by Den Patrick
‘Should I …?’
‘No,’ said Kjellrunn. ‘Don’t use your powers unless you absolutely need to.’
Kjellrunn began to walk down the street, her features caught in a frown of concentration rather than anger. More bolts were fired to no avail and two of the soldiers panicked and ran. Kjellrunn was just thirty feet away now, causing the men to discard their crossbows and snatch up maces. She took a deep breath and her skin shimmered with a silvery white light before becoming dark granite.
‘I’d rather not hurt you …’ she began to say, but the men surged forward, as much scared as furious. They raised their weapons with wordless howls, eight armoured men determined to smash the life from the Stormtide Prophet and her initiate.
‘Kjellrunn?’
‘Frøya forgive me,’ she whispered as a handful of cobbles wrenched themselves out of the street and sped towards the black-armoured soldiers. Some saw the danger and raised their shields in time, but two were pelted so hard they fell where they stood and moved no more.
‘We won’t survive this,’ said Trine, looking genuinely scared before she remembered herself and began to scowl. Her hands became living tongues of flame just as the soldiers drew close and all became chaos.
Kjellrunn weathered the blows as they took their toll on her. She worried her granite skin would fracture, and she along with it, but somehow she stayed in one piece. She punched with fists of stone and one by one the men were knocked down. The smell of scorched flesh told her that Trine had not held back. Arcane fire flared brightly behind her, but Kjellrunn couldn’t turn to make sure Trine was unharmed: the three soldiers in front of her were almost falling over one another in their haste to kill the Stormtide Prophet.
The first she petrified with a look, but petrification took long seconds, and another soldier smashed her in the chest with his mace, knocking her backwards. She fell and landed awkwardly, struggling to get to her feet. Trine was no longer content to merely conjure flames from her hands; she had become a living being of terrible fire. From head to toe the flames raged around her, and she raged with it, launching herself at the soldier who had struck Kjellrunn. The man screamed as she caught hold of him, her embrace an inferno. Kjellrunn got to her feet and grabbed the last of them by the throat, hands of stone choking the life out of her attacker. His helmet was knocked loose as he resisted her, gasping for air that would not come, and slowly, far too slowly, the life faded from his eyes. Kjellrunn released an exhausted sigh before she realized the arcane fire was still burning behind her.
‘Trine?’
The soldier’s burnt corpse lay on the cobbled street, armour smoking, yet Trine remained afire, a silhouette of a person in yellow and orange.
‘I can’t make it stop,’ sobbed the girl of the crackling flames.
‘Just take a deep breath,’ urged Kjellrunn. ‘You’re safe now. They’re all dead.’ Kjellrunn thought the girl had squeezed her eyes shut, though it was difficult to tell.
‘This was always going to be my end,’ replied Trine above the sound of the fire.
‘No!’ shouted Kjellrunn. ‘Just try and let go of your anger. We’ll make you whole again. There must be a way. Frøya is the goddess of life!’
‘But we’re committed to Frejna,’ said Trine. ‘Our way is death.’ The flames dwindled but of the girl Kjellrunn had known there was no sign. Every inch of Trine’s skin was now the colour of soot. A flicking crown of fire continued to dance around her head.
‘That’s good,’ said Kjellrunn. ‘That’s good.’ But her heart was heavy with the lie. Trine tried to cry, but her tears sizzled down her face as she shed them. Slowly she sank to her knees and the fire abandoned her. Kjellrunn slipped to her knees at the same time, but the heat prevented her from cradling the girl of cinders. Smoke drifted from her blackened skin and her shoulders slumped forward.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I was always too keen to burn those Imperial bastards.’
‘Always,’ replied Kjellrunn, smiling through her tears.
‘I hated you at first,’ added Trine. ‘I know I’m not the easiest person to like but we’re friends now, aren’t we?’
‘Friends? More like sisters,’ replied Kjellrunn. The soot-dark skin was turning pale now, flakes of grey drifting from Trine’s shoulders and arms. Her once raven-black hair fluttered on the breeze as fine white ashes.
‘I’m an initiate of Frejna,’ said Trine, struggling to keep her head up. ‘That has to count for something on the other side. Do you think the goddess will look after me?’
‘Never mind Frejna,’ Kjellrunn embraced the girl and though the heat was considerable she endured it with arms of stone. And then the heat and the tension went out of Trine’s body. Kjellrunn wept, and with every tear a little more of Trine became ashes drifting on the wind. Kjellrunn couldn’t say how long she knelt there in the street, holding on to the little that was left of her friend.
A tongue of fire appeared in the darkness but it was merely a torch, held aloft by a man, perhaps Steiner’s age. He wore a large two-handed sword across his back and approached Kjellrunn warily.
‘I’m Streig,’ he said. Kjellrunn nodded and stood up, her vestments covered in Trine’s ashes. Her hands, no longer granite grey, trembled with grief and tiredness.
‘I’m looking for my brother.’ She swallowed and thought she might start crying again. ‘And my father.’
‘You must be Kjellrunn,’ said Streig quietly. ‘Come on. Let’s get you off this street. You look as if Frejna herself is perched on your shoulder.’
‘She has been,’ replied Kjellrunn. ‘For a long time now.’
Streig helped her to stand and together they headed towards the palace.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Steiner
No one knows for sure how the battle in the throne room unfolded. Those who survived rarely spoke of it, and then only to the others who had been present. Everyone who emerged from that day was irrevocably changed, the living and the dead.
– From the memoir of Drakina Tveit, Lead Librarian of Midtenjord Province
‘And I thought the stairs from the forge to Academy Square were bad,’ said Steiner, breathing hard. They had slept for a while on a landing between staircases, resting as best they could on cold stone blanketed with dust. The little food they’d brought had all gone along with the water. Hunger gnawed at Steiner’s guts just as thoughts of what had befallen his father gnawed at his thoughts. Time and again he turned away from dire speculation, trying not to think about a world without his father in it. The stairs, like his darkest fears, were taking their toll. Had Kristofine survived? Perhaps Reka had been unable to get her back to Arkiv? Had she’d died on some goddess-forsaken beach, desperate to board a ship? Tief, Taiga, and Kimi had dragons, he reasoned, but had they been able to best Bittervinge? Might Kimi have found a faster way to reach the Emperor? Was he already too late?
Silverdust ceased the endless climb and laid a hand on Steiner’s shoulder. Your concern for your friends does you credit, but you should not torture yourself so. My prescience tells me you will see Taiga again.
‘And the others?’
That I cannot tell. Some are too far away. Others have paths that have not yet been decided, by themselves or by others. Prescience is not an exact art and I was never particularly gifted with it. I receive flashes, glimpses of possible futures. Nothing is guaranteed, Steiner. You of all people know that.
‘How long do you think we’ve been down here?’ asked Steiner, taking a moment to catch his breath.
Difficult to tell in the endless darkness.
‘Something else this place has in common with the forges of Vladibogdan,’ muttered Steiner.
‘At least it’s dry now,’ replied Felgenhauer. The mud on her boots had dried and flaked off during the countless footfalls up the seemingly endless steps. Their torches had burned down to nothing, and now they relied on Silverdust, who held up a nimbus of pale arcane light around one hand. The stairs followed the five sid
es of a deep chute. Steiner cast a glance down, hoping the corpse spiders were far below them. At some point they’d been down there, in the darkness, on the lowest step. A look upwards confirmed nothing but more stairs and more darkness. Steiner’s thighs were burning with the effort, his muscles leaden.
Not much further. Just a few more levels.
‘Do you think the Emperor will let us sleep a while before we kill him?’ asked Steiner, forcing a grim smile.
‘We may be fighting sooner than you think,’ said Felgenhauer. She stopped walking and held up a finger to her lips.
‘I can’t hear anything,’ whispered Steiner.
There are people nearby. I sense them, their thoughts and their feelings.
‘What are they feeling?’ asked Steiner.
They are nervous. Come. The cinderwraith pushed on, gliding up the stairs; he had abandoned all pretence of walking like the living. The next landing featured a wooden door with a dull brass handle, dusty and discoloured. Metal rattling on metal sounded from the other side. Perhaps they were just in time to join the fight against the Emperor.
Felgenhauer tried the door but it was locked – to Steiner’s frustration.
‘Lock pick,’ she said.
‘Lock pick,’ replied Steiner, lining up his sledgehammer with the handle.
I was going to suggest a stealthy approach but …
Steiner swung the sledgehammer and the entire mechanism broke free of the ancient wood and shot out the other side. Steiner struck the door again, splitting it down the middle.
… it seems we are tackling any potential adversaries head on.
‘It’ll be fun,’ said Steiner, heading through the shattered door. In truth the very idea of fun was far from his mind. All he wanted to do was strangle the life out of Volkan Karlov, if such a thing could be done. A short dark corridor gave way to a larger room with a roaring fire. Steiner sprinted forward, brandishing his hammer, but the only enemies he found were pale and gaunt kitchen staff who cowered behind a table. The sounds of clattering metal had been ladles and pans, rather than swords and plate armour.
‘Great. We’re in the kitchens,’ said Steiner, feeling the heat of his battle lust fade. Felgenhauer barked something in Solska, too quickly for Steiner to understand. The kitchen staff comprised a stooped man in his forties and a nervous-looking girl about Steiner’s age. Her ears stuck out from beneath a crumpled white cap. Both nodded to Felgenhauer and began to prepare the table.
‘What did you tell them to do?’
‘We’re in a kitchen,’ said Felgenhauer, ‘and we’re famished. Sit.’
‘But the Emperor!’
‘Can wait a little longer. There’s no point picking a fight when we’re too weak to see it through.’
‘But we’ve come all this way!’
‘Exactly, past corpse spiders and the Impassable Gate and endless stairs.’ She pulled a chair out. ‘Sit. Eat.’
Silverdust had crossed to the great hearth of the kitchen fireplace while they argued. The cinderwraith inhaled deeply, tendrils of smoke bathing the mirror mask and slipping beneath Silverdust’s hood.
‘I’ve never seen you do that before,’ said Steiner, grimacing at the unnerving sight.
I have never needed to before, but now I am fortifying myself for what comes next.
The mouse-eared girl served Steiner and Felgenhauer a hearty stew and sawed off a half-dozen slices of bread.
‘You dragon rider?’ she asked in heavily accented Nordspråk, her eyes wide and wary. Steiner nodded.
‘You kill Emperor. Please?’
Steiner nodded and began to eat, though his stomach was a hard knot and food was the last thing on his mind.
‘I wasn’t sure what I was expecting,’ said Steiner as they crept through the Imperial Palace, over dusty marble floors, watched over by countless portraits of long-dead Boyars. ‘But it wasn’t this.’
Felgenhauer and Silverdust followed him at either shoulder and surveyed the silent palace. No guards waiting at the doors, no soldiers to watch over lonely corridors, no Vigilants hurrying to and from meetings.
‘No courtiers,’ said Felgenhauer.
‘Not much of anything.’ Steiner glanced over his shoulder with an anxious look. ‘Did we miss it? Are we too late?’
We must head to court. If Volkan Karlov is anywhere it will be on his throne. He’s spent seventy-five years making sure no one else takes it from him; today is no different.
The finery of the palace was stunning. Varnished wood-panelled walls, high ceilings, and alcoves with painted frescos of the Emperor slaying various dragons in each of the provinces. Gold door handles shone brightly and antique sets of armour stood watch at regular intervals.
Impressive, is it not?
‘All this …’ Steiner waved his hand at the Emperor’s wealth. ‘It just makes me angry. There are people in the Scorched Republics barely avoiding starvation.’
I can see why you would feel like that. I have seen the poverty of which you speak. Silverdust gestured and led them down a corridor. Come now, we are almost there.
They came to an antechamber large enough to hold twenty people comfortably. The torches in the sconces still burned and a lone Semyonovsky guard stood at the doors, though his black cloak was ragged and Steiner could smell dried blood.
‘Why don’t you go home?’ said Steiner. ‘It’s over.’ The guard evidently did not understand Nordspråk or was too blinded by duty to take Steiner’s advice. He raised his spear and took a step forward, only to meet a torrent of flames from Silverdust’s outstretched hand. The man roared in agony and fled down the corridor, a light fading in the darkness. Steiner swore under his breath. ‘Idiot.’
‘Let me take the centre,’ said Felgenhauer as they prepared to face the Emperor. ‘If I can get him talking we might stand a chance. I don’t care who wrests the Ashen Blade from him, but let’s make sure we get it.’
‘And then what?’ said Steiner. ‘He’s mastered all four schools of the arcane. I imagine turning his skin to stone won’t be a challenge for him.’
‘Stone still shatters under the blow of a sledgehammer,’ replied Felgenhauer. ‘He’ll want to stay in his natural form so he can move quickly. Stay close and I’ll shield you from the fire.’
Steiner nodded. He didn’t care much for their chances but opened the doors to the Imperial Court anyway.
‘And may Frøya keep me close,’ he whispered as the heavy wood swung open to reveal an empty room. The smell was overpowering, and Steiner held up a sleeve to his nose and mouth even as Felgenhauer gagged.
‘What charnel Hel is this?’ she muttered.
‘You could fit the whole of the Smouldering Standard in here,’ muttered Steiner as he stepped over the threshold. At the far end of the room was the throne and a crumpled form in black was strewn across it.
‘What’s a Smouldering Standard?’ asked Felgenhauer.
‘It’s a tavern.’ Steiner rolled his shoulders. ‘You could fit a whole tavern in this room, and for what?’
They walked slowly if not calmly down the length of the court. The floor before the throne was littered with wizened corpses. A score of people lay dead, no doubt having succumbed to the Ashen Blade: Vigilants, soldiers and even an Envoy among their number.
‘Why has he turned upon his own?’ asked Steiner.
‘It’s easier for a man like to him to blame his shortcomings on others,’ replied Felgenhauer.
Volkan Karlov sprawled on the throne. He had a high forehead and pale eyes. He was attired in black, much like the Okhrana in his service, and his hands were splattered with blood, as if he were wearing crimson gloves.
‘Another Vartiainen comes before my throne.’ The Emperor’s voice was hushed and whispery, hardly the booming tones of a tyrant. There was blood spattered on his brow, and dried in his hair, and a thick pool of red surrounded the base of the throne, a grim parody of moat around a castle. ‘I do so enjoy killing your family.’ Volkan Karlov stood up
slowly. There was something sinuous and controlled in the movement, like a hunting cat stretching.
‘Marek was the last of my family you’ll kill.’ Steiner’s words were hard and quiet in the vast expanse of the Imperial Court. ‘Your reign is over.’
‘It will never be over!’ hissed the Emperor. ‘I have spent decades trying to unite this continent, decades protecting people from the arcane, and from dragons!’ He took a single step closer, his eyes narrowed in fury. ‘And in just half a year you have ruined everything.’
‘It’s hard when someone takes something you love,’ replied Steiner, his voice as cold as stone. ‘You took my mother, my uncle, my father, and my great-grandfather.’ His grip tightened on the sledgehammer. ‘But worst of all, you tried to take my sister, and that’s the mistake that cost you an empire.’
‘The Stormtide Prophet,’ sneered the Emperor. ‘Just imagine what a powerful Vigilant she would have made if she had gone to Vladibogdan as she should have.’
‘But instead she is coming to kill you,’ replied Felgenhauer. ‘With all the powers of the goddess you chose to proscribe.’
The Emperor held the back of one hand to his mouth and laughed silently behind it.
‘That was always my plan, Felgenhauer. Why go to her when I can just as easily take her brother hostage and negotiate for his life when she gets here?’
I will not permit this. Silverdust stepped forward. My Elders warned me but I thought I knew better. Now I have come to put right that mistake.
The Emperor locked his gaze on Silverdust and Steiner wasn’t sure what happened for a moment. Volkan Karlov’s eyes turned the colour of dull granite, just as Steiner had seen with his aunt and Sundra. This was the petrifying gaze of Academy Zemlya, and Steiner lunged forward to protect Silverdust; but the cinderwraith held out one hand, not turning his head from the Emperor for even a heartbeat.
‘What?’ was all Steiner had time to say before Volkan Karlov staggered backwards, clutching his head and uttering muffled screams. The Emperor removed his hands to reveal one side of his face had been turned to stone.
