The Iron Ghost

by Jen Williams

  The voice chuckled.

  ‘That is most fine. I am fond of my weapons. Siano, there will be women and children on these lists. The blood lines must be severed. Do you have any objection to this?’

  Siano sensed the danger in the question and was seized with a sudden, morbid curiosity. What would happen if she did object? What would be her fate if she said no? It was like looking into a glass tank at a deadly viper, and contemplating putting your hand inside.

  It hardly mattered. Siano was made for such a task.

  ‘I have no objections, my lord.’

  ‘Good.’ The mineral stench of the severed head increased, and as Siano watched the partially scabbed wounds began to bleed again. ‘Then you will kill in my name.’

  2

  Wydrin leaned against the guardrail and watched as dark, solid shapes passed them by slowly, the river making soft, insistent noises against their hull. It was late evening in this strange, cold country and the last light of the day turned the featureless grasslands grey and milky violet, but it did little to illuminate the sentinels on the banks. Their own lamps cast the faintest glow over the surface of the nearest one and she could make out a rough stone face, contorted with rage, or pain, and then it was gone again, lost in the dark.

  ‘What do you suppose they are?’ she asked Sebastian.

  The big knight had been staring off to the north where the shadows of the distant mountains haunted the horizon. He turned back to her, shaking his head slightly as if to clear it. ‘I don’t know. Statues of local gods? It is difficult to make them out.’

  ‘Oh good, gods,’ said Wydrin. ‘We haven’t had enough of that lately, after all.’

  They were sailing up the river known as the Comet’s Tail, heading towards Skaldshollow, a city in a land so distant that Wydrin had never heard of it before the letter had arrived; the latest plea for their services, another generous promise of coin. Their work was certainly taking them to some strange places these days.

  She glanced up towards the stern of the boat. The crew of the Molly Sings were moving with purpose, black shapes in the dusk, but one figure was still, his narrow shoulders and the white shock of his hair covered in a dark hooded cloak. She knew the shape of him and the way he stood, and that in itself was an annoyance.

  Sebastian caught her looking, and she cursed inwardly.

  ‘Give him time,’ he said. ‘Frith is stubborn, but he’s no fool.’

  ‘That’s what worries me.’ Wydrin shivered and pulled her own furred hood over her head. The wind that filled their sails was icy. ‘Here, there’s that boy again. I think he likes you.’

  Sebastian glanced up and a young sailor briefly caught their eyes before heading rapidly past. The youngest son of the captain, he had been sniffing around them since they came on board. Wydrin had started to think that he must have heard of them, that their fame had reached this tiny river tribe, until Sebastian had been caught in a sudden downpour about a week into their journey upriver; the rains here ended as quickly as they came, soon to be replaced with a freezing, driving wind. Sebastian had stripped off his soaking shirt below decks, and the young sailor had dropped an entire tray of dirty dishes.

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Are you kidding? If you jumped in the river right now he’d jump straight in after you.’

  Sebastian looked away. ‘He’s just a boy.’

  Wydrin snorted.

  ‘What? He’s my age, at least. Don’t you think he’s cute? I think he’s cute. A bit wet-looking maybe, like he’d sit at your feet and fetch your slippers, but—’

  ‘You prefer the complete bastards, of course.’

  Wydrin ignored this. ‘How long’s it been, Seb? Are you really going to let those Ynnsmouth fools ruin everything?’

  Sebastian shook his head, and the look he shot her was edging towards angry. ‘It’s not that. Everything that’s happened, with the demon, and then with the brood sisters . . .’ His voice trailed off. The wind was coming on fiercely again, bringing with it the chill of the mountains they were gradually snaking towards. In the morning they would see them clearly again, a grey fracture against the sky.

  ‘What do you need?’ Wydrin eyed her friend warily. There were deep lines at the corners of his eyes – lines that hadn’t been there a year ago. ‘Do you want to talk about what happened?’

  Sebastian smiled. ‘I just need time, and distractions. And you’ve always been good at those.’

  ‘Yes, well. This promises to be a good one.’

  Crammed into his tiny cabin Sebastian slept deeply, although there was no rest in it. He dreamed of the demon again, of Ip’s small pale face, as clean and innocent as the moon, and of her feet, red to the ankles with blood. The demon’s disguise had been so perfect he had never suspected what travelled within the girl; at least not until the Ynnsmouth knights were dying and a deal with the creature that called itself Bezcavar had felt like his only hope. In the dream he saw his sword turn the brittle colour of ash again, felt the enchanted armour settle against him like a second skin. And then in that way that dreams have, Ip’s face turned into that of another girl, the one with the scarlet hood dotted with pearls. She had screamed at the edge of the lake and the brood sisters had turned to him with blood on their claws, and he knew it was his fault.

  The brood sisters. The daughters of the dragon-god Y’Ruen, and somehow his too, a connection via his blood that he still did not quite understand; a fever born of death. In his dreams he saw them on the battlefield of Baneswatch again, their faces green and beautiful, their silvered hair streaked with blood. Ephemeral standing knee deep in the bodies of his brothers, reaching out and calling him ‘Father’.

  And then in the midst of these fever-bright dreams there came a different voice, and it was like a cold hand on his brow. He moved towards it, desperate to feel cold, to be able to shiver.

  . . . and he stood once more before Isu, a boy again. There was the great dark chasm from his dreams, and the mountain was a heavy presence in his heart, a relentless pressure now weighted by guilt and a need for redemption. He could feel snow under his bare feet and in his hands he carried a goblet, filled to the top with something red. The mountain was speaking, in its voice as slow as ice ages.

  ‘Where must I go?’ he asked, unsurprised that his voice was now a boy’s voice. ‘I don’t understand what you want.’

  The mountain gave him nothing more, save for the image of a tiny green plant miraculously untouched by dragon-fire, and a man with ice in his veins . . .

  And then the voice was gone and Sebastian woke in the darkness, his arms thick with gooseflesh.

  In the daylight they could see the statues clearly, and they were no more reassuring. Made of some sort of dark granite, they depicted a full range of hideous monsters: women with snakes for hair and holes where their eyes should be, huge hulking shapes with twisted, ruined faces, men with many arms, their clawed hands holding severed heads. At the bottom of each was a small pile of food, or coins, or swatches of brightly coloured silks, all covered in a thin layer of frost.

  ‘Offerings,’ said Sebastian. They were back on the deck in the cold dawn light. Wydrin was eating a lump of salted pork wrapped in yellowish bread. ‘Offerings to what though?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Wydrin around a mouthful of pork. ‘But I don’t like how they’re all facing the river.’

  Frith came up onto the deck then, his brown face as narrow as a knife blade within his fur-lined hood. After a few moments a great black bird flew down from the morning skies and settled on his shoulder. He caught sight of them and came over reluctantly.

  ‘The captain says we will be within sight of Skaldshollow by the evening. We can travel on foot from there.’

  ‘It’s been a long journey,’ said Sebastian, keeping his voice neutral. Wydrin was picking pieces of crust from her bread and flicking them over the side.

  ‘Too long,’ said Frith. ‘I only hope that the journey halfway across Ede is worth the
coin.’

  ‘Your castle will still be there when you get back, you know,’ said Wydrin. She held out a piece of the crust to the bird on Frith’s shoulder. It tipped its head to one side before snapping up the offering with its clever beak.

  ‘Unlike some people, I have responsibilities.’ The young lord looked away, his grey eyes stony. ‘It will not be far now.’

  In the early afternoon, the boat stopped to pick up a new passenger. A short, rotund woman called Jayne hauled herself up and over the side, her full pack clanking and rattling as she came. She wore the rags and bags of a travelling tinker, and had a belt studded with hipflasks, which Wydrin soon discovered were filled with several varieties of rum. They quickly became friends.

  ‘So, what are these all about?’ Wydrin gestured at the statues as they shared a tipple that tasted like the bottom of a stove. The featureless grasslands had given away now to hills, the river weaving between them, but the grim river watchers were still there.

  Jayne made a complicated gesture with her fingers, which Sebastian took to be a sign of protection.

  ‘Old things are rising,’ she said. Her voice was a croak, pickled by a long association with strong drink. ‘You must have heard the rumours, the stories?’

  ‘I’m a bit tired of rumours at the moment,’ said Wydrin.

  ‘There was a dragon, crawled out from under the stones in Creos.’ Her bushy grey eyebrows disappeared up into the mop of her hair. ‘And there was an army of green monsters.’

  ‘Ah, we might have heard those particular rumours.’ Sebastian cleared his throat.

  ‘Aye, well, the dragon might be gone now – I saw it go myself, falling into a hole in the sky – but it ain’t the only thing. I’ve heard tell of old stories coming to life all over. Dormant places that haven’t stirred in hundreds of years. The Singing Catacombs in Creos are filling the moonless nights with their music again, and the plains of Pathania are said to be haunted by strange lights.’ Jayne coughed a little, worn out by her own poetry. ‘These are strange times.’

  ‘You could say that,’ said Wydrin. Sebastian stifled a smile. ‘But what does that have to do with the statues?’

  ‘People are afraid.’ Jayne took her hipflask back and swallowed down a large gulp. ‘If the old gods are returning, maybe it’s time to bring back the old ways of worship.’ She lowered her voice. ‘It’s not so bad here. Here it’s flowers and grain and wholesome things. Out in the wilds of Briskenteeth and Tsold I’ve heard that the sacrifices are . . . fresher.’

  ‘That seems a little extreme.’ The hills were covered in trees now, and they passed tall pines and oaks on either side. It made everything a little darker, and in this cold land the light was already draining from the sky. It occurred to Sebastian that thieves could easily hide in those trees, and take a passing river boat with barely any fuss at all. He shifted, feeling the weight of his broadsword at his back. ‘What do they believe is coming for them?’

  Jayne shrugged. ‘This land is full of magic, deep magic that goes right down into its bones. My ma used to say that the stones was haunted. That it was a natural place for ghosts. Some places are more magical than others, you know that?’

  Sebastian nodded, thinking of what O’rin, the god of lies, had told them about magic. Edenier, the magic of the will, used by the mages and lately by one Lord Aaron Frith; and Edeian, the magic that was inherent in the soil and air of Ede. He had felt it too, down in the tunnels under Pinehold and in the Citadel itself, where the dragon had waited for them.

  ‘Strange places, yeah, there’s loads of them,’ said Wydrin.

  ‘And it’s been getting worse, too.’ Jayne fixed them with an ominous look. Sebastian suspected she used the same look when trying to shift a few bottles of ointment or a dubious good luck charm. ‘Ever since the dragon, the strange places have been getting stranger. And it’s like I said: this is a haunted land.’

  It was dusk before the river took them out of the hills and the landscape opened up again, revealing the mountains, now impossibly close. Nestled at the bottom of the closest one was the city of Skaldshollow. The full moon hung over it like a wart, bloated and strange.

  ‘There it is,’ said Frith. He had stalked out onto deck as the sun set, apparently eager to see their destination. ‘A long journey, on a few words and a promise of gold.’

  ‘That’s how adventurers work, Frith.’ Wydrin smiled a little. ‘The copper promise. The fun is in finding the adventure as you go.’ Her smile faded. ‘Not that you’ll need to worry about that much longer.’

  Sebastian cleared his throat and pointed. ‘It looks to be carved right into the bottom of the mountain. It must be a cold place.’

  It was too dark to make out much, but Sebastian could see clusters of stone buildings and steep roads like scars leading up out of the settlement towards the mountain peak.

  ‘This entire land is too cold,’ said Wydrin. ‘Who would want to live in a place where it’s always winter?’

  There were lights too, lights everywhere; red, orange, white and green. And a lot of them appeared to be moving. Lights, and the darker spaces behind them. Sebastian frowned.

  ‘Is it me,’ he asked, ‘or are parts of the mountain walking around?’

  Next to him, Wydrin sighed. ‘But of course. We wouldn’t journey to any old normal city in the middle of nowhere. I wonder what weird crap is waiting for us this time?’

  Sebastian shook his head. Looking at it made him think of his last journey with the brood sisters – a different mountain, not so long ago. The dangers there had been obvious, but he had been a fool. He turned away from the view.

  ‘We’d best get ready. We’ve a long journey ahead of us.’

  3

  A different mountain, not so long ago . . .

  There were many secret paths through the god-peaks known only by the Order; sacred paths Sebastian had been shown as a novice, the act of walking each an expression of worship for their gods. He thought of them often as they travelled through the lakelands of Ynnsmouth: himself and forty-eight members of the brood army, all of them confused, frightened, and battle-weary, heading towards the sacred mountains. The daughters of the dragon were cautious, quiet, their strikingly beautiful faces turned to the ground as they walked. He could feel their disquiet in his own blood, and when he looked back at them he saw their yellow eyes narrowed against the last light of the day. It must be strange for them, he mused, to not have the vast shape of Y’Ruen flying above them, keeping watch. Now they had only him.

  Once he had promised Gallo that he would show him the abandoned temple of Isu; now it seemed that he would walk the secret paths again after all, and with company he could never have imagined. If he earned the wrath of Isu and the other mountain gods, then he would deal with it as best he could.

  ‘We travel alone, Father?’

  He turned to see Ephemeral at his elbow. She had scavenged a hooded cloak from somewhere so that her face was thrown into shadow, and in the failing light her green skin looked grey. Around them many of the remaining brood sisters wore similar garb, their golden armour and shining white hair hidden away as best they could. Beyond them, he could see the still mirror surface of Lake Cataloun, reflecting the mauve sky of twilight.

  ‘Who did you expect to come with us?’

  She frowned slightly at his question. ‘Your sister-in-arms. The woman with red hair.’

  Sebastian had to smile slightly at that. ‘Wydrin will visit us when we’re settled.’ He took a slow breath, wondering what ‘settled’ could possibly mean in circumstances like these. ‘She wants to catch up with her brother. She has a few debts to pay in that direction, I think.’

  ‘And the mage?’ Ephemeral’s voice was uncertain now. ‘He who . . . took our mother from us. Who banished Y’Ruen.’

  ‘I keep telling you, Ephemeral, we were all responsible for that.’

  Ephemeral sniffed. ‘I do not like mages.’

  ‘I am not surprised.’ Sebastian stopped. Arou
nd them the brood sisters moved on, heading towards the mountains in the distance. They had been walking all day and not a single one showed any sign of tiring. ‘Ephemeral, in time you will come to know other humans, and eventually you will . . .’ he paused, struggling for the right words. Make friends? Forge relationships? ‘Eventually you will be able to interact with human beings every day, but right now we must keep ourselves separate.’

  ‘This is why we do not travel by the roads and paths that other people use,’ said Ephemeral, nodding slightly. ‘This is why we did not go into the city of Baneswatch.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sebastian. ‘Visiting Baneswatch would have been a mistake.’

  There was a flurry of noise from up ahead as two or three brood sisters suddenly ran off into the trees. Immediately Sebastian’s hand went to his sword.

  ‘What are they doing?’

  Ephemeral blinked, watching them vanish into the shadows. ‘They are hunting, Father.’

  ‘Yes, but hunting what?’ Sebastian took a few steps forward, his heart beating thickly in his chest, but Ephemeral laid a clawed hand on his arm.

  ‘Deer, Father. They hunt deer. There are so many in this forest, can you not smell them?’

  Sebastian let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and shook his head. ‘No, I – No, I don’t smell them.’

  When the light had vanished completely from the sky they made camp where the trees were thickest. The brood sisters who had gone hunting returned with two young deer, four fat rabbits, and a portly looking snow grouse, its white feathers now stained scarlet. Crocus, one of the hunters, threw her deer down by their small fire, a look of extreme satisfaction on her face.

  ‘It ran, but I was too fast for it.’

  Her sisters nodded approvingly, and two of them moved forward, claws ready to disembowel the animal. Sebastian, remembering all too clearly the gore and mess of their previous meals, stepped in to intercept them.