by Den Patrick
Where are you, Själsstyrka? But of the silver shadow in the sky there was no sign.
Shirinov walked the length of the pier as if he owned Cinderfell itself.
‘It ends now, Steiner. You’re outnumbered.’ Steiner thought he could hear laughter on the wind and wanted to hammer the mocking smile of Shirinov’s mask into scrap.
The soldiers advanced a step, wary.
‘I can’t fight all of you,’ admitted Steiner. ‘But perhaps I don’t have to.’ He reached into his tunic and brought forth the dragon-carved rock, then set his sights on the burning ship.
‘Wherever there is fire there is death,’ bellowed Steiner.
Nothing. Rain pattered from his face as the soldier’s boots crunched on the shingle beach as they came closer. Steiner could taste blood.
‘Dammit.’
‘Now we put you down, as we should have when you first arrived on Vladibogdan,’ said one of the soldiers.
‘Wherever there is fire there is death.’ Quieter now, the words heavy with desperation. The jag of stone remained just that, a hunk of rock with a carving, nothing more. Was it too wet? Had the shattering of the dragon statue leached the power from the artefact? Steiner shook the chain and stumbled backwards, away from the line of soldiers who inched forward, step by careful step. ‘Please, I need you.’ A glimmer was followed by a spark, and then another. The flames sprang into life along the stone and the soldiers jerked back.
Dark figures emerged from the roaring fire of the burning hulk. In twos and threes they came, living wisps of smoke with unblinking eyes of smouldering orange. The artefact hung on the chain before Steiner, flickering and roaring with flame. More and more cinderwraiths emerged from the broken ship, like infernal stowaways. At first a dozen of the phantoms emerged from the wrecked ship, and then twice that again.
‘Take them!’ yelled Steiner.
The cinderwraiths advanced up the beach. Fleet and dark they closed with the soldiers and Steiner charged with them, swinging with fury, rewarded with the dull clang of metal and grunts of pain. The fight was a jarring, stumbling confusion. Soldiers fell about, assailed by dark shadows, coughing on fumes and strangled by phantoms. They fell to their knees one by one until only two living souls remained on the beach. Steiner stared at the man in the mocking silver mask.
‘Not so much to smile about now, is there?’ said Steiner. The Vigilant still clutched his shoulder where Steiner had struck him before.
‘This day will be mine,’ said Shirinov. ‘I have been demoted, I have been disgraced, I have been derided!’ The old man hobbled forward. ‘Felgenhauer isn’t here to save you this time.’
A large stone sprang up from the beach at Shirinov’s command, as if shot from a catapult. Steiner tried to duck out of the way, but a cinderwraith shot forward and wrapped its ghostly form about the stone, absorbing the force. Again Shirinov lifted a rock from the beach, then launched the hunk of stone at Steiner with flick of his hand. Again a cinderwraith charged forward to deflect the projectile. And all the while Steiner closed with the Vigilant, the Ashen Torment held up in one hand, the sledgehammer held low in the other.
‘You will not best me, boy!’ howled Shirinov. More and more stones jumped up from the beach to pelt Steiner, each met by the fleet form of a cinderwraith.
‘Who’s outnumbered now, halfhead?’ Steiner swung the sledgehammer up, but feinted and changed direction, swinging towards Shirinov’s knees. The old man couldn’t move in time, but summoned a ward of force with the flat of one hand, knocking the blow aside. Steiner’s arms hurt as the sledgehammer strike met resistance.
Steiner stepped in close and shoulder-barged the Vigilant before he could retaliate, sending Shirinov staggering along the shingle. Somehow the old man remained standing, but Steiner had lined up his strike and swung with every bruised muscle and aching tendon. Shirinov raised a hand to ward the hammer from his chest, but Steiner had set his sights higher. The dull metal head of the hammer hit the smiling mask by the left eye and a peal of sound rolled over the beach like bells.
‘What have you done?’ raged the Vigilant, as a shock of red gore dripped from the mask’s left eye hole. ‘I’ll kill you.’ Stones sprang up from the beach around him, hovering all around. ‘I’ll kill your sister and your father and—’
‘Enough!’ said Steiner through gritted teeth. He surged forward as the first of the stones raced towards him. The hammer swept through the air, a dull blur of metal. Shirinov struggled to raise an arm, seeking to ward off the blow, but his wounded shoulder refused to obey. The hammer strike took the Vigilant straight on the chest. There was no snapping of bones, no wheezing shout of pain, just the crack of splitting stone.
Shirinov trembled. ‘What have you done?’
The Vigilant fell to pieces, each shattered arm sliding from a sleeve. His legs went out from under him, torso crumbling.
‘All this time you tried to break me,’ said Steiner, breathing heavily. He rested on the shaft of the sledgehammer for support, so tired he wanted to drop to his knees. ‘You don’t break me. I break you.’
The roar of the sea grew louder and the many cinderwraiths turned and fled up the beach, dark shadows racing over shingle. Steiner looked over his shoulder. The wave that approached the shore was twice his height, a wall of moving midnight blue, too close to escape from. White spray ran along the apex of the swell, towering over him. All was icy cold as the wave crashed down. His ears were filled with the dull roar of the angry ocean as the Spøkelsea claimed him, dragging him out to the depths.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Steiner
Vladibogdan began as a prison for dragons and a place to exile political prisoners, but in time the Emperor became wise to the many possibilities of the island. Small wonder then that novices were trained on the bleak isle, or that Vigilants would find themselves posted there as a punishment.
– Untainted Histories Volume 3: Serebryanyy Pyli
The frenzied waves of the Spøkelsea took Steiner down into their depths. Only frenzied kicks and desperate paddling saw him breach the surface. He was swept high and low as the frigid waters continued to thrash the shore.
‘It’s fine,’ he reassured himself, ‘I’ll just wait until the tide throws me up on the beach. Like the ship.’ The ship lay on its side, still burning and smoking, but the wreck grew more distant with each passing moment. Steiner kicked, growing tired with each heartbeat, paddling one-handed, determined not to release the sledgehammer.
Apparently this is your great-grandfather’s. Romola’s words drifted through his mind as the rain hissed on the dark green waves. The tide dragged him away to a place of icy cold and slow drowning. His teeth chattered fitfully and no matter how high the wave or how violent the swell he refused to take his eyes from Cinderfell.
‘I did it, Kjell. I stopped him. I killed the Vigilant. You’ll be safe now, for a little while at least.’ He knew she couldn’t hear him, but it felt important to speak the words out loud; he had a feeling they might be his last.
It seemed appropriate that his story should end here, within sight of the pier, not so very far from the school up on the hill. He marvelled at the things he’d done since departing from home: meeting Spriggani; befriending a Yamal princess; seeing the power of the arcane displayed openly; witnessing an Imperial Envoy with full honour guard. And who in Cinderfell could claim to have ridden a dragon in flight? Who in Nordvlast?
‘Not bad,’ he said as the shore grew more distant. He’d never be able to tell his father or Kjellrunn how sorry he was that he’d never said goodbye, but he’d seen enough to know that fate rarely played fair.
Steiner’s vision grew dark and a tightness about the chest forced the air from his lungs. Would these be his final thoughts? Was this when he would pass over into Frejna’s realm? His eyes were heavy and began to close.
A lurch, and suddenly he was in the air again. His eyes widened as he looked up. Själsstyrka had wrapped her tail about him, constricting tight
to be sure she didn’t lose him to the Spøkelsea.
‘I can’t breathe!’ he hissed.
The dragon flew on and the tail relaxed. Steiner blinked away the dark spots that blurred before his eyes. Her wings were vast expanses of silver, beating at the winds and speeding them onward. Själsstyrka flew straight for the shore, swooping low over the pier and circling around. She released him into the arms of his father, strangely tender for all her size and ferocity. Steiner looked up, dazed and shivering. Själsstyrka snorted a plume of smoke, then launched into the air once more.
‘Thank you,’ was all he said, and then passed out.
Steiner woke in the tavern, bundled up in the cloak of an Imperial soldier. The fire in the hearth roared and popped. Someone had hung his clothes up to dry above the mantel, though they were blackened with soot and the sleeve of his padded coat was all but burned away.
‘Is this one of those dreams where I’m naked in front of my friends?’
That earned him a few chuckles. Everyone he knew from Cinderfell had gathered, crowding around the tables, standing at the bar, leaning against the walls. All eyes were turned towards him and none spoke, save one.
‘My son.’ Marek Vartiainen had long given up trying to stifle his sobs. ‘My beautiful son.’ Kristofine peeked over Marek’s shoulder. ‘He’s fine, Marek. Takes more than a dip in the Spøkelsea to take Steiner away from us.’
‘I-I’m sorry,’ said Steiner.
‘Whatever for?’ replied Marek.
‘For not saying farewell when I left. I’ve regretted it every day.’
His father nodded and buried his face in Steiner’s neck, his beard tickling soft skin. ‘My boy, what have they done to you?’
‘Burned and beaten me in the main,’ said Steiner with a grimace. ‘How long have I been asleep?’
‘About a day and a half,’ said Marek. ‘Once we brought you here I didn’t want to move you. It’s spiteful cold out there.’
‘That’s quite the pet you’ve got for yourself,’ said Kristofine with a raised eyebrow.
‘What pet?’
‘The dragon that’s currently sat on the roof of this very tavern. It’s got its belly against the chimney. We dare not let the fire go out.’
‘It is a she,’ said Steiner, smiling at the tavern-keeper’s daughter.
‘Well, you’ve had quite an effect on her.’ Kristofine shook her head and grinned. ‘She followed you all the way here like a wolfhound. Wanted to make sure we did right by you.’
‘She’s called Själsstyrka. A Yamal princess I know gave her the name.’
‘You’ll be telling us you’re friends with a tribe of Spriggani next,’ said Marek.
‘They don’t live in tribes,’ said Steiner. ‘They have families, just like us, get tired, just like us, and are scared of the Empire.’
‘Just like us,’ added Kristofine. That caused some muttering to break out around the tavern as the townsfolk reflected on what had been said.
‘Where’s Bjørner?’ asked Steiner, looking for the grubby tavern owner.
‘He’s out the back.’ Kristofine leaned close to Steiner. ‘He drinks neat vodka when he drinks at all, won’t touch any food and refuses to speak. It’s an improvement if I’m honest, he’s been awful to me since you left.’
‘I missed you,’ said Steiner, glad that he’d said the words and embarrassed all at the same time. They’d had such a short time together, and yet she was just as enchanting as he’d remembered.
‘We missed you too,’ she replied, and Steiner felt his heart sink for a moment before she said, ‘I missed you, I’m glad you’re back.’
Steaming hot broth was provided with bread still warm from the oven; neither lasted very long. The questions began the moment he laid down his spoon.
How had he mastered flying a dragon?
What happened to children with witchsign?
Could he cast spells and did he have witchsign?
‘And now that you know these things,’ Steiner stood up, though his body ached, ‘now that you’ve seen a Vigilant use his powers, and seen a dragon in flight, the Empire will hunt you and they will kill you. Just knowing these things puts you in danger.’
The tavern fell silent at that and a few people scowled and stormed out. Others glanced anxiously at each other, not knowing what to do or say.
‘They can’t kill all of us, just because we’ve seen one of their dragons,’ said one of the younger fishermen.
‘They’ll raze the whole town,’ said Steiner. ‘The Vigilant I killed on the beach,’ he gestured out of the window to the Spøkelsea, ‘that’s what he was coming here to do. Kill every single one of you. And there’s no reason to think it will be any different when the next Troika of Vigilants arrive.’
The townsfolk made their way out into the cold day and Steiner could already see that some of them knew what it meant. They would have to leave Cinderfell and start again in some other place.
‘Where is Kjell?’ he whispered to his father as the boots scuffed the floor and the grumbling of the townsfolk filled the tavern.
Marek looked guilty for a moment, running a hand over his beard. ‘She’s not the young girl you left behind, Steiner.’
‘Where is she?’
His father gestured to the door. ‘You’d best get dressed.’ Steiner hurried into his clothes, using the cloak as best he could to save his dignity.
‘So many scars and burns,’ said Kristofine, running a hand across his shoulders, and Steiner winced.
‘The island will do that to you,’ replied Steiner, thinking of the friends he’d left behind.
‘Come on,’ said Marek, ‘time’s getting short.’
Some of the townsfolk followed, more interested in their newfound hero than attending to the business of packing up their gear. The storm assailing the coastline had abated like a common squall. The waters were smooth blue glass and Romola’s red frigate rested at anchor near the pier.
‘The Watcher’s Wait?’
‘Romola is an old acquaintance of mine,’ said his father. ‘We pass secrets to one another.’
‘So I hear. Corpsecandle, I mean Vigilant Khigir, and Shirinov found the letters from Felgenhauer.’
Marek looked concerned. ‘I wondered if you’d meet Felgenhauer. The fact they found the letters means trouble.’
‘We’re in trouble anyway,’ replied Steiner. ‘Felgenhauer was summoned to Khlystburg before the letters were discovered. Hopefully that secret will die with Shirinov.’
‘And Khigir?’ asked Marek.
‘Dead too.’
‘But how can you be so sure?’ asked Marek.
‘The same way I’m sure that Shirinov is dead. Because I killed him.’
They walked down to the pier in awkward silence as Marek reflected on what he’d been told.
‘You’re going to have to tell me about Romola at some point,’ said Steiner.
‘She said she wouldn’t come back,’ replied Marek, ‘but it seems her curiosity got the better of her.’
‘I’m not sure I’ve got much to say to Romola,’ said Steiner. ‘She had a few chances to get me off Vladibogdan and not once did she try. She’s only out for herself.’
‘Most people are,’ said his father with a smile edged in sadness. ‘But if you don’t come to the pier you won’t be able to say your farewells.’
‘Farewell? To Romola?’ Steiner snorted a derisive laugh. ‘I’d rather be in the tavern with my arms around Kristofine.’
‘Steiner, Kjellrunn is leaving. Today.’
‘What?’ Steiner stumbled and became still. Marek nodded and his eyes glittered at the corners, unable to meet Steiner’s look of incomprehension.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ll let her explain. Come now. Romola won’t stop long, we’d best be quick.’
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Kjellrunn
The punishment for killing a Vigilant is death. The punishment for learning of Vladibogdan was dea
th. The punishment for avoiding Invigilation was also death. This would be impressive if not for the fact that most crimes in the Solmindre Empire are punishable by death. The Emperor was never terribly imaginative in that regard.
– Untainted Histories Volume 3: Serebryanyy Pyli
Kjellrunn stood on the pier, watching the crew of the Watcher’s Wait stocking up with supplies for the long voyage south. She’d stocked up on a few supplies of her own, new boots and a sheepskin jerkin, a good leather skirt and a few blouses; all paid for with the coins of dead Okhrana. No one in town had dared inflate their prices; she was the sister of the dragon rider, and witchsign or no, that meant something.
Håkon had arrived on the pier with a handcart, selling up all the meat he owned by the look of it.
‘Have a care not to overcharge the good captain, won’t you?’ said Kjellrunn, a dangerous edge to her tone.
Håkon stared at her a moment, then nodded meekly.
‘I take it Bjørner told you what he saw in the forest.’
Håkon nodded again, barely able to make eye contact.
‘You were right about me, I do have the witchsign, I aways have.’ She stepped closer and the butcher struggled to stand his ground, clearly wanting to be away from the pier as quickly as possible.
‘Strange, isn’t it?’ said Kjellrunn. ‘You spent all that time doing your best to make me feel uncomfortable, and you’re nothing. Just an ugly man who needs to trim his beard and mind his manners.’
And still the butcher remained silent.
‘What will you do now?’ she said. ‘Now that all this death and chaos has come to Cinderfell?’
‘Move on, of course.’ Håkon’s voice was a whisper, no sign of the leer on his face as he replied. ‘I don’t want to be here when the Empire arrives. They’ll ask a lot of questions, and they’re not fussy about how they get their answers. I’ve seen it before. I’ve no wish to see it again.’
Kjellrunn nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry?’ Håkon stared at her, then barked a bitter laugh. ‘You should be. The whole town will have to move away. If they have any sense,’ – he glowered accusingly at the drab grey cottages – ‘and I’m not sure they do, but if they have any sense they’ll flee all the way to Svingettevei.’
