by Den Patrick
Only to discover it was abandoned.
‘Where the fu—?’ But Romola’s question was soon answered. The Imperial crew had sprinted to the stern of the ship.
‘She’s here!’ they screamed. ‘The Stormtide Prophet is here!’ The Imperial sailors threw themselves from the poop deck, diving into the waters to escape. The captain remained at the helm for a moment, chastising his crew for desertion.
‘Return to your posts, damn you! We hold! We fight! We prevail!’ A second later he was lit from head to foot in arcane fire. Trine eyed him with disgust, her hands still smoking.
‘You should have run,’ she whispered as the captain stumbled to the edge of the ship and threw himself overboard. It was suddenly quiet and there was no one to fight. The Vigilants on the other ships ceased casting their own fiery lances. Kjellrunn imagined they were unsure what was happening. Even the Holy Synod were reluctant to fire on their own men, it seemed.
‘I was not expecting that,’ admitted Romola as they turned and clambered aboard the Wait. ‘What now?’
‘There’re still another two ships out there,’ replied Kjellrunn. ‘I don’t want to risk getting that close a second time.’
The crew went about their tasks, exhilaration written for all to see on their faces. Kjellrunn gripped the guardrail of the ship tighter and closed her eyes.
‘This port will be mine,’ she whispered through gritted teeth. ‘And I will find my family.’
The leviathan had been less than keen to return to the Watcher’s Wait following the battle for the port. The remaining two galleons put up a fight, but the crews either mutinied or fled. The red frigate remained adrift, surrounded by the flotsam of three Imperial galleons.
‘It’s like we’re sailing on a sea of wood,’ remarked Trine, gazing at the devastation. Kjellrunn took a good look at her friend. The black sleeves of Trine’s robes had been burned away until her arms were bare to the shoulders. The dark-haired girl had noticed none of this. Her haste to rain fire down on those who had imprisoned her on Vladibogdan had been paramount.
‘Trine,’ said Kjellrunn softly. She reached out and traced fingertips over her friend’s arm. ‘Look.’ A tracery of fine black lines had etched themselves into the girl’s alabaster skin. Soot black, the marks looked like angry broken veins.
‘It’s fine,’ replied Trine, snatching her arm away. ‘Don’t touch me.’ She spent a moment glowering at Kjellrunn. ‘I just need to rest. That’s all. I’ll see you below.’ And without another word she departed.
‘Oh, Frejna, please help her.’ Kjellrunn felt dizzy with regret and tiredness. The Stormtide Prophet leaned on the rail of the ship and stared over the side. Somehow a small expanse of water remained clear and her reflection looked back at her.
She was not alone.
On either side of her was a woman. Kjellrunn jerked upright and glanced both ways, but no one stood beside her.
‘What?’ She dared to look at her reflection again and sure enough the two women remained by her side. She couldn’t see either of them clearly, save for the fact they were perhaps from Yamal or Shanisrond. No, that wasn’t right, but neither were they Spriggani, nor were they the pale-skinned folk of the Empire or Scorched Republics.
You called me. Kjellrunn saw one of the women speak. Her words transcended speech, appearing in Kjellrunn’s mind, close, quiet, intimate. One of the women was attired in green, while the other wore black vestments much like her own.
‘Am I dreaming?’
Close enough. You are on the threshold of exhaustion. The fact you still stand is a miracle. What can we do for you, Kjellrunn Vartiainen?
‘I’m worried for my friend. She’s burning herself up.’ Suddenly there were tears in her eyes. ‘I think, perhaps, something similar happened to my mother.’
There is nothing we can do for your friend. She draws her strength from draconic sources. I am sorry, Kjellrunn Vartiainen.
‘Will she survive?’
The women in the water did not answer.
‘Will I survive?’
Seawater lapped against the hull of the Watcher’s Wait, but still no answer.
‘Why did you come if you’ve nothing useful to say?’
We came because you were in need, and to tell you first-hand that you have our blessing. There has not been one such as you in over a hundred years, and never has such a person been so needed.
‘I could use a little bit more help than just kind words.’
Sometimes a kind word makes all the difference.
‘Tell me you’ll watch over my handmaiden; tell me there’s a place for one who has served you.’
There is a place for everyone, Kjellrunn. There always was. There always will be for those who believe.
Kjellrunn blinked away her tears but when she looked again the women in the water were gone. Her hands were shaking and there was nothing to do but slump to the deck and curl up. Sleep pressed in on her like a heavy blanket and dreams did not find her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Ruslan
Loyalty and habit make unseemly bedfellows and many loyalties that had been taken for granted were put to the test. Peasants, aides, and hirelings, who had slavishly or blindly followed their betters, now found themselves re-examining the past and its many untruths.
– From the memoir of Drakina Tveit, Lead Librarian of Midtenjord Province
Ruslan hurried across the city to inform the Boyar that Steiner Vartiainen was on his way to the catacombs.
‘It’s almost done,’ Ruslan chanted to himself every few steps. ‘It will be over soon, and we shall be safe.’
The Boyar was waiting for him on the doorstep of their accommodation when Ruslan returned.
‘They have departed the inn, my lord. They were well armed and I’m in no doubt they are on their way to the catacombs.’
‘Send for a carriage at once.’ The Boyar smiled, though it was a cold thing that brought no cheer.
‘My lord. I have been out in the street a long time, watching. May I get something to sustain myself?’
‘Yes, but you will eat on the way to court. I will not be delayed and I will not present myself to the Emperor without you.”
Ruslan found himself wondering if the Boyar was a little afraid and merely needed the company to bolster his courage. ‘Of course, my lord.’
‘We depart at once, before that abomination Zima appears again.’
Ruslan nodded his agreement, though he had no wish to be anywhere near the Emperor or his legions of dead-eyed soldiers, much less the arcane-wielding Vigilants.
The Imperial Gardens were in disarray and a task force of sour-looking men tended the ravaged bushes. The remains of shattered statues were being carted away. Roses and vines littered the gravel paths and a dozen soldiers guarded the stables.
‘What happened here?’ asked Ruslan.
‘You know what happened here,’ snapped the Boyar. ‘Steiner Vartiainen and his aunt came here.’
‘They did all of this?’ asked Ruslan. The Boyar gave no answer and increased his pace to reach the court. Ruslan struggled to keep up with his master, watching as one dignitary after another tried to slow the Boyar down. Sokolov flashed a metal token that bought him passage past the stern and the disapproving alike, until they were standing outside the Imperial Court itself. The way ahead remained barred by the crossed spears of the Semyonovsky Guard.
‘I have orders to report to the Emperor himself.’ Neither the guards or the spears moved. ‘I am Boyar Augustine Sokolov of Vend Province and my news is significant.’
‘I hope it is, for your sake,’ said one of the armed men. The spears were raised and Ruslan had never experienced such fear in all his thirty-three years. The double doors to the court swung open, revealing a huge hall with a polished floor. Generals, Envoys, members of the Holy Synod, and a smattering of nobles and aides stood in clusters before the throne.
‘Should I wait out here?’ asked Ruslan. It was what he had been req
uired to do on their last visit, after all. The Boyar, with a curt gesture and an impatient look on his lined face, motioned that he should follow. He resumed his hurried march, boot heels sounding on the polished floor, loud enough to cause a few of the courtiers to turn around.
‘Hel’s teeth,’ whispered Ruslan as he struggled to keep up.
Standing at the right hand of the Emperor’s throne was Exarch Zima. In his good hand he held a chain in much the same way a person might hold a leash for a favourite wolfhound. Ruslan eyed the kneeling man at the end of the chain. That a collar of metal encircled his neck was bad enough, but the man was naked except for his bruises; so many bruises in various hues of violet and purple. The Imperial Court was not warm, and Ruslan felt a sympathetic chill pass over his flesh. The prisoner’s hands were chained behind his back and his gaze remained lowered. ‘Who is that?’
‘Be quiet!’ hissed Boyar Sokolov. The Emperor was pacing, as was his way, speaking with members of the Synod, who hid behind their masks. The Boyar went straight to the Emperor and dropped to one knee. ‘Your Imperial Highness, it is done.’
Everyone in the room fell quiet, curiosity piqued.
‘Do you hear that, Zima?’ said the Emperor in his strange whisper. ‘Our messenger has played his part.’
The Exarch in the wolverine mask nodded once but said nothing.
‘Tell me, Augustine,’ continued the Emperor, blithely ignoring the Boyar’s title. ‘Do you still grieve for that treacherous son of yours?’
‘In truth, Your Imperial Highness, he was not my son.’ The Boyar smoothed down his moustaches. Ruslan stared at his lord in confusion and realized he was not alone. The many courtiers took a step closer at this sudden revelation.
‘Stand up, Augustine,’ said the Emperor, taking a step closer. ‘Explain yourself.’
‘I raised Dimitri, it is true, but he was not blood of my blood.’ The Boyar puffed out his chest and held up his head. ‘He was my sister’s get, a bastard that would have brought disgrace to my family had his origins been known.’ Shocked whispers passed through the court like the patter of autumn rain. ‘I don’t see it matters now. Dimitri has brought disgrace to the Sokolov line regardless of the kindness I showed him.’
‘What …?’ Ruslan stepped towards his master. The Boyar silenced him with a look of such severity Ruslan feared he would be dismissed from his lord’s service. In that moment Ruslan knew his master was not the man he thought he was, and perhaps never had been.
The Emperor thought on what he had just been told and glared at the Boyar for longer than Ruslan could bear.
‘I release your line from disgrace, Boyar Sokolov of Vend Province,’ said the Emperor. His smile quirked the corners of his mouth but his eyes retained that dead quality which fed the rising dread in Ruslan. ‘It will be as if Dimitri had never existed. No record of him will remain. No mention of him will sully your history. The Sokolov line may hold up their heads with pride.’
‘You are too kind, Your Imperial Highness,’ replied the Boyar with a bow.
The Emperor took a step closer. ‘And now’ – he gestured to the room with an expansive sweep of his arm – ‘it would please me that you tell my courtiers of the plan I had you carry out.’
‘The Emperor sought to capitalize on the death of Dimitri,’ said the Boyar. ‘Many might assume I would take up arms against the Empire that killed my only son. And so the Emperor in his wisdom tasked me with making contact with Steiner Vartiainen, the so-called dragon rider of Cinderfell.’ The courtiers were not the only ones to react to the name. The kneeling prisoner raised his head and set a murderous gaze on the Boyar. Ruslan knew in his bones that the man in chains was Steiner’s father.
‘I found him,’ continued the Boyar. ‘And directed him to the catacombs beneath the Imperial Palace. He thinks this is a secret way to reach the Emperor and strike at him from inside the palace.’ Ruslan shook his head in disbelief. That the Boyar had lied to Steiner was one thing, but to lie about Dimitri and disown his son was unthinkable.
‘Steiner will find the catacombs are winding and treacherous,’ said the Emperor. ‘There many ways for a man to lose himself. It is not merely the dead who haunt the lower reaches of the palace …’ The Emperor trailed off, and his eyes lost some of their focus. His distraction lingered for a moment before he said, ‘Though some things are worse than death.’
‘He’ll find you,’ said the man in chains, breaking the silence of the Emperor’s conceited preening. ‘Once Steiner sets his mind to something—’
‘Be quiet,’ snarled the Emperor.
‘Your catacombs won’t stop him. He’ll find you and strike you down.’ Steiner’s father smiled through split and bruised lips, his teeth bloody. ‘And all the hateful dragon-forged trinkets in Nordvlast won’t save you.’
Exarch Zima struck the man across the face and a bright bloom of scarlet appeared as the chained man’s lip split once more. The silence that followed was awful, but it was nothing compared to the bitter, wheezing laughter that sounded from the prisoner kneeling by the throne.
‘My name is Marek Vartiainen, and by the goddesses Frejna and Frøya I give you my word: my son will take your life!’
‘I SAID BE QUIET!’ roared the Emperor. He drew a dull grey blade from a sheath at his hip and advanced on Steiner’s father. The courtiers shrank back, horrified expressions on their pale faces.
‘He is coming for you,’ said Marek Vartiainen with a savage grin. Not once did he blink, the gaze from his bloodshot eyes unwavering. The Emperor raised the dull blade just as the doors at the back of the court boomed open. Everyone turned to stare at the newcomer. A soldier marched in, sweating freely, out of breath, his black cloak tattered and his armour dull and dented.
‘If this is anything less than catastrophic I will cut out your tongue,’ said the Emperor into a dreadful hush. The Ashen Blade shed flecks of grey on the polished floor; some of the flakes alighted on Marek Vartiainen’s matted hair.
‘The Stormtide Prophet has destroyed the three galleons defending our port,’ said the soldier, his eyes fixed on the arcane blade. ‘She is coming ashore and we don’t have the means to stop her.’
‘The means to stop her?’ The Emperor’s words were like slivers of ice being hammered into the flesh. ‘You will stop her with the armies that I have paid for with countless taxes.’ The soldier flinched and, realizing he was breaching etiquette, dropped to one knee.
‘She …’ The soldier was visibly shaking as the Emperor approached him with madness in his pale eyes. ‘She has a leviathan, Your Imperial Highness. I saw it with my own eyes. It is fully the size of a galleon and devoured our men.’
For a moment Ruslan thought the Emperor smiled, but soon realized the Emperor was gritting his teeth, his lips peeling back in a snarl. The soldier didn’t wait to be excused, but got to his feet and backed away from the knife-wielding man before him.
‘Attacked from above by Bittervinge,’ said Marek Vartiainen. ‘Hunted from below by my son.’
‘Be quiet!’ seethed the Emperor.
‘And now my daughter comes for you. How will you survive, Volkan?’
‘I SAID BE QUIET!’ howled the Emperor, striding towards the prisoner. Marek lifted his chin, seeming to know what was coming next. Ruslan turned away, unable to watch the Emperor’s savagery.
The journey back to the townhouse was a quiet one. Ruslan was too shocked to utter a sound, too sickened by what he had seen to attempt to frame it with words. The carriage clattered over the cobbled streets of Khlystburg and every beat of the horses’ hooves was too loud. The city stank of decay and smoke, and Ruslan wondered if they were all dead men, simply too foolish or naive to realize their time was over. Vinterkveld was destined to be ruled by one monster or another, Volkan Karlov or Bittervinge. The carriage turned a corner just a touch too fast and Ruslan was shaken from his musing. The Boyar looked out of the window, face taut, mouth a downturned slash.
After what seemed an eternity
, the carriage stopped. Ruslan opened the door and stepped down in a daze, not thinking to help his master down, not waiting to let the Boyar enter before him as etiquette demanded. He knocked on the door of their accommodation and waited.
‘Ruslan.’ The Boyar’s voice was hushed and rusty, yet had the same effect as a knife thrust into flesh.
‘You lied.’ Ruslan’s voice was low yet terrible. ‘You lied about Dimitri.’
‘It’s better this way.’ The Boyar cleared his throat. ‘Better he never existed than to endure a shameful memory.’
‘You care nothing for Dimitri’s memory, only for your own reputation. Did you know the Emperor would expunge him from all records?’
‘It was a risk, but the Emperor has done it before to others, many times.’ The Boyar looked away down the street, unable to meet his aide’s eyes. ‘Better this way,’ he added, though he sounded less sure of himself.
‘I didn’t expect to like Steiner Vartiainen,’ said Ruslan as the door opened behind him. ‘But he’s ten times the man you are.’ The maid looked out with a nervous glance.
‘You will not speak to me this way,’ seethed the Boyar, trying to claw back some measure of authority, but Augustine Sokolov’s hold over Ruslan had been broken.
‘I am finished here,’ replied Ruslan. He walked away, striding down the street, every step feeling bold and new and terrifying in equal measure.
‘Ruslan! Please!’ So much desperation in so few words. ‘Where will you go?’
Ruslan walked onward; he knew exactly where he was headed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Steiner
Volkan Karlov had spent decades banning all mention of the goddesses Frøya and Frejna. He had sent Vigilants, soldiers, and Okhrana to destroy the Rusalka and Spriggani, desperate that he and he alone be the most inspiring presence in Vinterkveld. The old tales were slowly erased. How fitting then that Volkan Karlov unwittingly engineered a new tale, a dark and terrible story of venturing underground and facing unknowable horrors, a tale to be retold down through the ages. The tale of Steiner Vartiainen.
