The Heir To The North

by Steven Poore

  She made her way along the rampart, eyeing the crumbling edges with renewed trepidation, until she reached the shorter stair up to the top of the watch-tower. Now the way had become easier and she felt a smile break out on her lips as she clambered over the crenulations and slipped down onto the tower itself.

  Just as she predicted, there was a trapdoor set into the stone flags on one side. Like every other door she had seen in the fort it was heavily bound and reinforced with iron plates, though the metal had not weathered well. A rusted metal ring was set into one edge, and Cassia pulled at it eagerly, hearing the trapdoor creak, but the hinges had seized up many years ago. After several attempts all she had achieved was to run out of breath.

  She stepped back and glared at the door, thinking hard. Had she missed something, or was this hatch just as stuck as the door at the base of the tower?

  She stooped to grasp the ring again, twisting it this time. First to the right, then to the left. Now the ring moved a little, accompanied by the dull scrape of metal against stone. She twisted it again and again, doggedly working the catch loose until the ring spun free and the sudden lack of resistance spilled her awkwardly onto the stone flags.

  Cassia picked herself up and crawled over to examine her work, just in time to see the trapdoor tumble away into the space below, the old wood finally rotted away from the hinges holding it in place.

  She peered cautiously over the lip into the gloom, waiting for her eyes to adjust. A steep stone stair followed the curve of the wall, illuminated patchily by arrow slits. A thin shaft of light played across the stone flags at the bottom of the stairs.

  It looked solid enough, she thought, chewing on her lip as she pondered the wisdom of descending into the tower. Craw was nearby. Surely he would come to her rescue if her adventure went awry?

  If he heard her at all, a far more cautious voice muttered in her mind.

  She slipped her legs over the edge and tested her weight on the first step. It was solidly set into the wall, and she ducked under the lintel and took the next few steps down before she could second-guess herself.

  The room below was empty but for a large, heavy table that sat in the middle of the floor. Sheltered from the elements these past centuries, it was in much better condition than anything else she had found so far. She circled it slowly, testing the wood with the point of her knife. It had suffered from damp, and woodworm had infested it over time, but she didn’t think it would come apart too easily. Perhaps Craw would be able to dismantle it.

  As barren as it was, this chamber had an almost noble air to it. Arrow slits pierced the thick walls in several places, the largest of them facing the head of the valley. The flagstones were smooth, laid out in a geometric pattern that looked oddly familiar to Cassia’s eye. The old table – the garrison commander’s table, she decided – sat in the middle of this pattern, with the stones radiating out from it. There must have been a chair too, once, she thought, searching the floor for a sign of where it had stood, but it must have been looted once the fort was abandoned.

  Partway around the circumference of the room, past an empty hearth, another stone stair wound further into the tower’s depths. This time it descended into pitch blackness and Cassia shuddered as she considered it. There were clearly no arrow slits down there to let in light, and without a torch or lantern she had no option but to return the way she had entered.

  It was no bad thing, really. If there were cells under the commander’s tower she had no wish to discover what they might still hold.

  She wandered back to the larger arrow slit and gazed out, trying to imagine how this chamber would have looked in the High King’s time. The hearth would have roared with a fire to keep the room warm, and maybe the commander would have slept on a pallet nearby. Great soldiers of noble bearing would have gathered at the table, discussing plans and intelligence brought to them . . .

  Her reverie trailed off as she felt warmth prickle against her side. Flickering firelight gave her arm a rosy glow. Caught by sudden tension, she turned slowly back to the room, hardly daring to breathe in.

  She realized immediately that this was more than mere imagination. A group of soldiers stood around the table, dark presences silhouetted by the blazing hearth, studying maps and scrolls. These were not the handsome and virtuous men Cassia had pictured in her mind. These men were stern-faced and scarred, responsibility and duty weighing heavy upon their shoulders, their eyes shadowed and haunted. They moved carved markers across the maps, their voices indistinct.

  In their midst stood a tall man, resting with his hands splayed across the table top, his head bowed as though already defeated. He did not seem to be part of the discussions around him, brooding instead on something only he could see.

  Cassia held her breath, frozen in place. This was Malessar’s magic, she realised, the thought bubbling up through her growing fear. The protective spells he had cast around the fort had brought these wraiths to fleeting life – ghostly echoes from the long-dead past, blurred and fuzzed at the edges.

  They can’t hurt me – they’re not really here, she told herself firmly, almost believing it. They can’t hurt me.

  As if he had heard her the man at the centre of the gathering raised his head and stared across the table at her. Firelight flickered over his features, highlighting the distinctive long nose that sat between eyes filled with haunted despair.

  Cassia’s heart thumped and she threw her hands over her face, unable to bear the harsh sorrow that lashed her senses. She slumped to the floor, heaving voiceless sobs as the wraith’s emotions battered her.

  When she could piece her thoughts together once more, and her crying had subsided into ragged sniffles, she peeked through her fingers at the table, dreading what she might see.

  The apparitions had vanished, leaving no trace behind. The chamber was dark once more, the hearth as dead and cold as it had ever been. Cassia struggled to her feet, blinking away tears, her breath fast and shallow. The watchtower felt oppressive and dangerous now, the air stale and choking. This was no place for the living.

  She staggered to the stairs, leaning heavily on the wall to keep herself upright, desperate to regain the safety of daylight and fresh air. All thoughts of dismantling the table were forgotten. She wished she had never left Keskor, that she had never come to this forsaken place, that she had never ventured into the watchtower.

  And most of all she wished she had not looked into the garrison commander’s eyes.

  The warlock’s eyes.

  q

  “Craw, may I ask you a question?”

  For a long moment the dragon did not reply; indeed, Cassia believed he had not heard, so faraway was his gaze as he absently stirred the contents of the pan.

  She had sat at the top of the tower for what seemed like hours, her thoughts skidding as wildly as her pulse. By the time she managed to calm down enough that she no longer trembled visibly, the sun was high in the sky and her stomach grumbled. Craw made no comment when she picked her way down the stairs from the ramparts with only a meagre armful of deadfall to feed the fire, and she was grateful for that.

  Since then Cassia had ventured only as far as the barracks on the other side of the yard, picking through the rubble of the collapsed roof to find pieces of old timber, and she had been careful not to lose sight of the fire.

  After a while she noticed the cookfire did not appear to be consuming as much fuel as it should have. Part of Malessar’s spell, she guessed, but it did mean she could stop scavenging for now.

  A smile crept over Craw’s face and he folded his arms. “Yes, Cassia, you may ask me a question.”

  Now she wished she had not said anything. Her mind whirled with the questions she had thought of – was Malessar born here? Why did he leave? Had he truly been the garrison’s commander? – but there was also a sudden rush of fear, as though she stood on the edge of an awful precipice. Had she forgotten something? Despite the warmth of the fire she shivered and wrapped her arms aro
und herself.

  Craw waited silently.

  “What—” she began, then changed her mind. “Why—”

  She was aware her cheeks were colouring. How could it be so hard to ask a simple question? That thought gave her an escape – an easy question. If there was an easy question.

  The words tumbled out before she could think about them. “Why don’t you give yourself hair? I mean, if you can change your shape to look human, why not have hair so you really do blend in and . . .”

  She trailed off, deeply embarrassed, ducking away from Craw’s intent gaze.

  The dragon was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke he sounded disappointed. “Child Cassia, I did expect better. Of course, it is long since I answered a mortal’s questions. Long indeed since I had need to seek answers myself. Perhaps these things are forgotten. But I will answer. As a dragon I have no use for any kind of hair. Why should my human form be any different? I have no hair because I have no hair.”

  He leaned forward, his voice sharper. “Now. My question to you.”

  Alarmed, Cassia shrank back. “Your question?”

  “Ah, I was right. These things have been forgotten, even by the storytellers.” Craw lifted the corners of his mouth. A hint of a smile, but no more.

  Old tales rose to haunt her once more, and she kicked herself for not recalling them in time. Some legendary heroes had sought out dragons to ask questions of them – about the future, or how to beat the evil that threatened them. But such answers never came free, if they came at all. The dragons were said to ask questions of their own. Hard, riddling questions. And if they could not be answered . . .

  “Why have you not told him the truth of who you are?” Craw asked.

  Her thoughts stalled. “I – I don’t understand. I’m only a storyteller – not even that.”

  Craw shook his head. “That’s not an answer.”

  Cassia felt herself drawing close to panic, her throat tightening around her words. “But that’s all I am, I swear it! I never asked to be a part of this, but Baum—”

  She clapped her hands over her mouth, appalled, but the damage was done and Craw did not let it pass.

  “Baum. The soldier. The picture becomes clearer. Turn your head to the side, girl.”

  Mute, she did as he asked, flinching as cold fingertips brushed her cheek and pulled her hair away from her face.

  “A resourceful man, firm in his convictions. There are ancient wrongs that must be righted, a curse that must be lifted. He will see it done. It is his life’s work.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes as the implications of her slip came to her. Not only had she failed Baum, but she had betrayed Malessar’s trust in her. Surely he would think nothing of killing her, just as he had destroyed the High King so long ago.

  “And so he has brought the heir to Caenthell with him,” Craw continued, laying the scheme bare. “The surest way to break the curse on these lands.”

  Cassia drew in a ragged breath. “How can you know about Meredith too? You – you’ve taken all this from my mind?”

  Craw shrugged diffidently. “Enough to see clearly. Perhaps you realise now, child, that seeking answers from dragons was never a fair bargain for mortal men.”

  She shivered. “You’ll tell him.”

  To her surprise Craw shook his head. “No, child. I will not interfere. I count Malessar as a friend, but this tragedy is of his own making. I have no desire to become entangled in these schemes. I have brought you both here, and I will return you both to Galliarca, just as Malessar has requested, but that is the end of it.”

  “Then—”

  “All of your secrets are safely kept,” Craw confirmed, turning his attention back to the fire. “All of them.”

  Cassia wiped her eyes with one sleeve, discovering with embarrassment that her nose was running too. “What should I do now?”

  Craw continued stirring for a moment. “I cannot give you an answer, child. What do you believe is right?”

  The trouble was that she no longer knew. She had become convinced by Baum’s words and tales, and by the sheer force of his spirit, that revenge against Malessar was proper and justifiable. But as she spent more time in his household that view was being eroded by her own experience of the warlock. And who was she, a slip of a girl from a ratty town at the very edges of the Empire, to pass judgement on men who had lived for so many centuries?

  “I don’t know,” she said miserably. “I just don’t know any more.”

  And it wasn’t just Baum and Malessar who were caught up in this tangled tale. Meredith was there too. The young prince had been led to believe he would sit upon the throne of Caenthell, reclaiming everything Malessar had torn so violently from his ancestors. What right did she have to deny him his birthright?

  She drew her legs up, resting her chin on her knees. She felt as though a yoke hung from her shoulders, the load on each side becoming heavier with each passing day, every hour. How was she supposed to deal with such terrible issues on her own? She was no hero, in the mould of Jathar Leon Learth or Pelicos the Indomitable. They were both men, after all.

  “How can I make this right?” she asked, hating the pleading tone of her voice.

  Craw sighed. “I cannot give you an answer, child,” he repeated. “Truly, I am sorry—”

  The fire guttered, the flames dying back without warning before roaring up again to lick the edges of the pot. Craw cursed, raising his arms around the banked fire as if to embrace it, and Cassia flung herself backwards out of harm’s way, just in time to avoid another fiery bloom.

  Flames quested outward as though blown by the wind. But here inside the walls of the fort there was nothing more than a light breeze. Her skin prickled: magic. Something was wrong, out there on the borders.

  “What is it?”

  Craw looked distracted. “Quiet, girl. The gate – go. Tell me what you see.”

  She scrambled to her feet and ran for the gatehouse. Behind her she heard the cookfire roar like a caged beast, waves of heat pressing against her back. The urge to look back was almost too much to resist, but she knew if she did she would be caught and devoured by whatever pursued her. Only as she flung herself through the dark arches of the gatehouse did the intense pressure subside, though the low roaring sounds shook her bones.

  She gasped as she took in the land beyond the fortress. The valleys at the edge of Caenthell had changed beyond all recognition. Deep mists roiled, washing against the hillsides, masking everything. The sky above was bleached of all colour, pale and insipid, the air itself sucking at her lungs rather than giving her life.

  Shadows rose from the depths of the mists, clustered together in the middle distance. Straight, squared outlines, with angled roofs. Figures flitted, half-seen, half-imagined, in the gaps between the buildings. Man-sized, she thought, chilled with fear.

  Karakhel, risen from the grave.

  Chapter Eighteen

  She tore her gaze from the ghostly town, and shouted back towards the yard. “Caenthell! It’s coming alive!”

  The firelight flickered angrily, reflected against the arch inside the gatehouse, the burning roar fearsome and animalistic. Craw might not have heard her.

  “Craw! I can see the town – there are people moving in it!”

  There was still no sign he had heard, or that he could reply. She backed into the gateway, far enough that she could still see down the hillside, hugging the arch for protection.

  Where was Malessar? He must have gone down into the valley. Had he conjured these grim visions of Karakhel? Or were they a product of the terrible curse he had wrought? Perhaps, by accident, he had triggered the wards he had set against trespassers into the kingdom. The sorcery might have torn him apart, or he could merely be trapped within its bounds, like one of the tragic heroes who fell foul of such snares in the tales of the Age of Talons.

  While the town and its inhabitants were still indistinct, the mists surrounding it were spreading, creeping up the valley toward
the fort. It would not take long for the first questing tendrils to brush against the base of the walls. There was no way to block the open entrance, so the fortress would provide no degree of protection. Cassia’s heart pounded and her breath came in shallow gasps as she wondered how anyone could fight against something so insubstantial. Even Craw would be engulfed by the curse-laden mists.

  She realized her slender blade was in her hand, as though she could cut her way to safety with it. Swordsmen in her father’s tales always gained courage from their weapons, and now she knew that for the fiction it was. She swallowed, and retreated into the courtyard.

  The cookfire blazed with a heat and intensity that far outstripped the wood that fuelled it. Cassia shielded her eyes with her free hand. “Craw? There’s something in the town – it’s coming up here!”

  For a moment she could not see him but then there was a hint of movement above her, and the sudden weight of a massive presence – a gust of air flicked dirt up into her eyes and Cassia flinched and stumbled back against the wall behind her.

  I see it. The voice slid through her mind.

  Craw had transformed again. It sat on the edge of the battlements above her, with its wings fully extended as it twisted its sinuous neck around to examine the valley. Craw’s tail flicked the ground, scoring fresh lines in the earth.

  Your shape constrains me. But I cannot protect our boundaries and tend the fire.

  She glanced at the swollen fire as it flared, reaching out as though sensing her presence. “How do I tend that?”

  Craw did not even look at her. You must. If it dies then you will die too. The wings snapped straight and the dragon tensed. You have the authority.

  “Authority? To do what?”

  Craw did not reply. Instead the massive muscles that supported its hindquarters pushed it effortlessly into the air, dislodging blocks of stone that tumbled into the yard. Cassia yelped and dodged out of the way, and by the time she raised her head again Craw had disappeared beyond the walls of the fortress.