by Den Patrick
‘Oh, he has a name all right. Though he’d rather no one knows it.’ The barkeeper grinned. ‘But we know it. The messengers and me, that is. We know all about the coming and goings of the Empire.’
‘We’ve heard nothing since the blockade took effect,’ said Steiner.
‘Nothing!’ The barkeeper grinned. ‘Not that Bittervinge himself has returned from death? He started out tormenting the outlying farms to the north of the city but now he ventures to the city itself. Eaten four Vigilants so far – if palace rumours are to be believed.’ He leaned forward. ‘And I for one can believe it!’
‘Obviously we know about Bittervinge.’ She smiled at the drunken barkeeper. ‘Hard to miss a giant black dragon in the sky.’
‘That it is, my dear, that it is.’
‘But the four Vigilants, that’s very serious.’ Steiner felt a pang of jealousy that Kristofine was giving the drunken old fool so much attention before he caught himself. She was merely getting information out of the man. Wasn’t that what they had come for?
‘Four is bad, especially after the business on Vladibogdan. And then a handful more perished at Shanisrond. Filthy savages.’
‘I imagine there’s a great deal happening that most folk don’t know about,’ added Kristofine, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Something a man of your stature would know.’
‘You’re not wrong. The Emperor has dispatched most of his Vigilants to the north in the hopes they can drive the black-winged bastard away. Hah. Small chance of that.’
‘I had noticed the absence of Vigilants in the city,’ said Kristofine.
‘And it seems the father of dragons has his own problems,’ said the barkeeper. ‘Three younger dragons took exception to him eating folks off the street and took him to task. I heard two Spriggani and a Yamal woman were seen riding them, if you can believe such a thing.’
Steiner, who had been halfway through a draught of his ale, spluttered into his tankard. He set down the drink and wiped his mouth before giving both Kristofine and the barkeeper an apologetic look.
‘Sorry. I think I’m getting a cough.’
At that moment a section of wooden panelling at the back of the tavern slid aside. Another messenger emerged through the concealed door and joined his colleagues at the bar. The wooden panel slid back into place smoothly.
‘I’ll have to ask you to forget you saw that,’ said the barkeeper, suddenly serious. ‘That entrance is only open to regular patrons. I don’t normally let customers like yourselves sit in this part of the tavern.’
‘I understand. We can keep your little secret.’ Kristofine smiled sweetly. ‘So you were going to tell us the Emperor’s name.’
‘Hah! No, I wasn’t. On account of it being illegal – unofficially, of course. There’s a man that likes to keep his past firmly in the past.’ The barkeeper stood up and made to return to the bar.
‘But you do know it,’ said Steiner with a note of challenge in his voice.
The tavern keeper turned back to them whispered, ‘His name is Volkan Karlov.’ He gave Kristofine a wink, performed a pitiful and ungraceful sort of bow, and then he went back to serving drinks.
‘Come on,’ said Steiner. ‘We got what we came for, and more besides.’
‘I liked the part where you pretended to choke on your drink like a small-town simpleton,’ said Kristofine as they stepped outside.
‘I thought it was important to play the role convincingly,’ he replied with a smile and took her hand.
‘Who would have thought it was Kimi, Taiga, and Tief up there riding dragons?’
Steiner didn’t reply. On the one hand he was deeply grateful they had allies in the sky, but hadn’t he earned the title dragon rider? Shouldn’t he be hunting the father of dragons in the skies above Khlystburg?
‘Does it bother you?’ asked Kristofine.
‘A little bit,’ admitted Steiner. ‘But I’m here to find my father, and I won’t achieve that from the back of a dragon.’
‘I thought we were here to bring down the Empire?’ said Kristofine with a puzzled expression.
‘Yes.’ Steiner felt a pang of sickened embarrassment. ‘I mean, we can do both.’
It was barely six hours later when they returned. The sunlight had faded behind ghostly grey clouds; finally it dipped below the horizon leaving only darkness and the ever-present pall of smoke. The streets of Khlystburg were swathed in mist and a few lonely souls hurried home, reminding Steiner of the cinderwraiths on Vladibogdan. Felgenhauer had assembled her cadre and Reka had been forced to sober up.
‘Try not to hurt the owner,’ said Kristofine. ‘I rather took a liking to him.’
‘He certainly took a liking to you,’ replied Steiner. He concealed the lower half of his face with a scarf and pulled up his hood. Felgenhauer nodded to three of her cadre who stood outside the tavern. They fixed their own scarves and hoods, before pulling weapons from sacks.
‘Now we find out how much mettle a simple messenger possesses,’ said Tomasz as the rest of Felgenhauer’s people advanced towards the tavern. The men went inside and there were a few shouts of alarm and the sound of something, or someone, being hit.
‘It’s not the messengers I’m worried about,’ said Steiner. ‘It’s how many Vigilants the Emperor has at the court.’ He grasped his sledgehammer in both hands as he entered the building. The patrons had pressed themselves against the walls with their hands held up. One messenger lay beside the bar with his head split open. The man gripped a short sword that he’d not drawn fast enough. Steiner pointed towards the concealed door and Felgenhauer’s cadre hacked through the wooden panel with their cruel axes. The barkeeper stood behind the bar and for once his ruddy complexion abandoned him. Steiner felt a pang of regret for the old soldier before following Reka into the dark passageway.
‘That could have be worse,’ said Kristofine from behind Steiner.
‘Much worse.’
Felgenhauer’s cadre emerged in a stable. As many of the men turned to Steiner as to the former Matriarch-Commissar for orders, and it was only then he realized how he’d fallen into line under his aunt’s leadership and strong presence.
‘What do we do now, dragon rider?’
‘This will get bloody,’ said Felgenhauer, before Steiner could reply. ‘The longer we tarry the more we’ll have to face.’ She nodded and two of her cadre opened the stable doors. As one they ran out into the Imperial Gardens, shrouded in mist and darkness. Steiner, keen to assert some authority if only for himself, led the charge across gravel paths, vaulting tended hedgerows and flowerbeds. The Imperial Court loomed ahead of them in the darkness; shuttered windows and decorative battlements gave the impression of impregnability, but Marek was in here somewhere. He had to be.
‘And I will find him,’ Steiner promised himself.
The two Semyonovsky guards at the tall doors barely had time to call out in alarm before Steiner had felled one. Reka and Tomasz took care of the other with muffled thumps and the brief ringing of metal on metal. The broken silence of the night resumed, though Steiner’s heartbeat sounded loudly in his ears. Kristofine huddled close to him, holding her breath.
‘What’s the noise about?’ shouted a voice from above in Solska. ‘What do you see?’
‘Nothing but mist,’ replied Reka in Solska. ‘Scared myself and walked into the wall, fool that I am.’
Rough laughter sounded from above and Steiner breathed a little more easily. Felgenhauer’s cadre waited behind plants and pillars, trying their best to ignore the night’s chill. A few minutes later metal scraping on metal sounded in the darkness. The bolts on the double doors were being slid open and a change of guard would be here soon. Steiner waited, pressing himself flat against the wall outside. Wood scuffed on wood as the men inside lifted the bar and set it down. The edge of the door became golden as the light inside escaped into the night. Steiner raised his sledgehammer as a sign to the soldiers.
A tide of armed bodies slammed i
nto the doors, pressing into the antechamber beyond. Weapons sounded from armour; grunts and shocked gasps filled the air. The inevitable wet sounds of flesh and blood being hacked apart followed. Steiner charged through the doors and helped Reka dispatch a stalwart guard.
‘Semyonovsky,’ breathed Reka when the man lay still on the flagstones. ‘Hard bastards. Well trained.’
‘This way,’ said Felgenhauer, entering the antechamber and gesturing to a door on their left. She made a strange gesture, half turning, half caressing. The lock clicked open and Tomasz tried the handle and pushed through.
‘You couldn’t have done that with the main doors?’ said Steiner, only half joking. A few of her cadre chuckled.
‘Difficult to know where the bar is,’ replied Felgenhauer, stony-faced. ‘Locks are easier on account of the metal.’
Steiner nodded as if he understood and decided he should stick to hitting things. More Semyonovsky Guard awaited them in the corridor beyond, but Steiner and Felgenhauer had the numbers. Shouts of alarm sounded through the building.
‘They know we’re here,’ whispered Kristofine, clutching her sword at the rear of the group.
‘It was only ever going to be a matter of time,’ replied Felgenhauer. ‘The Emperor’s chambers lie this way.’ She nodded towards another door and her cadre jostled against one another in the tight confines of the corridor. One moment Steiner was pressed tight against the other men, the next he was outside under the night sky. A quick look around confirmed they were in an expansive courtyard.
‘Over there,’ said Felgenhauer as her cadre fanned out around her, holding their weapons low. ‘Those double doors lead to the tower and the Emperor’s bed-chamber.’
‘How do you know all of this?’ asked Reka.
‘He has an office just below it,’ replied the former Matriarch-Commissar as if this was an adequate explanation.
They set off across the courtyard, perhaps a quarter of a mile square, decorated with the same statues and topiary they’d encountered earlier. Again Steiner led the way and his mind drifted from thoughts of killing the Emperor to finding his father. Surely the Imperial Palace would have dungeons, but would Felgenhauer know where they were located?
His worries were interrupted as the night sky flared into orange brilliance. Three pillars of fire emerged from opened windows to their left. The arcane fire illuminated the Vigilants in the building.
‘Down!’ shouted Felgenhauer and her cadre scattered. Kristofine froze, staring in horror at the oncoming arcane fire. Steiner grabbed her by the waist and shoved her, half stumbling behind a statue just as the fire impacted the ground nearby. Tongues of flickering red and orange devoured grass and hedge and flowers alike, while the once-white statues became blackened in a heartbeat. Someone cried out in the darkness and Kristofine groaned.
‘Are you hurt?’ whispered Steiner.
‘No. A hard landing is all. You’re heavier than you look.’
Felgenhauer floated into the air, lifting three blackened statues of Imperial heroes with the arcane.
‘Go!’ she roared, and with a gesture she flung the broken statues at the Vigilants standing at the windows. Steiner sprinted towards the doors to the tower with Reka running alongside him and Kristofine close behind.
‘I hope these doors aren’t locked,’ gasped the former lieutenant.
Steiner didn’t look back to see how many of the soldiers had fallen to the Vigilants’ arcane fire; he focused on their destination instead. They were barely two dozen feet away when the doors opened, revealing six Semyonovsky guards bearing shields and spears.
‘This is going to hurt,’ whispered Steiner.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Kjellrunn
Accounts of the Watcher’s Wait are now so rife across Vinterkveld, so many and varied, that it is difficult to know which tall tales are real, which are false, and which are so thoroughly embroidered as to be unrecognizable. Let me start by establishing some solid truths: the captain was a woman of indeterminate age called Romola; the vessel was a fast frigate painted a dark red; the ship had at various times been involved in whatever would pay coin, from shipping children with witchsign to Vladibogdan, transporting cargo from port to port, and small instances of piracy. Romola was an opportunist first, second, and last. She did not fight for causes or patriotism. ‘I prefer not to fight at all,’ she was reported to have said one night while deep in her cups, though she refuted this come the following morning.
– From the memoir of Drakina Tveit, Lead Librarian of Midtenjord Province
‘I thought I’d be enjoying this but …’ Romola trailed off. The Watcher’s Wait rolled and pitched as the vessel cut through sombre green waves, heading north-east across the Ashen Gulf under a pale grey sky. The captain stood at the wheel, though in truth she was powerless to steer, powerless to give any orders.
‘Trust me,’ said Kjellrunn. She lay on the deck seemingly asleep, but all present knew the young woman had her eyes closed in concentration. A blanket had been provided by Trine to cover her, while Maxim had bundled his own beneath her head. Trine knelt by the priestess, holding her hand with a concerned look on her face.
‘This is the first time I’ve been a passenger in over a decade,’ replied Romola. ‘And on my own ship. The wind should be at my back, not blowing in my face. This isn’t right.’
‘And yet we are sailing,’ said Trine with a note of quiet challenge. The two black-clad priestesses had been inseparable since coming aboard, their rivalry in Dos Khor seemingly forgotten.
‘I miss the sails,’ said Maxim, casting his gaze to where masts had towered over the deck, promising a wealth of rigging and white sailcloth snapping taut in the breeze. ‘And the crow’s nest.’
‘Come on.’ Romola abandoned the helm and started off for the prow, glad in some small way to give rein to her restlessness.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Kjellrunn, opening her eyes and rising from the deck with Trine’s assistance.
‘It’s walking or drinking,’ she replied over her shoulder. ‘And I’ve only got so much rum, right.’
The ship was still blackened in places, summoning memories of arcane fire and dying crew. They had made small repairs here and there with the time available, but Kjellrunn knew that seeing the Wait in such poor condition was an affront to Romola’s pride and to her need for autonomy. Romola cursed under her breath.
‘The ropes look like they’re holding,’ said Kjellrunn calmly, trying to appease the scowling captain. What the Watcher’s Wait lacked in rigging she made up for with the dozens of warps lashed to the bows. Those crew who had survived the encounter at Dos Khor stood at the foredeck of the ship, transfixed with awe.
‘Look lively, you slack-jawed fools!’ snarled Romola. ‘Surely there are tasks in need of doing?’
The warps were pulled taut, reaching out ahead of the ship, disappearing beneath the water where a vast shadow moved ahead of them. ‘Not in all my years at sea have I ever seen such a thing.’
‘And you can bet your boots you’ll never see anything like it again,’ added Maxim, grinning as he performed an impression of Tief.
‘It’s not a permanent arrangement,’ said Kjellrunn in a soothing tone. ‘Just until we have a chance to repair the Wait.’
‘I can’t believe you persuaded me to lash my ship to your gods-damned leviathan,’ said Romola wearily.
‘I think you mean gods-blessed,’ said Maxim, suddenly earnest again. ‘She is the Stormtide Prophet after all.’
‘Sorry,’ said Romola. It was easy to forget how much Maxim idolized Kjellrunn, contrasting starkly with Romola’s less-than-devout cynicism. There had been a moment, barely minutes into their voyage, when the leviathan had swum too fast and too deep. The ship had surged forward and the prow ploughed beneath the water, spume and surf washing up over the deck as all aboard cried out in terror. Kjellrunn had emerged from her trance pale-faced and apologetic before trying again more carefully.
‘At lea
st we’re still afloat, right,’ said Romola.
‘Have some faith,’ said Kjellrunn.
‘Faith? I’d rather have my sails back.’ Romola looked over her shoulder to the absence of masts. ‘Goddesses and leviathans are all well and good but I feel like I’m missing a limb.’
That night the crew took their evening meal, though even Rylska, the chattiest and most cheerful of the crew, had surrendered to the subdued mood. They had spent the day in awe of both Kjellrunn and the leviathan but now were wondering why they were needed. Romola could see it in the confused frowns, the restless feet that scuffed and tapped. She could hear it in their aimless small talk and uncertain questions.
‘This isn’t good,’ muttered Romola. ‘A crew without tasks to keep them busy is just trouble waiting to happen.’
‘There’ll be plenty to do when we make landfall,’ said Kjellrunn, finishing her broth. ‘Maybe you can loot Khlystburg?’
‘That should keep them loyal,’ said Romola, casting an appraising eye over the crew, ‘for a while at least.’
‘Maybe we can buy some new masts,’ replied Kjellrunn, rising to her feet. She paced the ship, passing through the decks and wandering from bow to stern. Trine followed, a faithful shadow.
‘Aren’t you tired?’
‘I should be,’ replied Kjellrunn, ‘but in truth the leviathan doesn’t need my constant guidance. I can still feel it’ – she tapped her temple with two fingers – ‘but I don’t need to concentrate so hard right now.’
Prophet and priestess continued their nocturnal stroll and found Maxim sitting on a coil of rope with his back to what was left of the foremast. Kjellrunn opened her mouth to greet him but realized his eyes were closed. His head was tilted backward and every so often he would flinch or twitch as if lost to a dream. Kjellrunn slowly dropped to her knees and held the boy’s hands.
‘Maxim? Maxim, it’s Kjellrunn. Can you speak?’
The boy smiled but his eyes remained closed. ‘I can hear you fine. I’m listening. Listening for whispers on the wind.’
