by Jen Williams
‘You have learned a few tricks,’ said Fane. There was a false note in his voice now, an attempt at jollity that wasn’t quite succeeding. ‘I’ll give you that.’
The men he’d scattered were trying to rise. Frith held up his right hand, covered in bandages, and slowly closed his fingers into a fist. Force. Control. Crush.
Their bones shattered, making a noise not unlike a knot of wood popping on a fire. There were screams. Fane came forward now, his sword out in front of him. The skin around his scars was paler than it had been before.
‘There’s no point to any of this, Lord Frith, when you know you can’t kill me.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Frith. ‘The helmet.’
He sent a wave of force at Fane, but it passed over him like a summer breeze. A ball of flame crisped the leather of his jerkin, but did little else. And then Fane was on him, the sword flying through the air with terrible weight. Frith jumped away, the tip of the weapon missing him by inches.
‘I don’t know where the rest of you Friths are,’ Fane was saying through gritted teeth. ‘So I’ll chuck you out in the forest somewhere. Could be that the same bears who ate your family’s leavings will have you too.’
The sword came again and again, a silvery arc pushing Frith back and back. He would have to be fast now, and precise, more precise than he’d ever been with the Edenier. Because Fane was right. If now, after all this, he still couldn’t kill him, then what was the point of anything?
He pictured the word for Fire, the word for heat, and kept it still in his mind even as he danced nimbly out the way of Fane’s strikes. Next to it he pictured the word for Control, and narrowed that control down to a fine point. And then he aimed the spell at the top of Fane’s head.
The effect was immediate. The dusty iron of the helm went from black to a rosy red in the space of seconds, growing brighter and brighter until Fane gave a strangled shriek and yanked it off. The hair underneath was smouldering, and his cheeks and forehead were raw with burns. It was as Frith had hoped: Fane could only bleed for Bezcavar, and as the helm was an extension of the demon it could harm him.
It clattered to the floor, and Fane took a few hurried steps backwards. Smoke was rising from his head and there was a sweet scent of cooked flesh in the air.
‘It doesn’t matter!’ His eyes were very white against his scorched skin. ‘Bezcavar will protect me! I am his faithful servant!’
‘Only a fool puts his faith in demons.’
Frith reached out with the control, still focussed down to a fine point, and aimed towards the big man’s chest. There was an explosive tearing, and the leather jerkin was suddenly a ragged ruin pierced with shattered ribs. Fane fell backwards, stumbling into the cauldron and upsetting its contents all over the floor. He wriggled in the mess, making an odd mewling sound as he tried to scream through lungs that were no longer there. Frith looked down into his face, noting with pleasure the panic in his eyes as the life seeped out of his body.
‘Your blood will feed the trees of the Blackwood.’ He placed his boot against the dying man’s cheek and leaned on it, pushing his face towards the flagstones. ‘Now and for ever.’
74
‘Well, I suppose we can guess what happened to Fane, then.’
Wydrin and Sebastian stood at the gates to Blackwood Keep in the warm afternoon sunshine. They were both dishevelled from their somewhat frantic flight across Ede, and in the trees at the edge of the forest a pair of black birds were having a well-deserved rest. From where they stood the castle looked empty – no sign of any guards on the walls – but a single body was slung over the battlements, hanging from a rope like a bag of offal. The man’s chest was a red ruin, punctured here and there with fragments of what Sebastian assumed were bone. It was unnerving to see a body like that, turned almost inside out. His head looked like it had been boiled at some point, but they could see enough of his face, and its scars, to recognise him. It seemed Fane had met an eventful end.
‘Do you think Frith will still be here?’
Wydrin shrugged. ‘Where else would he be?’
At that moment the heavy gates jerked open and a waxen face fringed with soft grey hair peered out at them. The man wore ragged, homespun clothes with a slightly stained surcoat over the top. He kept trying to smooth it down as he talked.
‘Y-You are the sell-swords?’ One of his eyes was swollen down to a crack.
‘We are,’ said Wydrin, a note of surprise in her voice.
‘He said you would probably turn up.’ The grey-haired man beckoned them towards the gate. ‘You’d better come in.’
As they followed him into the castle, the man told them that his name was Eric and he was the new groundskeeper, appointed by Lord Frith himself.
‘You know he’s not dead, then?’
‘Oh yes, miss. We could hardly miss him, really, what with him turning up at the castle and being a mage now and everything.’
Once they were inside the keep Sebastian saw that the place wasn’t deserted after all. There were people here, moving slowly through the grounds, most carrying sacks and crates, others tools and weapons. Almost all of them appeared to have been injured in some way, and Sebastian saw plenty of blood-stained bandages.
‘We’re trying to put the place back to rights,’ said Eric. He didn’t look at them as he spoke, but nodded firmly to himself. ‘Been too long under that monster’s rule.’
‘What happened to Fane’s men?’ asked Sebastian.
Eric frowned at the use of the man’s name.
‘Our lord dealt with them, so he did. May the gods bless him.’
They followed Eric through a set of double doors into a great throne room. There were people in here too, mostly mopping the floors – Sebastian couldn’t help noticing that the water in their buckets was pink – and there was a huge cauldron turned on its side, empty. The scent of soap was overpowering.
‘Were these people at the castle before – before Frith came?’ asked Wydrin.
‘Aye,’ said Eric. ‘They was all here, in chains, before our lord freed them. Now we’re restoring the castle to how it should be.’
Frith was sitting on the throne at the far end of the room. Long blue banners embroidered with black trees hung from the walls, and his white hair looked bright against them. His hands were curled over the ends of the armrests, but his shoulders were still tense and he did not look up as they approached.
‘My lord,’ said Eric. He bowed once then decided he hadn’t done it properly the first time, so he bobbed up and down for a bit. ‘The guests you were expecting?’
Frith raised his head. His grey eyes were as cool as distant clouds. ‘I suspected you would follow me.’
Wydrin laughed, although there was an uneasy note to her voice.
‘We don’t have a lot of choice, do we, princeling? You’re the key to getting rid of this dragon.’ Frith didn’t answer. ‘Thanks, by the way, for leaving us in Verneh with a big sack of mystical eggshells, and, by the way, the bar bill.’
‘You knew where I was going,’ said Frith. His words were short, clipped at the ends.
‘Well, yeah, but that’s not really the point.’ Wydrin crossed her arms over her chest.
‘We still need you to figure out the spell,’ Sebastian broke in. ‘Y’Ruen will be in Ynnsmouth by now, and I dread to think of the damage she will be causing. We must stop her.’
Frith looked away from them, as though they talked of nothing more than a spot of bad weather, or the year’s harvests.
‘There is much to be done,’ he said eventually, gesturing at the hall with its freshly scrubbed flagstones. ‘Although word of his death is spreading, some of Fane’s men are still in the Blackwood. They are melting into the night, making their way to Istria or elsewhere. I’ve sent messengers to all the settlements, letting them know there is a Frith on the Blackwood throne once more.’ His right hand gripped the armrest so tightly for a moment that his knuckles turned white. ‘There is still much to do.’
‘Are you even listening?’ Wydrin took a few angry steps forward.
Frith stood, not meeting her gaze.
‘I’ve had rooms prepared for you both,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you will want to rest.’ He stepped down from the dais and left the room through a curtained doorway to the right of the throne.
Wydrin turned to Sebastian, her eyebrows disappearing into the thatch of her fringe. ‘What do you suppose that was all about?’
‘I’m not certain,’ said Sebastian. ‘But I think we might be in trouble.’
When Wydrin woke the next day it took her some time to remember where she was. She looked up at the billowing white sheets covering the top of the four-poster bed and felt silks under her skin.
What have I been up to, to end up in such a fancy bed?
It did not take long for it to all come back. Fane’s shredded body hanging from the castle walls, Frith’s head bowed, not looking at them. As Sebastian had said: trouble.
Picking up her clothes from where she’d dropped them the night before, Wydrin looked out the window to the courtyard below. It was a bright day, with great chunks of cloud like torn bread dotting the sky, and, judging by where the sun was, she’d been asleep for longer than she’d intended. Swearing under her breath and hopping to get into her trousers, she left the room and found herself at the top of a set of spiral stairs, which she followed down and down until she found a small yard, lazy with captured heat.
From there she wandered, padding quietly through the castle and the grounds, taking note of the people running back and forth with supplies and tools. It was an empty place, sombre grey walls rising on all sides, and they were rushing to fill it. She supposed that was a good thing, but what of Frith? What would fill him now that his vengeance was satisfied?
Eventually she found him at the top of the tallest tower.
‘I don’t know how you can live in a place like this,’ she said, leaning on the doorframe. ‘Don’t you get lost all the time?’
Frith looked up. He was sitting in a room full of empty bookcases, at a table that looked as though it had been borrowed from somewhere less regal. The small desk was covered in papers, and there was a pile of sacks and boxes stacked under the window.
‘You get used to it,’ he said, turning back to the pages in front of him.
Wydrin came into the room cautiously, keeping her eyes on the young lord. ‘I like it though,’ she said, running a hand over the wall. ‘All this space, great views. I bet you’ve had some wild times here.’ As soon as the words were out she regretted them, but Frith didn’t appear to notice.
‘This was my father’s study,’ he said. ‘He would sit in here at all hours, with just a couple of lamps lit …’ His voice trailed off.
There was a cough, and Sebastian appeared at the door. Wydrin found she was almost glad to see him, although he’d certainly looked better; his eyes were shadowed, and the scab on his cheek was livid.
‘You found your way here, then,’ she said, injecting as much cheer into her voice as was humanly possible. ‘As I was just telling the princeling, I practically had to interrogate a girl with cabbages to find my way—’
‘Have you looked at O’rin’s spell again yet?’ said Sebastian. He came over and stood in front of Frith’s desk, casting a shadow over the papers. ‘We don’t have much time.’
Frith looked up at him. There was some of the old anger in his eyes. ‘You are standing in my light.’
‘What is it you’re doing, anyway?’ asked Wydrin. She poked hopefully at the bags by the wall, looking for anything bottle-shaped. ‘What is all this stuff?’
‘I am taking stock of what little Fane left behind.’
Wydrin spotted something black and blood-stained in the corner of one of the crates, so she fished it out. Fane’s helm was even heavier than she had imagined, and it still smelled slightly of burned flesh.
‘This has got to be valuable,’ she said, holding it up to the light so that she could see the delicate runes engraved into the surface. She glanced at Sebastian, and noticed two things at once: first, that Sebastian looked afraid, and second, that the exotic shapes engraved in the helm matched those of the armour Sebastian wore.
‘Where did you say you got that breastplate again, Seb?’
Sebastian said nothing.
‘Because it looks an awful lot like this helm. Like it might be part of a matching set.’
‘It is the same,’ agreed Frith, looking from the helm to the breastplate. ‘And the same as the gauntlets the Children of the Fog wore.’
‘Sebastian,’ said Wydrin, trying to keep her voice level. ‘What have you done?’
‘It was the only way I could survive,’ he said hurriedly. There was sweat on his brow. ‘The attack from Y’Ruen, you didn’t see it. How else could I live through that? I was trying to save them.’
‘The armour protects you?’
‘Bezcavar protects me,’ he said, too quickly. ‘My sword is sworn to him, and in return I was unstoppable. They were dying in their hundreds. You weren’t there!’
‘You have become like Fane,’ said Frith, an expression of enormous distaste on his face. ‘The lackey of a demon.’
‘I have not!’ Suddenly Sebastian was shouting. There were dots of colour high on his cheeks, very red against his pale skin. ‘I did what needed to be done!’
‘And what of your gods, Sebastian?’ Wydrin threw the helm back into the crate with a crash. ‘Wasn’t your sword sworn to Isu? Does that mean nothing?’
‘What do you care?’ spat Sebastian, his face twisted into an expression of such bitterness Wydrin found herself taking a step away from him. ‘You’ve never given the slightest thought to the gods.’
‘You cared, that was the point!’ she cried. ‘All those years following the code of your stupid knights despite what they did to you, praying to your stupid mountain gods. You are better than this! Better than a demon that demands pain and blood for his favours.’
Words ran out, and there was silence between them all. Wydrin found that she was breathing hard, as though she’d just run up the stairs.
‘Maybe I’m tired of being the good one,’ said Sebastian eventually.
All at once, she couldn’t bear to be in the same room as him. She stormed out, taking care to kick the door on the way, and she fled down the stairs, and out of the gates.
Wydrin marched until she reached the treeline and there she paused to catch her breath. The air under the trees was still and cool, and full of the rich green smell of the forest. She breathed in deeply, closing her eyes. It would be all right, she told herself. Seb might have made a stupid decision, but it was nothing that couldn’t be undone. She would find this demon herself if she had to, and force it to take the oath back. It might be a demon, but she was bloody annoyed and—
There was a snapping of twigs behind her, which was all the warning she got before something heavy connected with the back of her head and the forest exploded in a sea of black stars.
75
Frith moved restlessly from room to room, peering into corners, running his hands over the bare stones of poorly lit passages. He tried to remember how they’d looked before, when the place had been full of people and life; the library heavy with books, his mother’s room quiet with memories and the ghost of perfume. Now and then he caught himself looking for things that were no longer there, like the painting of a ship that had hung in Leon’s room, or the rows of steel pans that hung from the kitchen ceiling. None of these items were worth very much – from what he remembered, his brother’s painting had been a cheap thing picked up in a local market – but they were all gone, just the same. Everything his family had ever chosen, or made, or touched, had been carted off and sold, or thrown outside to be burned like leaves in the autumn. Fane had kept a few of their things to make the castle habitable, but those items that made the place feel like a home were long gone.
He paused in his brother Tristan’s room. It was as bare as all th
e others, with just the wooden bed frame remaining. He bent to look at the back of one of the struts where he and Leon and Tristan had carved their names once. It had been a fancy of Leon’s that they should mark every room in the castle with a secret sign that only they would know. At the time it had seemed faintly ridiculous to Frith. After all, wasn’t the entire castle a tribute to the Frith family name? Every stone, every room, every tower was indelibly marked with their being. Like most of Leon’s enthusiasms the idea hadn’t lasted more than a few hours, and Frith found himself regretting that. With everything so empty, was this still their home?
‘I have taken the castle back,’ he said aloud to the empty room. ‘I killed him, Father, the man who did this to us.’
There was only the answering silence. Dead, they were all dead. All of his enemies, and all of his family. What now, then?
Eric appeared at the door, his feet not quite daring to step over the threshold.
‘My Lord, the new smith has arrived from Barkhome. He asks if you have any specific instructions.’
‘Instructions?’
‘Well, my lord, there’s a lot to repair, a great many things to replace, and he wondered if there was anything you wanted done first?’
A great many things to replace. For a moment Frith felt dizzy, as though he stood on the precipice of a cliff with only a looming darkness below him. The darkness, so long ignored, was calling to him to jump. He staggered back a step, his leg throbbing with remembered pain.
‘I don’t care,’ he said, his voice harsher than he’d intended. ‘Do whatever you think best. And do not disturb me.’
Later, he found himself back in the Great Hall. The floors had been scrubbed, the fireplaces cleaned, and someone had even thought to replace the ragged banner behind the throne. It was a little makeshift, and Frith suspected someone had put it together in a hurry in the last couple of days, but it was bright and clean and full of hope. He turned away from it to see Sebastian striding across the hall towards him. The knight didn’t look any better for his brief stay at the castle. His long black hair was unkempt, despite his attempts to tie it back, and although he’d trimmed his beard it did little to distract from his gaunt face.
