their own lives. Wydrin rubbed a hand over her face, suddenly very tired.
With every hand on deck they gained speed rapidly, turning and heading out away from the coast of Relios. Wydrin kept her eyes on Y’Ruen, hoping that the dragon would want to stay close to the land where her brood army were camped. The dragon roared again, and turned her enormous head towards their swiftly escaping ship.
No, no, no.
It was too late.
The mouth opened, a yawning furnace ringed with teeth, and this time Wydrin saw the ball of fire coming directly towards them. She threw herself to the deck, wincing as all the wind was knocked out of her lungs, and the fireball passed directly overhead. There was a pause filled with the screams of men and women unable to get out of its path, and then everything was light and heat.
Wydrin was thrown back against the rail, her head colliding painfully with the wooden beams, her throat full of black smoke. When she opened her eyes again there was chaos. The fireball had just missed the main sail and licked along the deck, leaving a trail of flames and debris. The crew who hadn’t simply been blown to bits in the initial explosion were now screaming as the ruby flames consumed their clothes, their hair, and their bodies. Wydrin scrambled to her feet, stumbling as her head spun.
‘Water! Get some buckets and get that bloody fire out!’
She risked a glance upwards and saw the dragon circling again.
‘And keep on those oars, I want to see every oar moving!’
The crew who were still able ran to fetch buckets, and soon there was a soothing slosh and hiss as they worked to put out the rapidly spreading fire, while clouds of black smoke rolled across the deck, obscuring some of the mayhem. Our only hope is to get away and pray that she doesn’t follow.
And then an extraordinary thing happened. The dragon banked away from the swiftly moving Sea King’s Terror, and flew back to the remains of The Briny Wolf. As Wydrin watched, the creature circled the water around the merrily burning wreck, occasionally darting its head down to pick something out of the water. Its jaws snapped, crunching and swallowing.
She’s eating the dead, thought Wydrin. Or picking off the survivors. Her stomach turned over. Perhaps the small shower of arrows they’d provided had been enough to dissuade her, or the tasty meal now floating in the ocean was too tempting; either way, it was their chance to flee.
‘Out to sea!’ she hollered behind her. ‘Keep her moving!’ The ship sped on and out into the deeper waters, and still the dragon didn’t pursue. Perhaps they would make it. Perhaps they would be safe.
‘You bitch,’ muttered Wydrin, watching the dragon as it retreated. ‘I swear by the Graces I will have your blood.’
‘She will not leave her brood for long,’ said Gallo. He was by her side again. His face was almost a pasty green in the daylight, and smudged with smoke. The eyes he turned on her were full of despair. ‘Your brother—’
Wydrin spun round. She hadn’t heard his voice since the explosion.
‘Jarath?’
They took her to him.
Bill and another man she knew vaguely as Edvard had pulled him clear of the fires, and now he lay on a blanket in his cabin. The blast had hit him on his left, and the skin on that side of his body had been crisped away, leaving raw flesh beneath. He stared up at the ceiling, his eyes blank with pain. His hair was gone entirely, leaving a blistered and bloody scalp.
‘He’s lucky to be alive.’ Bettany was the ship’s medic, a sour-faced man with an ugly scar twisting across his right cheek. ‘Most would be dead from the pain already. I’ve given him some poppy milk for it.’
‘Lucky?’ said Wydrin. Her voice sounded distant and odd in her own ears. She wondered if her hearing was damaged from the explosion, or if part of her simply didn’t want to connect with what was happening.
‘Aye. What good it’ll do him, though, I don’t know. It would be kinder to—’
‘No,’ said Wydrin. ‘No.’ She sank to her knees and took hold of her brother’s good hand. The other was little more than a blackened claw. ‘Not that.’
‘It hurts me to say it, miss, it does.’ Bill spoke up from the back of the small room. His voice was muffled, as though he were holding back tears. ‘But it’d be the best thing for him. He won’t live long enough to reach land, and we can’t go back to Relios.’
‘Even if we reached land safe enough there’s nowt anyone can do for him. I’ll give him some more of the milk,’ said Bettany gruffly. ‘He’ll know nothing about it.’
‘I said no.’ Wydrin squeezed her brother’s hand in her own. She entwined her fingers through his, marvelling at their warm brown tones against her own pale skin. ‘I know someone who can help him. Someone who can heal him.’ Bending her head she pressed her lips to Jarath’s hand and kissed it. Then she placed it carefully back on the blanket and stood up. ‘We need to sail for the Nowhere Isles. To Whittenfarne.’
PART FOUR
Upon the Ashen Blade
59
Y’Ruen spread wings the colour of twilight and flew up through the cloud cover, revelling in the cold wisps of vapour as they curled against her scales. Her wings tore through the cloud, scattering and tearing, until she raised her head into a clear blue sky. The air was thin here, and cold, although she barely registered that; it was nothing compared to the boiling furnace she carried within her.
What is in the mind of a dragon? What does a god think about?
They were moving beyond the red lands of Relios now, and the clay-ridden earth had given way to plains full of hardy grass. Beyond those, Y’Ruen could make out lush green fields and the distant blue mountains that rimmed the northern edge of this continent. A flood of simple pleasure moved through her body at the thought of all that green space, all those fresh hills. Relios contained plenty of humans to consume, that was true, and the destruction of Creos, so long the site of her prison, had been a source of fierce joy, but these southern lands were already dry and sun baked. How pleasant it would be to see the water-fed lands of the north curling and turning black under her flames, while her children bloodied their swords.
Still, there was no rush.
The bone horns on either side of her long head were gathering ice crystals, and she could see the sky above darkening as she ran out of atmosphere. Turning gracefully, she dipped her head below the clouds once more and dived, seeking her children on the ground. The brood army marched below, a glistening tapestry of green and gold. There was almost too much to do. After thousands of years trapped within the Citadel she wanted to see everything turned to ash, and now there was no one to hold her back.
Long ago, when the world was young and Y’Ruen was already so old, there had been other gods. Brothers and sisters, creatures like her but not like her. There was the green woman, she remembered, who was forever telling her not to do this and not to do that. The green woman liked to see things grow and had encouraged the humans in their efforts, and so she and Y’Ruen had fought constantly. When the mages trapped them all within the Citadel – all save for one, although Y’Ruen barely remembered him – the green woman had seemed a lot smaller, and a lot less powerful. They all had.
It had taken a number of years – gods are not so easily consumed – but after centuries of being shredded between Y’Ruen’s teeth her siblings were finally nothing more than memories and ghosts in the rock.
Below the clouds the air was warme
r, balmy almost. She flew down slowly, letting the heated air push comfortably against her membranous wings. She kept her eyes on her children, watching them as they marched. They had left the remains of the last village behind, and she could feel the eagerness of some of them for a new fight and fresh blood, matching her own hunger for destruction.
And some of them were talking again.
There wasn’t an awful lot that could make Y’Ruen uneasy. In fact, she had rarely experienced the sensation, save for the terrible moment when the doors of the Citadel had closed behind her and she’d felt the net of spells descend over them all. She didn’t expect her daughters to produce such worrying emotions. She had birthed them all in the dark of the Citadel, had she not? Clawed a nest in the raw rock and formed them from her own flesh and will? They were hers, and hers alone, and yet …
There was the other one. The man whose blood had woken them to life. And now some of her children were thinking in ways that were alien to her, keeping secrets from their mother and their sisters, treasuring words and names like they actually meant something. Like there was anything beyond the purity of fire and the joy of destruction.
Y’Ruen was displeased.
She put it from her mind. The green hills were coming and the blue mountains beyond, and soon it would all burn. Little else mattered.
60
The Sea King’s Terror limped past the islands like a wounded animal, still stinking of smoke and ashes. Wydrin paced the deck, peering out into the mists. In one hand she held a damp cloth, which she squeezed reflexively between her fingers; she’d been using it to moisten her brother’s brow, for all the good that had done him.
‘How close are we, Bill?’
The squat sailor pursed his lips, causing his beard to bristle up like a particularly ugly hedgehog. He shrugged at the fog enveloping the ship.
‘Not far now, uh, lady. It’s the weather, see, we have to go careful to avoid tearing out our arse on these rocks. The Nowhere Isles is always like this. Nasty, cursed place, if you ask me.’ He paused, as if considering the wisdom of saying more. ‘Waste of bloody time, if you ask me.’
Wydrin reached over and grabbed him by the front of his filthy tunic. She pushed her face close to his, ignoring the meaty stink of his breath.
‘So we should just let him die, is that what you are saying?’ She gave him a shake. ‘Because I would suggest you think very carefully before you say that to me.’
The small patch of Bill’s face that wasn’t bearded turned pink.
‘What good will it do? We’re chasing wisps and mermaids out ’ere! I’m mightily fond of the captain but it’s plain no one can help.’
Wydrin shook him again.
‘I know someone,’ she said. She looked down and noticed the bloody rag still clasped in her fingers; it smelled of fever-sweat and desperation. She let go of Bill and dropped the rag onto the floor, feeling faintly ill. ‘We just have to get to Whittenfarne.’
Of course, it was possible that Frith hadn’t gone there at all, or had been and left already. Knowing her luck, the awkward sod had been killed on his way to the islands, waylaid by thieves with an eye for his fancy sword and fat coin purse. But there was a chance, and as long as there was a chance she wasn’t letting go. She stalked away from Bill, tired of the weary sympathy in his eyes, and looked back into the mists.
An hour later, when eventually she saw the island, she thought her eyes were playing tricks on her. There was a faint blue glow coming from the blanket of white mist to the north-east of the ship, a soft light that seemed to shift and flicker. As they drew closer the patch of light grew larger, its movements more violent. There were shouts from the lookouts.
She grabbed the nearest crewman.
‘That’s where Whittenfarne is, isn’t it?’
The crewman nodded.
‘Does it usually look like that?’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘No, ma’am, islands don’t normally glow all blue like.’
Another shout from the rigging turned her back to the eerie sight. Whittenfarne finally came into view, and like most of the islands in this strange little archipelago it was all black rock and jagged hills, with patches of stunted trees and hardy vegetation. It was an unappealing place, but it wasn’t the geographical make-up that drew the eye. It was the storm.
Wydrin could think of no other name for it. The faint blue glow they’d seen through the mist had given no indication of the violence of light that now doused Whittenfarne. It was a shifting caul of indigo brilliance, riddled with crackling veins of lightning. There were dark clouds within the storm, swirling in a tight circle over the island, while everything beyond it was as still and calm as ever.
‘So this is Whittenfarne,’ she sighed. ‘Of course it bloody is.’
They sailed on, passing two gigantic black statues, the tops of both lost in the swirling clouds, before they finally came to a small, ramshackle dock built of greenish wood. There was a single bedraggled figure sitting there, and Wydrin recognised him instantly; it was difficult to mistake that white hair. Hope seized her heart, and something else too. With a start she realised she was glad to see the stupid princeling, despite everything.
‘I must really be desperate,’ she murmured.
Frith watched the small boat approach from where he sat on the rotting dock. Distantly he was aware he should be glad, that this was probably his only way back to civilisation, but it was difficult to muster the energy to care. Let them come, he thought. Let them go. It is all the same to me. There were two figures in the boat, a man and a woman, both rowing steadily. The woman turned and shouted something back to the ship, her voice flat against the fog. Frith blinked.
‘It cannot be,’ he said aloud.
He watched the small figure in the boat as it edged closer to the dock, taking in the mess of red hair, the way she sat slightly forward, tightly focussed on their destination, the ill-matched collection of leather armour … Yes, it was. Closer still and he could see the tattoo on her arm, the dagger at her waist. He struggled to his feet, ignoring the wave of lightheadedness that passed through him. He walked to the end of the dock, and now he was waving too, and as the boat came alongside and she clambered onto the steps, he realised an odd thing: he was smiling. It felt strange on his face, after everything that had happened.
She glanced up at him, green eyes flashing, and he was struck by how serious she looked.
‘The Copper Cat of Crosshaven,’ he called down to her. ‘I’m fairly certain your contract was at an end.’ He reached down an arm to help her up, and she took it. There was an awkward moment as they stood together on the dock, hands entwined, and then she pulled away, looking at the island beyond.
‘Oh, I thought you’d have some sort of trouble you’d need me to deal with.’ She waved at the silent storm, stopped as if she was going to say something, then waved her arms about some more. ‘What,’ she said eventually, ‘is all this?’
Frith sighed.
‘This,’ he said, ‘is the wrath of the gods.’
It took some time to explain, from all sides.
There was some initial confusion when finally Frith recognised the other occupant of the boat. He looked from Gallo to Wydrin, his hand hovering over the hilt of his sword.
‘A dead man walking around? You expect me to believe that?’
Wydrin shrugged.
‘You can come over here and smell him if you like. I may not believe him about a lot of things, but he’s definitely rotten. Listen, we need to talk.’
‘And where’s Sebastian?’
‘That is who I seek,’ said Gallo. Frith frowned. The man certainly looked dead; his skin was as white as parchment, save for those parts that were turning black and green. ‘We believe he’s in Relios, tracking the dragon you set free.’
‘I did nothing of the sort.’
‘What is all this, Frith?’ Wydrin nodded at the storm of lights.
They were perched on the small part of
the beach untouched by the light. It was unnerving to be standing so close to it; the raw power seemed to push at Frith’s back, and he could feel his hair trying to stand on end.
‘I came here to learn how to control the mages’ powers. I met with a mystic called Jolnir.’ Frith cleared his throat. ‘He wore a mask, and underneath it he wasn’t human. And now he’s whipped up this magical storm. I believe that his assistants were once the other mystics of Whittenfarne, now under O’rin’s spell. The storm is impenetrable, and—’
‘What?’
‘Jolnir was a creature called O’rin, one of the old gods.’
Wydrin ran a hand over her face, squeezing her eyes shut.
‘I don’t have time for this.’ She took Frith by the arm. ‘Come on, I need you to come back to the ship with me.’
‘What?’
‘My brother is injured. We ran into the dragon while we were looking for Sebastian and apparently pirate ship versus dragon isn’t a well-matched fight. He’s dying, Frith, and I need your help.’
She began to drag him back to the dock, so he shook her off.
‘No, I can’t.’
‘Yes, you can.’ She took hold of him again, with both hands this time. Gallo stood off to one side, silent. ‘I need you to do what you did with me, remember? When you healed my arm? With the pink light?’
‘I said I can’t.’
‘I’ll pay you! I’ll do anything you want. Just come with me and help him. I’ll do anything.’ She looked up at him with desperation in her eyes and Frith felt a stab of annoyance.
‘I mean that I am incapable.’ He shrugged her off again, wincing at how much those words stung.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Jolnir took it from me.’ Frith took a deep breath. To be weak again. Again. It was almost more than he could take. ‘He took the magic from me. That’s what he’s using to generate this storm.’
There was silence. Wydrin stared at him, swaying slightly on her feet. Her face was ashen.
