by Steven Poore
The skies were bleak now, grey and soul-sapping, as though the mists that enveloped the town drew strength and life from the air itself. The mountains were always cold, even during summer, and despite the presence of the engorged fire Cassia shivered.
Tend it? There is hardly any wood left to fuel it. Surely it was Malessar’s craft that was keeping it alive? She clenched her fists, feeling hopeless and useless. It wasn’t as if Craw or the warlock had left her with any choice. Stay here – watch the fire – should I boil a pot of water too? Is that all I am good for?
Furious, she took a step toward the gateway, then halted as the fire dipped, seemingly in response to her movement. Another step, and although she could now see that the mists had completely enveloped the surrounding hillsides, the fire had weakened yet further. It was key to her survival, she understood that much, but the real question was whether she trusted what Craw had told her. That I do have a part to play in this.
Did she trust herself to play that role? Oh Ceresel, I only ever wanted to tell the stories. I never wanted to live them.
The first wisps of sorcerous mists licked the edges of the outermost arch and she realised she had been wool-gathering far too long. The fire no longer baked her back, and when she turned she saw it had shrunk in strength, a normal cookfire once more. Cassia darted back to her place at the fire, scrabbling on the ground for the last poor offerings of firewood.
She poked the fire back into life, taking care not to stifle it by piling too much fresh wood onto it. Her very presence at the fireside seemed to make the flames leap higher, as they had done when Craw tended the simmering pot earlier. Cassia had not seen the dragon do anything that looked remotely sorcerous, yet the fire was supposed to be the heart of the protective wards Malessar had laid around the fort.
The contents of the pot bubbled under the ill-fitting lid; they should have been burned away by the ferocity of the fire, and Cassia wondered what ingredients Malessar had left to cook. She was tempted to lift the lid to find out, but a more careful part of her mind warned that she might break the spell’s efficacy. Instead she reached out for another sliver of the scavenged wood and jabbed it into the base of the fire.
The courtyard had darkened. Fresh shadows lingered in the corners and the doorways looked hungry and unwelcoming. There was no sound from beyond the walls. The valley had been quiet before, but now the encroaching mists had suffocated it completely. Firelight illuminated the ground for a few yards, and she was careful not to step beyond the clear bounds of that light.
If the wards fall, how will I get away? It was a thought that refused to leave her head, even though she kept telling herself that Malessar was too powerful to be defeated by a curse he had laid himself. And Craw is a dragon. What could ever defeat a dragon?
But the old tales did speak of heroes who had won great battles against the beasts. If they were anywhere close to the truth, then dragons were not invulnerable. The curse had sat, silent and gathering power for hundreds of years. It might now be more than a match for Malessar’s skills.
Cassia could not imagine herself battling Caenthell’s vengeful spirits on her own. She knew she would never make it to the base of the hill.
She poked the fire again, raising a small shower of sparks. There was something peculiar here, though the fire burned fiercely now it did not seem to be consuming the splintered wood any faster. Malessar’s fire was burning some other fuel. The warlock had said the strength of the fort would be added to his own, and she thought of his words as she looked around at the darkened walls. He had commanded this outpost, centuries ago. The wraith had been proof of that. With a flash of intuition she was suddenly certain that Malessar had somehow created a reservoir of his own power here, stored for just such a desperate situation.
Just how much strength did he leave here?
The cursed mists had broached the top of the battlements, and tendrils curled in through the gateway, questing across the ground as though it knew she was there. Cassia felt the wild rush of terror surging through her body, urging her to panic and run, and she could see no way to prevent it seizing control.
You have the authority.
What had Craw meant? What authority? The fire flickered, distracting her, and Cassia could not keep her thoughts in order. For one moment she believed she saw the warlock’s face in the flames, twisted into a scream, and the edges of an idea followed close behind. She grabbed at it, as a drowning man might thrash toward the end of a thrown rope.
I must defend this place. That was what Craw had been telling her, in the frustrating and oblique fashion of all dragons – that she had permission to use the reserves of power embedded inside the very stones of the fortress.
But I’m no witch! Common sense rebelled in a flare of panic. I am a storyteller – a girl! I wouldn’t even know where to start!
But you do, another part of her said. Verros the Younger was left to guard Black Govou’s horde of riches against the greedy townsfolk, and he made good use of the magic the dragon had left behind.
She knew the tale, it was one of her favourites. Verros was an enterprising character and all the stories he featured in made full use of his initiative, bravado and penchant for witticisms and punning putdowns. Cassia loved the more light-hearted tones, finding them a welcome relief after Norrow’s more strident tragedies. She had never thought that one day she might emulate his deeds, as well as his words.
What did he say? How did Verros begin his case?
“Spirits, hear me!” Her voice came out as a squeak and she cursed under her breath. It felt wrong to be addressing an empty courtyard. “Oh, revenants and wraiths, come defend your walls against invasion. Your captain, Malessar, commands you to service!”
She fed the last of the wood to the fire and repeated her lines in a stronger voice. If they had any effect it was difficult to tell, though the flames appeared to be tinged with a shade of flickering blue. She wondered if that was due to the mists.
“Revenants and wraiths!” she called once more, and as she drew her next breath the harsh sound of metal scraping on stone froze her words unspoken. Cassia turned and peered through the gathering murk, but she could see no sign of movement.
Yet . . . the sound came again. Somebody was moving inside one of the towers.
“Revenants and wraiths,” she called once more, a fresh quaver spoiling the bold tone she had put on. “Rise up and serve as you have been bound!”
This was a risk. Even if this was what Malessar had intended, the spirits that haunted the stones of the fortress might not listen to or recognise the authority he had left with her. Such had happened to Verros, she recalled. Dark and angry ghosts had poured out of the mountains to ravage the countryside and Verros had spent the next two years on a quest to ensnare them and return them to Black Govou’s lair. And with my luck it’ll be worse than that . . .
The cookfire flared and she shied back, throwing an arm up to protect her face. The heat seared her skin and she yelped.
When she lowered her arm again, she was not alone.
A shadowed figure stood before the door of the main watchtower. The silhouette was that of a soldier, cloaked and armoured, a crested helm tucked under one arm. A sword sat at his hip, and he held a pair of slender javelins in his free hand. He might have been one of the men she had seen inside the watchtower, but she could not see his face.
The man raised his hand. In response to his silent orders other soldiers appeared from inside the barracks, and at the doors of the other towers. Their forms were all tinged with the same flickering shades that coloured the cookfire.
“Hold these walls!” she commanded, with as much authority as she could borrow from the tales of Verros the Younger.
The first shade stared at her and jerked his head. He donned his helm and raised the javelins into the air in silent salute. Cassia looked up and saw the battlements were now manned by these ancient spirits. They all stood facing outwards, javelins held ready as though the fortress
was besieged by mortal forces. Others had converged on the gatehouse, their forms merging with the mists that rolled along the ground there.
The cookfire was settling down again and Cassia stabbed the heart of the blaze once more to keep it burning fiercely. Embers flew upward, stinging her face, but she dared not move back any further.
The hissing of steel rang through the courtyard. The soldiers at the gate had drawn their weapons, advancing to meet the mists that reached out for them, tendrils extended like the fingers of a great, grasping hand.
As one, the soldiers launched their javelins or plunged their swords into the mists. Cassia could not see how such an insubstantial enemy could be harmed, but the tendrils recoiled as though stung, the severed ends dissipating into thin air. The soldiers pressed their attack, striking again and again until the ground around them was cleared. Cassia shouted and cheered them on, caught up in their fight. For a moment she even forgot her own danger. But the fog beneath the gates piled up, thick and dark and swirling with hate.
The soldiers on the battlements threw all of their javelins down into the mists. They drew their swords and attacked the tendrils that whipped through the sky against them. If Cassia had not conjured up these defenders then the fort would already have been overrun and she would be dead. She forced the thought away before she had time to dwell on it. She punched the air again and shouted even louder.
A dense length of mist curled around the legs of a soldier nearest the gates and pulled him down to the ground. His arm flailed through the air, the rest of him lost to sight, and then something pulled him away through the gates and he was gone forever.
Another man, struck across the face, tumbled from the battlements. His body landed on the broken roof of the barracks, disappearing through the remaining tiles without disturbing them, as though he had never been there at all.
The fire guttered for a moment and Cassia, remembering the importance of her own task, searched about for fuel. With horror she realised that nothing remained. She had already fed the last of the scavenged wood to the fire. Worse yet, the fire was actively consuming these last planks and branches, at such a voracious rate it would surely burn itself to ashes in a matter of minutes.
“Ceresel save us all,” she gasped, praying the goddess would hear her. TThere was nothing else to burn. The fire would die, and Malessar’s spell of protection along with it. Then nothing could prevent the cursed mists from swamping the fortress.
Her summoned defenders, their own strength surely linked to that of the fire, were flagging as the mists forced them back from the gates. Another man had already fallen, and a second looked winded, favouring one side to protect his ribs. How do you injure ghosts? Cassia wondered before damping the thought quickly. It mattered only that they were on her side. She had to do something to help them.
What would Meredith have done? But she knew the answer: the Heir to the North would already be lost to sight, his sword a blur as he worked through the forms that no man could withstand. Would he be able to drive the mist back? She wanted to believe so. If only he was here. But if I can imitate even the least part of his force . . .
“Stand!” she shouted. “Stand or we shall all die!”
Not one of the soldiers looked in her direction. They were too busy fighting this physical manifestation of Malessar’s centuries-old curse.
In desperation she tore off her coat and threw it on the fire. If she died it would not matter if her body was cold.
That the coat burned was no surprise, but the flames engulfed it so eagerly, rising up with an intense heat that forced her away from the fireside once more, and that did shock her. With no time to think over her decision she flung off as much of her clothing as she dared, stripping down to her shift and her boots, piling it on top of the coat. She felt as vulnerable as a babe in arms, but she ignored the sudden roar of flame as she scooped up Pelicos’s sword and abandoned her place to join the defence of the fortress.
Close up, the soldiers appeared drab, grey and insubstantial, and they moved, hacked and died without a sound. The nearest man looked around and gave her a curt nod of acknowledgement before returning his attention to the coils that threatened him. Cassia took a deep breath. Her heart bursting in her chest, she edged in alongside him and jabbed at the swirling cloud that poured through the gates.
“For the North!” she shouted. She could not tell whether the soldiers heard her, but they pressed forward with renewed strength and the mists dispersed before them. Cassia saved her blows for the tendrils snaking out to flank them, beating them back so the soldiers could attack the thicker base of the mist. One coil brushed her leg, leeching and clammy, before she severed the thing and it disappeared into a fine spray.
At one point she glanced at the fire and noticed it still burned with an intense flame, but then the mist redoubled its attack and she had no time to wonder. As redoubtable as her wraiths might be they still fell, dragged to the ground, or throttled, or thrown from the battlements, and Cassia’s force was soon pushed backwards once more. The man beside her overstretched, hacking into the depths of the mists, and something beastlike whipped up to grab his arm and pull him off his feet. The last Cassia saw of him was his face, twisted into a silent scream of agony.
She looked up to see that she had become the vanguard. Only half a dozen soldiers remained behind her, their attention drawn by events above them on the battlements. She edged back, lifting her gaze, and saw the mist pouring over the ramparts like water, pooling in the courtyard with such speed already it was hard to see the watchtower.
We’re surrounded. So much for my heroic defence.
She flailed out of the way of the grasping tendrils, warding them off with her sword, and fought her way back to the soldiers. They looked resigned to their fate, their eyes darkened to near invisibility underneath their grim helms. At least they still had the protection of Malessar’s sorcerous fire. While it still burns, at any rate. After that . . . nobody will tell this story.
“Gather around the fire,” she told the soldiers. “If we can defend that there’s still a chance.”
Again only silence met her words. She could not tell if they understood her, let alone believed her. Yet they formed the last line of defence with her; one would step forward to jab and slash at the pearled murk while his colleagues guarded his flanks, and by attacking in turn they kept the mist at bay. Cassia felt the heat of the fire at her back and was glad of it. With each breath the courtyard was becoming colder. Nimbly avoiding a portion of the mist that sought to separate her from her companions, Cassia thought she might die of exposure before the fire went out. If it was no longer as fierce as before, it still channelled Malessar’s sorcery and fed upon her own clothes, and it showed no sign of abating before it was engulfed at last by the relentless damp of the clouds pouring over the walls and through the gates.
The seconds stretched and blurred, until she could not tell how long they had been battling the ancient curse wards. The soldiers fought silently beside her, grim and determined, but even so she was glad for their company and she felt an odd stirring of emotion that lent fresh strength to her tired muscles. Pride, she thought in the spare moments between hard-pressed defence. I can be proud of this.
A sudden refracted flare of light from high above, as though the sun itself was cleaving through the gloom. The throaty roar echoed through the skies a bare moment later, and Cassia realised the shrill cry that followed was her own. Her legs had lost their strength and she rested on her hands and knees in the clammy dirt, her sword fallen half a pace away.
Craw!
A cold touch brushed her arm, resting then gripping hard. Cassia tried to pull away, reaching out for the sword. She managed to tilt the weapon back into her hand and slashed frantically at the air before her. The mists released her and she fell back. The phantom soldiers struck out, over her head and beyond her, to cover her while she crawled back to her feet.
The flare, like the slow lightning of a nightmare, erup
ted again in a different quarter of the sky. This time the roar was accompanied by a brutal hiss, like water burning away from the outside of a kettle. She fought against the instinct to panic and cower.
“Craw!” she shouted. “Craw! We’re down here!”
The mists drew back and then surged forward, desperate to overcome the last ghostly defenders and smother the fire that channelled Malessar’s spellcraft. Cassia had no choice but to step back, closer to the fire, stabbing and swinging for her life, even though her limbs were leaden and she felt the last of her strength had already been driven from her.
Another soldier fell, backwards this time, into the fire, and his image dispersed like the seeds of a dandelion, before he hit the ground. The remaining soldiers were barely enough to encircle the fire.
Be like Meredith, she told herself. Be strong. Be a hero.
It was not easy.
Dragonfire ripped through the sky once more, directly above the ancient fortress. Cassia’s knees buckled against the dragon’s fearsome presence. Yet she remained standing, and she was certain Craw’s efforts were forcing the mists back from the hilltop.
We cannot hold. Craw’s voice sounded in her head, as clear as if the dragon spoke right beside her. Flee this courtyard, girl.
That made her falter. “Where to?” she called out. “Where should I go?”
The sky lit up over the watchtower, the mists burned away to reveal Craw’s immense form looming overhead. Craw could not fit into the small courtyard, so if she wanted to escape she would have to make her own way up to the battlements. The climb had not been difficult earlier, but now the steps and the rampart were damp and slippery, and she could picture herself tumbling down, to be engulfed by the mists and the unseen creatures that haunted them . . .
Hurry, girl.
She shook the thought from her mind and glanced around at the spirits she had summoned to her aid. While the mist had retreated from Craw’s presence, they stood at guard, weapons raised as they awaited the next assault. The nearest man met her gaze and indicated, with a jerk of his head, that she should head for the steps beside the stables.
