The Tree of Story

by Thomas Wharton

  They returned to the pier and enlisted four Stormriders to come back with them to the rooms they had already visited and load the dead bodies on a wheeled wooden cart they had found in one of the passages. Alazar’s plan was to burn the corpses, but Kern appeared as they were dragging the cart into an open court for that purpose. He quickly took in the situation and ordered the Stormriders to throw the bodies into the central well.

  “We’re not holding any funerals, healer,” Kern said calmly when Alazar protested. “This will send a message to the rest of the Nightbane still hiding in the city.”

  The doctor objected angrily, but Corr’s lieutenant could not be swayed. The Nightbane bodies were lugged to the edge of the parapet and tossed over like so much trash. Kern watched without expression, then made a note in the little book he carried with him and strode away.

  Finn and the doctor returned to the pier exhausted, grimy and sombre in mood. They found that Corr’s men had been busy setting up tents near the ships and stringing lanterns between the masts. By now it was late afternoon and the light was failing. As the last of the sunlight climbed slowly up the walls, the circles of the city seemed to recede farther into the depths.

  Finn and the doctor sat with a party of Stormriders near a cooking fire that had been set up in a large brazier. Neither had any desire to return to the flagship where Corr had set up his command post. None of the men they sat with had gaal pouches on their belts, and Finn remembered that the rank and file in the Sky Lord’s army were not given their own supply. But some kind of warm brew was being ladled out into cups and from the steam Finn caught a scent he knew very well by now. There was fever iron in the drink. He felt his craving clutch at him again, but he refused a cup when it was offered to him because he feared his hand would shake from eagerness. He wondered how many of these men knew what means had been used to save his arm.

  The Stormrider who sat next to Finn, a squat, broad-shouldered man with a squashed nose whom Finn remembered seeing at the defence of the breach, gave him the last piece of the loaf that was being handed around. Finn told him to keep it for himself, but the man insisted and Finn at last yielded.

  “How’s your wound, young master?” the man asked him in a kindly voice.

  “Better, thank you,” Finn said, unpleasantly surprised to be called master. As Corr’s brother he received respect and honour that he hadn’t earned and didn’t want. Then he had a sudden thought. “At the breach there was a Stormrider younger than me, with dark hair. He died just before the battle ended.”

  “I think you mean Ferret, my lord. That’s what we called him, anyhow. Never heard if he had another name or where he was from. He wasn’t with us long.”

  “I wonder how old he was,” Finn murmured. He saw again the dead, blank, dust-caked face. It could have been anyone’s face. His own.

  “I couldn’t tell you, young master.” The man shrugged and then grinned toothlessly. “Not really sure what age I am myself.”

  Someone shouted a warning and the Stormriders jumped quickly to their feet. Several fetches, faint and almost shapeless, hovered at the edge of the pier, nearly invisible under the glare of the lanterns. Their eyes were like dark holes in smoke. One of the Stormriders stepped forward and threw an empty stoneware tankard at them. It passed right through one of the fetches, who seemed utterly unaware of it.

  “Damned rotting ghosts,” the man growled. “What do they want?”

  “They hang about like the fumes from your backside, Borlak,” someone said to the man who had thrown the tankard. “That’s probably what they are.”

  The other Stormriders laughed uproariously. The man named Borlak growled and drew his knife. He approached the dim shapes, brandishing his blade and shouting crude curses. The fetches drifted away and then faded from sight in the darkness.

  The men returned to the warmth and light of the brazier and sat back down, laughing and joking at the easy victory, although Finn could tell they were rattled and on edge. Despite what he had told the old Stormrider, his wound had begun to burn and throb again some time ago. When the pain had become nearly intolerable, he excused himself on the pretext of getting water from one of the basins.

  Once away from the light and voices he took a small pinch of the gaal. The bitter grains melted quickly on his tongue and in a matter of moments the pain lessened and his head seemed to clear. Finn drew a deep breath and closed his eyes, then opened them again.

  It was not enough. Nowhere near enough.

  As if observing someone else’s actions, he watched his hand reach into the pouch, lift out a larger pinch of the coarse black grains and place them on his tongue. In no time at all the quickening fire was hurrying through his veins.

  He was not dead yet. That dust-caked face was someone else’s, not his.

  “Finn?”

  It was Doctor Alazar. He was looking on with his brow furrowed in concern.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I am what my brother has made me, Doctor,” Finn said with a cold smile. The icy fire was rushing through him now, and as the pain vanished, so did his heavy thoughts. Everything stood out sharp and brilliant and clear, as though carved of diamond. He could sense the fetches hovering just beyond the reach of the torchlight. He could hear their faint, hollow voices and feel their hunger for the gaal. If he wished it, they would bow to his will as they had Corr’s. So would the men sitting around the brazier joking with one another, pretending their thoughts weren’t on the fever iron and how to get more of it. He was the Sky Lord’s brother, after all. He could have as much of the gaal as he wished. He could command it. And then he could command them.

  “Only a few grains, Finn,” Alazar said. “Any more than that …”

  Finn gritted his teeth. He was tired of the older man’s warnings. Tired of him always nearby, watching, offering his useless advice.

  He thrust the pouch toward Alazar. “Here, Doctor. If you’re going to tell me how to take my medicine, you should try it for yourself, don’t you think? Go ahead. Just a few grains should be enough.”

  “If someone drinks poison, Finn, you can’t help him by drinking it yourself.”

  “That’s a fine saying. You should set it down in your journal if you haven’t already.”

  Finn returned to the circle around the brazier and so did Alazar, though they sat apart and did not speak. After some time the group of Stormriders broke up: some went on sentry duty and others to their tents to sleep. A messenger sent by Corr found Finn and informed him there was a cabin on the flagship set aside for the doctor and him, but they both chose to stay where they were. Alazar sat down against a broken piece of stone, and with his cloak for a blanket he soon fell sleep. Finn knew he should do likewise, but with the gaal racing through him he was no longer tired. All he could do was sit and watch the dying coals in the brazier and wait for morning.

  He sat like this as the night crawled past, alert and ready to spring to his feet every time he heard the echoing clatter of a stone falling somewhere in the city. There were other sounds, too: the night wind moaning as it slipped through some narrow passageway, and faint skitterings and rustlings of rats or other unseen creatures. The effects of the gaal began to wear off, the pain was increasing, and his hand went to the pocket that held the pouch.

  Just then a Stormrider came with a torch to say that both Finn and the doctor were wanted urgently on the flagship. Quickly, without speaking, he and Alazar washed their faces in a basin and hurried up the gangplank.

  Corr was in his low-ceilinged cabin at the aft of the ship. One of Kern’s patrols had caught one of a party of Nightbane they had encountered on a lower circle. Corr’s chart table and its chair had been pushed to one side of the cabin and the prisoner was half sitting, half sprawled against the port bulkhead as if he had been thrown there, his hands bound before him with thick rope. Corr, Kern and several other Stormriders stood over him.

  The captured Nightbane was wearing the tattered and bloody remains of a suit
of dark red leather armour, but his head was bare and Finn saw with surprise that he was very young. His face was long and sharp boned, his slate-coloured skin burnished with sweat. One of his eyes was swollen almost shut and an ugly purple bruise discoloured his jaw.

  “I sent for Nonn, as well,” Corr said when he saw Finn and the doctor. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know, my lord,” Kern said. “My men haven’t seen him for hours.”

  “We found a live one at last,” Corr said to Finn, gesturing to the prisoner. “He wasn’t as fast on his feet as his friends.”

  The Nightbane’s unswollen eye went to Corr and stayed fixed on him.

  “Did your men do this to him?” Alazar demanded.

  “Why do you ask, Doctor?” Corr inquired. “Perhaps you’d like to carry out the interrogation in a gentler fashion.”

  “Why did you send for me?”

  “He’s lost a lot of blood. For a young one he put up quite a struggle before my men were able to subdue him. It’s a shame we don’t have any of his kind fighting for us.”

  “Let me look at him, please.”

  At a nod from Corr, Grath and the other Stormriders stepped aside. Alazar moved forward and knelt beside the Nightbane, who stared at him out of his good eye without expression.

  “I am a doctor,” Alazar said, then turned to Corr. “Does he speak our language?”

  “He understands enough,” Corr said.

  The doctor turned back to the prisoner and cautiously lifted aside the torn edge of his bloodied leather breastplate. The Nightbane let out a hiss and stiffened.

  “I will need some clean water and bandages,” Alazar said over his shoulder.

  “I don’t want him back on his feet and dancing a jig, Doctor,” Corr said. “Just stop the leak if you can. That’s all I ask.”

  “I’ll do my best, but his life may get saved by accident,” Alazar shot back. “I hope that won’t inconvenience you.”

  Corr glowered at the doctor’s back, then nodded to one of the Stormriders who hurried out and returned a short time later with some torn strips of cloth and a small metal basin. Doctor Alazar wet one of the strips of cloth and dabbed at the Nightbane’s wound, eliciting more hisses and grunts of pain. He dug in his bag, extracted a small glass jar of some strong-smelling unguent and applied it to the wound, then covered it with one of the torn cloths. The Nightbane did not watch what the doctor was doing but continued to stare at Corr.

  When Alazar was finished, he faced Corr. “I’ve done what I can, but”—he glanced at the Nightbane, whose good eye was still fixed on Corr—“he doesn’t have long.”

  “Then I’ll ask you to step out of the way, Doctor, and let us finish.”

  “Wait,” Alazar said, holding up a hand. He stood, came close to Corr and spoke in a low voice so that the Nightbane would not hear. “Let me try. Let me speak to him before you start in again. I know what race he belongs to. It may help, since a beating clearly won’t.”

  Kern, who had stepped forward, glanced doubtfully at his commander. Corr frowned, then nodded.

  “Very well, Doctor. Be sure to ask him how many Nightbane are left in the city.”

  Alazar turned back to the prisoner and crouched beside him. “You can understand me?” he asked. The Nightbane shifted his head to look at the doctor.

  “Some,” the Nightbane said in a weak, rasping voice. “I know you say—I die soon.”

  “Yes,” Alazar said. “I am sorry.”

  The Nightbane shook his head. “Not sorry. If not dying … I kill you.”

  “You’re Valkai, aren’t you?”

  “Of the Bloodlands. Yes. My people … never conquered.” A tear slid from his eye.

  “Your country is very far away,” the doctor said. “How did you come to be here?”

  “Doctor,” Corr said in a warning tone, but both Alazar and the Nightbane ignored him.

  “Lord of fetches called us in dreams,” the Valkai said, and now there was more energy in his voice. “Visions. Called us here. To fight.”

  “You’re talking about Malabron.”

  “The Deliverer. He who made all things. He was cast out, but he will rule all again. Our vision-seekers warned us of one who will rise against him. A demon child who will destroy everything. Destroy Valkai. Unless we fight.”

  “A demon child?”

  “A girl. Hair like fire. She is young but powerful. Your kind are protecting her. Fools. If she is not stopped, she destroy you, too. She … tear the world apart.”

  “Rowen,” Finn breathed as understanding struck him. “He’s talking about Rowen.”

  “Who is this child?” Alazar asked the prisoner. “What is her name?”

  “Doctor!” Corr said.

  The Valkai warrior did not answer. He was shaking now, gulping and gasping for breath.

  Corr stepped closer. “What about Adamant?” he barked at the Valkai. “Why was the fetch army sent out now? How many Nightbane are left in the city?”

  The Valkai turned toward Corr, his mouth twisting into what looked like a smile of bitter amusement. Then he hunched forward, coughing. Dark blood spattered the planks.

  “Where have the armoured fetches gone?” the doctor asked.

  The Valkai lifted his head. “The iron warriors, they go to crush the destroyer’s city. They find her and kill her. Nothing can stop them.”

  “How many of you are left in Adamant!” Corr roared.

  The Valkai didn’t seem to hear him. His good eye searched out the doctor’s face and then slowly closed. His head slumped forward.

  “Dead,” Kern said matter-of-factly. “We’ve learned nothing.”

  Alazar touched two fingers to the Valkai’s neck. “He’s still alive. For now,” he said, his eyes smouldering. “Let me fetch one of Nonn’s healers. They have more knowledge of the Nightbane races than I do. Perhaps they can—”

  Corr raised a hand to silence the doctor. “There’s no time for that.” He faced one of the Stormriders. “Give him the gaal. That should wake him up. And then, Doctor, we’ll let my men finish the questioning, if you don’t mind.”

  The Stormrider brought out a small iron box and began shaking the black grains from it into a cup that stood on Corr’s chart table.

  “In his state the gaal will kill him all the faster,” Alazar said. “Finn, tell him. This is wrong.”

  “Giving him the gaal won’t make any difference, Corr,” Finn said. He found himself unable to take his eyes off the iron box in the Stormrider’s hand. There was so much more of the powder in it than in his pouch, and he had already used more than half of what he’d been given. “Fable is where the real war is being fought. This battle doesn’t matter anymore.”

  Corr stared hard at Finn, then he turned to Alazar.

  “Your pointless questions may have cost us all dearly,” Corr said. “I’m beginning to wonder whose side you’re really on. Now, move out of the way.”

  The Stormrider with the gaal had poured water from a jug into the cup and was stirring it with the blade of his knife. Alazar watched him, then slowly he packed up his bag and began to clean his hands in the basin.

  The Stormrider with the cup crouched in front of the prisoner. Another Stormrider forced open the Valkai’s mouth while the one with the cup poured in its contents. The Valkai choked and sputtered, then began to thrash and struggle as the Stormriders held him down. When the cup was empty, the Valkai’s good eye opened again and he lay panting and looking around at his captors in terror.

  Corr crouched in front of the Valkai. “Listen to me,” he said in a low, quiet voice. “You are going to die one way or another. The doctor says your lifeblood is slipping away. If you prefer to die as a warrior, on your feet in combat with one of my men, I will grant you that. But first you will answer my questions.”

  The Valkai stared back at Corr, his lips trembling.

  “What do you say?” Corr asked.

  But now the Valkai’s eyes were on the planks at his feet. Th
en Finn felt it: a shaking underneath him as if the ship was shuddering into motion. Corr stood up quickly. The panes in the window were shivering and then there came a deep echoing boom from outside, followed by another and another … as if immense blocks of stone were falling somewhere in the city and bringing others down with them. The booming sounds finally merged into one long rumble they could feel as a tremor in the ship’s timbers, and then there was silence and all was still again. Sawdust sifted down from the planks overhead.

  “What in all the hells was that?” one of the Stormriders muttered.

  Corr touched one of the beams above him, then looked out the cabin window. He turned to his lieutenant. “Go and see what’s happened.”

  Kern nodded and strode out of the cabin.

  “Nonn’s people must have triggered one of their own traps by accident,” Alazar said. “Or one of the tunnels they were excavating may have collapsed. I should go and—”

  “Wait here, Doctor,” Corr said, raising a hand. “We’ll know soon enough.”

  “Corr,” Finn said, “the Valkai was talking about Rowen, Master Pendrake’s granddaughter. I’m sure of it.”

  “A girl with hair the colour of fire,” Corr said, shaking his head. “You really believe this child is the destroyer he was babbling about?”

  “It has to be her,” Finn said. So much that he had only dimly understood was now falling into place. “Their vision-seeker said the girl was young and didn’t know her own power yet. That’s why Malabron was searching for Rowen when Will first came to the Realm. Because she is a descendant of the Stewards. She has their power to see into things, into the way things are, and shape them, Corr. Change them. I don’t understand it, but I’ve witnessed it. The Loremaster returned to Fable to prepare Rowen for what only she could do: to stand against the Night King. The fetch host was sent out before everything was ready because of Rowen. Something she’s done—or is going to do—has forced Malabron to act.”