by Den Patrick
I was not ready. Namarii shook his head and rolled his shoulders.
Nor I. The sound of stone scraping on stone. Kimi was startled to hear Stonvind speak again. Flodvind yawned and looked away to the horizon.
‘What?’ Tief turned to his dragon. ‘Not ready? You led the charge. I saw you claw him to ribbons! You can bet your boots he’s going to be licking those wounds a good long while.’
Stonvind lowered his head so his eye was close to Tief. And while he does so we shall eat, and grow, and gather our strength.
‘They’re still very young’ – Kimi crossed the square to where Tief stood, still glaring at Namarii – ‘and this isn’t just any dragon we’re ganging up on, this is Bittervinge. Did you see the size of him?’
‘You saw how it went.’ Tief gestured to Flodvind and Stonvind. ‘They carved him up. Flodvind alone looked like she could take him one on one.’
Tief. The word floated into their minds calmly. My attack was successful because Stonvind created a distraction. I had good fortune, but now I am tired. It takes huge reserves to move these bones, these muscles, these wings. We must eat.
‘Hel’s teeth.’ Tief’s shoulders sagged as the fire went out of him and he accepted the azure dragon’s words. ‘So what happens now?’
‘We find dinner,’ replied Taiga, stroking Flodvind’s neck. ‘And hope to the goddesses there’s plenty of it.’
‘I think I saw some warehouses nearby as we came in to land,’ said Kimi. ‘Perhaps we’ll find something there.’
In his turn, Namarii lowered his head until one large amber eye was level with Kimi’s face.
And then we can discuss the artefacts you are carrying.
‘Oh. That.’ The mere thought of the Ashen Blade made her blood run cold. Suddenly she was trapped in Veles’ cave, watching him raise gholes from the bodies of dead Okhrana.
Yes. That. I felt them stir. I assume Bittervinge created them?
‘Bittervinge crafted the Ashen Blades,’ replied Kimi. ‘But the Ashen Torment has been remade by the goddess Frøya.’
I see. Namarii rose up to his full height and huffed a great breath of irritation.
‘It’s likely that the Ashen Blade is the only thing that can really kill the Emperor.’
Namarii let out a long low growl that perfectly summed up how everyone felt.
‘Nothing is ever straightforward, is it?’ said Taiga in that relentlessly cheerful manner that Kimi found infuriating.
We will think on this more later. Flodvind approached Namarii and gave him a gentle headbutt, hard enough to move him in the direction of the docks. For now we eat.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Streig
All things fade in time: loyalty, enchantment, youth, enthusiasm, even duty. Sometimes, if we are fortunate, we are inspired by some other animus; new passions replace the old. But only if we are fortunate.
– From the memoir of Drakina Tveit, Lead Librarian of Midtenjord Province
Streig returned from the shops, which were almost all bare. Those stores that still had stock were selling it for grossly inflated prices. He’d taken to carrying the urn with him on such errands, unwilling to leave Silverdust in the tower alone, defenceless.
We must a find a way to leave Arkiv or you will surely starve to death.
Streig opened his mouth to reply and his steps faltered. He was sure he could see a figure in the window.
You are anxious. Someone waits for us in the tower.
Streig’s expression turned to one of dismay. ‘Surely they can’t have returned already?’
We shall find out soon enough, replied Silverdust.
The climb up the spiral stairs was arduous and Streig doubted that he’d find anything good once he’d reached the top.
‘Do you have any sense who it is?’ he said, glancing upwards, tension written in the lines of his face.
It is the corporal. She has returned and is waiting for you.
And wait she did as Streig struggled up the many tower steps, climbing the spiral staircase one painful step at a time.
The corporal was standing next to the bird cage when they finally entered the room. She spoke quietly to the recently arrived crow, her tender manner at odds with her black enamelled armour and the mace that hung from her belt. The soldier straightened up as Streig entered; she forced a tight smile but there was little cheer in it. Her gaze drifted to the urn he clutched, but she kept any questions to herself.
‘You look better,’ said the corporal. ‘Stronger.’
‘Stronger.’ Streig gave a weary smile. ‘I barely made it up the stairs. Still, my ribs are better.’ The corporal looked out of the window and Streig wondered if the rest of her comrades were close by. ‘Are you here to tell me I’m a deserter?’ he asked. ‘Or are you going to order me to join your troop?’
‘For once in my life I get to be the bearer of good news.’ The corporal relaxed a little. ‘Not often that happens for people in our line of work.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ said Streig.
‘No need,’ replied the corporal. ‘I can’t stop long but I wanted you to know this: there’s a ship that’s been given special dispensation to leave Arkiv. It’s taking a number of loyal Imperial dignitaries back to Khlystburg along with several wounded soldiers. Perhaps if one more wounded soldier found his way to the docks he might find a way aboard.’
Streig sat down on one of the chairs and caught his breath. ‘When does it leave?’
‘Tonight.’ The corporal’s expression turned to one of regret. ‘I’m afraid I can’t put a word in for you. I don’t have that sort of influence.’
‘Tonight. So soon. Frejna’s teeth.’ The idea of returning to Khlystburg filled him dread but his wish to see Silverdust restored would not be silenced.
‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,’ said the corporal, her eyes narrowed. ‘Did Silverdust fill your head with talk of the goddesses?’
Streig held up one hand and frowned, half amused, half incredulous. ‘Is now really the time to start accusing people of treason? I mean, he is dead. Very dead.’ He raised the urn to make his point. ‘No one has filled my head with anything.’ As it turned out, the truth of that statement was short-lived.
We must go. Silverdust’s words echoed in Streig’s mind like the faint chime of a bell. I am sorry, Streig, but we must take this chance.
‘The choice is yours,’ said the corporal. ‘I can’t tarry any longer; my men are already suspicious.’ She crossed the room and opened the door.
‘Why?’ asked Streig. ‘Why do this for me if you’re still loyal to the Emperor.’
The corporal looked at him for a moment and a look of pain clouded her face.
‘My youngest brother is probably about your age,’ she said to Streig. ‘I never wanted him to join the Imperial Army. Now he is dead. Killed defending some lonely mountain pass between two provinces he neither knew nor cared for. I can’t offer you a way out of the army but I can try and get you free of this damned island. You’ve served your time and you’ve fought your share. There’s no good reason you should starve with the rest of the people here.’
The corporal turned and was gone with a swirl of her black cloak. The sounds of boots scuffed on the stairs as she descended, making the silence that followed all the louder.
Streig. If there were some other way, some way to spare you from this, you know I would.
‘This is a fool’s errand,’ Streig said finally. He set the urn upon the mantelpiece. ‘And I’m the perfect fool for it. Obedient, dutiful, useful.’
You are no fool, Streig. And I will ask no more of you once I am restored.
‘We don’t even know if you can be restored,’ replied Streig, the words as bitter as they were quiet. ‘Or by whom.’
Streig packed the few things he owned. He bundled up the urn in an old shirt hoping no one would search him. It felt strange to head off without armour, without a mace, without even a travel cloak. All of it had been taken fr
om him by the fire. All of the things that made him who he was had been lost in the collapse of the Great Library.
You are more than just armour and a weapon.
‘That may be true, but I feel naked without them.’
An old pack had been left behind when Felgenhauer had departed Arkiv, and Streig was grateful for it. He slung the bag over his shoulder and then fetched the great sword, though the weight made him groan with effort. He’d opened the bird-cage door and the window perhaps half an hour earlier, but the dark bird remained on its perch, watching him with quiet intensity.
‘You’re free to go where you please,’ said Streig. ‘No more messages for you.’ The crow made a grumbling noise, neither coo or squawk, and fussed at her tail feathers. ‘Be seeing you.’ Streig gave a lazy salute to the crow and headed out of the door. The walk to the docks was a difficult one. Uncertainty about Khlystburg dogged his steps while doubts that he would be allowed aboard the ship gave him pause.
We will find a way.
‘I wish I shared your confidence.’ Streig took in the details of the city, all too aware that this might be the last time he saw it. While the architecture was grand the people were less so. The daily comings and goings of the port had ceased and all meaning had faltered for the majority of workers in Arkiv. Some townsfolk had loaded up carts and prepared to leave the city, but Streig couldn’t think where they might go. It was not a large island, and the rocky ground wasn’t suited to farming, or much of anything.
‘This could all be for nothing if any loyal soldiers recognize me from the battle in the library.’
I am not sure any loyalists survived. In the end it was rebels versus Bittervinge.
Streig reached the docks and headed towards the only pier where any work was being carried out. A large number of Imperial soldiers formed a living barrier to stop anyone approaching the ship. The maces in their hands promised a quick end to any wanting to leave the island.
‘This will be challenging,’ said Streig. Many families were weeping and begging to be taken off the island. Outrageous sums of money were being offered in the hopes of passage aboard the ship.
‘You there! You with the sword. What’s your business?’ A soldier stalked forward and the crowd dissolved around him, out of arm’s reach.
‘I’m Streig. I served under Lieutenant Reka and Exarch Silverdust in the library. I was told wounded soldiers are being given passage off Arkiv.’
‘Shit.’ The soldier wore his helm and Streig had no way of gleaning the man’s expression nor his temperament, though his slip into profanity sounded more shocked than angry. The soldier looked over his shoulder.
‘Can you get me out of here?’ pressed Streig. ‘Please? This sword is an artefact from the upper levels of the library. It should be returned to the Imperial Palace for safekeeping.’
‘You were in the library when it came down?’ asked the soldier.
‘I was. I have the bruises to prove it.’ He held up his hand. ‘My ribs were broken too. Still not right, but I don’t want to starve to death here if it’s all the same to you.’
‘Come on then.’ The soldier gestured him forward. ‘You and your enchanted sword.’ A tense few minutes passed where Streig was passed up the chain of command from a grizzled corporal to a disbelieving sergeant and on to worried-looking lieutenant. Streig tramped up the boarding ramp of the Eastern Star and went below deck, finding a dark corner to hide away in.
You did well, Streig. It was very creative of you to use the sword as a reason to get back Khlystburg.
‘I wasn’t lying, just using the truth to my advantage.’ He took a moment to regard the old blade. ‘I’m not even sure what it does.’
It kills things. It is a sword.
‘That’s not very helpful. I meant the arcane aspect of the sword.’
A sword does a strange thing to a man’s mind, gives him ideas about destiny or purpose. An enchantment more so.
‘My purpose is to find a way of restoring you. My destiny …’ Streig released an uneasy sigh that revealed just how little hope he had in any grand destiny awaiting him.
I am sorry, Streig.
‘Just go to sleep, or do whatever it is you do in there. It’s been a long day.’ The ship’s timbers creaked around them and sailors called out to one another as the Eastern Star cast off. The movement of the waves might have lulled him to sleep, but Streig’s mind returned time and again to the hateful city of Khlystburg, with all its secrets and dangers.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Steiner
The Semyonovsky Guard enjoy a particularly fearsome reputation even in an Empire that prides itself on intimidation. There is no doubt the regular soldiers are brutal and unflinching, while the Okhrana are regarded as little more than highly adept assassins. The Semyonovsky, however, are deemed incorruptible, devoted to the Emperor with a quiet zealotry, and they train once a week with the man they are duty-bound to protect. This is the source of their pride, and their strength.
– From the memoir of Drakina Tveit, Lead Librarian of Midtenjord Province
Steiner and Kristofine had spent the week scouting the city and trying to get a feel for the rhythms and routines of Khlystburg. Reka had been their faithful shadow, while Felgenhauer had conducted her own investigation separately.
‘It never used to be like this,’ said Reka. They were heading along a broad avenue near the Imperial Palace. The road here had been swept clean but there was a distinct lack of people travelling along it. The few people Steiner saw wore hunted expressions; clothes hung from gaunt frames. Many of the shops selling food had closed their doors. The blockade was well in place now, and word of marauding dragons was commonplace throughout the city.
‘It’s bad enough that Bittervinge is here,’ muttered Steiner. ‘But three other dragons ridden by Vigilants?’
‘We don’t know they’re Vigilants,’ replied Kristofine softly.
‘We don’t know what they are,’ said Reka. ‘And not knowing a thing rarely turns out well for a soldier.’
‘Well, I don’t know where you’re leading us,’ said Kristofine to Reka. ‘And while I’m not a soldier I’d still like to know.’
Reka slowed his pace and inclined his head in the direction of a passage that led away from the avenue and the scattering of worried people.
‘We’ve searched here already,’ said Steiner. ‘That’s a dead end. It leads right up to the wall surrounding the Imperial Court.’
‘We have searched here already,’ said Reka with a slow smile. ‘But I’ve learned something from an old braggart last night. The passage leads to a tavern.’ He walked towards a building with black caulking and blacker timbers. ‘A very particular tavern with very particular patrons.’ A wooden sign hung over the door depicting a black mare against a pale blue background.
‘Now isn’t the time for drinking,’ chided Kristofine. ‘We could be discovered at any moment, or Bittervinge could attack, or—’
‘Have I ever let you down?’ replied Reka slowly. He gave a sly wink and headed into the tavern.
‘You need to talk to him,’ said Kristofine quietly. Steiner had come to recognize it was the voice she used before she lost her temper.
‘I think we’re here to listen,’ replied Steiner. ‘Just think about it: a tavern this close to the Imperial Court. There’ll be any number of Imperial servants with tongues loosened by ale.’
‘I hope you’re right about this,’ replied Kristofine, frowning as they stepped over the threshold and into the gloom of the Black Horse tavern.
The late morning became early noon and Steiner and Kristofine spent their time hiding away in a booth in one darkened corner. The tavern smelled of leather, horse, and stale beer. Candles had been wedged into small wine bottles on the tables and the marbled windows let in a cursory amount of light. Steiner imagined it would be very easy to lose track of time in a place like this, day or night.
‘I don’t know what I was expecting,’ said Steiner, ‘but it
wasn’t this.’ He chanced a furtive look over his shoulder. They had avoided eye contact with anyone who happened to pass their table, while Reka had taken a more direct approach. He stood at the bar with three other men, all attired in leathers and horseman’s boots. There were a fair few satchels slung over chairs or hanging from hooks around the room.
‘Who are they?’ said Kristofine. ‘They don’t look like Okhrana and they’re not soldiers.’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Steiner. ‘But Reka must have his reasons.’
The barkeeper was a large, hearty man with red cheeks and a thicket of dark hair that matched the wildness of his beard. Steiner guessed him to be around fifty; there was a touch of frost at the man’s temples. He looked over and nodded amiably and Steiner returned the gesture.
‘Careful now,’ said Kristofine. ‘He’s coming over.’
‘Can I get you something else?’ said the owner, looking at Kristofine. He loomed over the table in a way that Steiner found threatening before he realized there was drunken gleam in the man’s eye.
‘Maybe another ale,’ said Steiner. The barkeeper nodded cheerfully and returned a moment later with Steiner’s drink.
‘Not seen you in here before,’ he rumbled.
‘We got lost,’ said Kristofine, ‘and entered the friendliest-looking establishment we could find.’
‘Friendliest, eh?’ The barkeeper slumped down next to Steiner, who shuffled along the seat with a frown. ‘I like that.’ The barkeeper gazed at Kristofine in a docile, half-drunk stupor.
‘What is this place?’ asked Kristofine, adopting a look of wide-eyed curiosity.
‘This especial establishment is my pension,’ the barkeeper slurred. ‘I managed to get out of the army and bought this place with a little help.’
‘But these men aren’t soldiers,’ said Kristofine.
‘Oh no,’ mumbled the owner. ‘This lot’re much more refined. Hah! Messengers is what they are. Imperial messengers carrying the word of the Emperor himself – if you can imagine that.’
Kristofine smiled and leaned across the table slightly. She lowered her voice. ‘I always thought it strange he’s just “the Emperor”. Surely he has a name?’
