by Jen Williams
The lizards were on them. Frith saw Wydrin, Glassheart drawn and a snarl on her lips, running around the front of Mendrick, and then he was knocked bodily from his feet, landing in the snow some feet away. He lifted his head with some difficulty, summoning the word for Fire in his head, but darkness was closing in at the edge of his vision. He managed to remain conscious long enough to see one of the wyverns land next to him, its long reptile face filling his vision, and then he slipped away.
Frith awoke to the familiar sound of Wydrin arguing with someone.
‘I want to know what has happened to my friend! What have you done with him?’
He turned over, wincing as several parts of his body started complaining at once. They appeared to be in a small stone cell, and Wydrin was standing over by the door, talking to a tall Narhl woman. She was solidly built, with the same mottled black and grey skin they’d seen on the guard Wydrin had knocked unconscious, and she wore tough grey leather trimmed with fur. She looked unimpressed by Wydrin’s ranting and held a short spear to one side.
‘The prisoner is with our prince,’ she said, in the tones of someone who has already said this several times before. ‘He is being questioned. And then King Aristees will decide his fate. As he will decide all your fates.’ She glanced over to Frith then, and instinctively he raised his hands, but the strips of silk with all of his carefully inscribed words were gone. He looked down, holding his arms out in front of him dumbly.
‘Oh yes, we took those from you while you were asleep,’ said the Narhl woman. She was smiling slightly now. ‘We have some knowledge of mages here, although I admit I don’t think anyone ever expected to see a living one.’ She stepped back to the door, lowering her spear to waist level in case either of them were thinking of making a run for it. ‘Even so, don’t try anything. You will notice that you are inside a small box. It is very easy to kill things that are kept in small boxes.’
She left, sliding several locks into place as she went.
‘They know enough about mages to take my spells away. That’s reassuring.’ Frith shifted on the cold floor, gasping as another bruise made itself known. ‘Did I get hit by a landslide?’
Wydrin came and stood over him, her hands on her hips. They had also taken her dagger and her sword, he noticed, which went some way to explaining the look of thunder on her face.
‘Almost. You were hit by a wyvern.’ Her face creased with distaste. ‘You know, I have had more than enough of flying bloody lizards. The one that hit Sebastian was being ridden by the prince of this grotty little iceberg, one Prince Dallen. That,’ she gestured towards the door, ‘was his second in command, Olborn.’
‘Well,’ Frith struggled to his feet and looked around their cell. It looked solid enough. Even if he’d still been armed with the words, he doubted he’d have been able to punch a way out. ‘So much for your plan.’
‘You know, I’m always ready to hear suggestions from you two.’ Wydrin paced back and forth briefly, before standing still and crossing her arms over her chest.
‘This Olborn woman. Did she say anything about what happened to Gwiddion? Or to your werken?’
Wydrin shook her head, before sighing and abruptly sitting down.
‘Unsurprisingly, they’re being very tight-lipped about that.’
‘What do you think will happen to us?’
‘Well, they’ve caught us breaking into their city with the intent of stealing something they consider sacred, we burnt a hole through their wall, and got into a fight with their prince.’ She shrugged. ‘I would guess, something messy involving knives.’
Frith nodded slowly. ‘I’ve always enjoyed your optimism.’
‘We tried to capture your steed, but it . . . it turned into a bird and flew away.’
The young man doing the talking had barely stood still since he entered the cell. He paced back and forth, shooting looks at Sebastian with eyes that were a paler blue than even his own. Every now and then he would remember that he was supposed to be questioning a prisoner, but he couldn’t quite keep the excitement out of his voice.
‘Yes, it does that,’ said Sebastian. He was starting to feel warmer now. They had piled blankets on top of him when they’d dragged him in from outside, and the terrible cold that had seized him before had faded gradually, although his fingers and toes ached fiercely with it. ‘It is a griffin, my lord, and it belongs to my associate.’
The man the other soldiers called Prince Dallen paused. He wore faded leather armour, patched here and there with fur and other scraps. His skin was mottled black, white and grey like a handful of pebbles, and his brown hair was untidy and shoulder length, while his beard had been cropped close to his jaw. There were also patches of what looked like grey lichen: on his armour, on his skin – there was even some in his hair. They look to be a part of the landscape itself.
‘A griffin?’ said the prince. ‘Surely that is a creature from a child’s story.’
Sebastian smiled. ‘Where I am from, my lord, flying lizards only live in tales. Well, most of the time.’
‘You will refer to Prince Dallen as your highness,’ cut in the woman standing in the corner of the cell. She was icily beautiful, her dark grey skin contrasting strikingly with hair that was so blond it was almost white. The woman had come in with the prince, and hadn’t taken her eyes from Sebastian once, a short spear held at her waist. Prince Dallen shot her an impatient look.
‘That hardly matters right now, Olborn,’ he said before turning back to Sebastian. ‘You came for the Heart-Stone, yes? You have a werken with you, so you must have come from Skaldshollow, but none of you have the look of a Skald. Tamlyn Nox has employed you then, has paid for you to come here and take the heart of the mountain back?’
Sebastian shifted under the blankets, impressed by the young prince. The feeling was coming back to his feet, and with it a rush of pins and needles.
‘Yes, your highness.’ There seemed little point in denying it now. ‘We were told that your people had stolen it from them, and as I understand it, the Heart-Stone is the key to their livelihoods.’
The prince snorted, and for the first time Sebastian saw real anger on his face.
‘Ah, yes, the werkens. We have yours, by the way, in our war tower with the wyverns. It is being cared for. Do you know, truly, what a werken is, Sir Sebastian?’
Sebastian thought of the great stone monsters outside the gates of Skaldshollow, and of Bors Nox telling them they were only a ‘semblance of life’. He dearly wanted to stand up now, to get some blood back into his legs, but Olborn was watching him closely, and was already too eager to use her spear.
‘I must confess, your highness, that I do not.’
‘What the Skalds call the Heart-Stone, that piece of glowing rock they have been mutilating –’ The prince paused, rubbing one finger along the line of his jaw. ‘It is the soul of a mountain, Sir Sebastian. They have ripped it from the living earth, digging deep into its flesh with their quarries, and now they take bits of it to create their werkens. A sacred spirit, split into a thousand pieces and then forced to do their manual labour.’ The prince’s voice was brittle with disgust, and as he talked, Olborn’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘It is obscene. We have taken the stone back, Sir Sebastian, to save what is left of the mountain’s soul.’
Despite the heavy blankets piled over his shoulders and legs, Sebastian felt a shiver work its way down his spine. He was thinking of the dream he’d had aboard the Molly Sings – the voice of Isu, so cold in his head.
‘All we knew, your highness, was that we were retrieving stolen property. We are adventurers, sell-swords. We have no interest in becoming involved in a spiritual war.’
Prince Dallen sighed, all the anger seeming to leave him in one breath. ‘There is that. I was not in favour of the methods we used, but when the information came through it was too good not to use.’ He paused, and seemed to brighten. ‘They tell me you have also burnt a hole through our ice wall. Impressive, for s
ell-swords.’
Olborn cleared her throat. Sebastian could see that this conversation wasn’t taking the violent direction she had been hoping for. ‘Your highness, the king will want to speak to them soon. It might be best if we—’
Dallen waved a hand at her dismissively.
‘He hardly needs to know about this small matter. Let him stick to his feasting and drinking.’
Olborn looked pained. ‘He already knows, your highness.’
Dallen turned back to her and now he did look angry. ‘You told him?’
Olborn nodded once. ‘It seemed appropriate, your highness.’
Dallen frowned, and ran a finger across his chin again. ‘I’m sure it did. Leave us, please.’
‘But—’
‘Now.’
The woman looked briefly furious, but she bowed once and left, pulling the door shut with a sonorous clang. Prince Dallen let his breath out slowly. It occurred to Sebastian that he was now alone in a cell with the man who had taken him prisoner, a man who was a good head shorter than him. Sebastian would certainly have the upper hand in any fight. But that didn’t quite take everything into account, did it?
‘I nearly froze to death,’ he said quietly. ‘May I ask how you did that, your highness? Are you a mage, like my colleague?’
Prince Dallen smiled, and of all things, Sebastian felt his face grow warm. It was the smile of an intelligent man, a man who was shrewd but not unkind. Sebastian found it rather appealing.
‘It’s a talent that runs in the family, you could say. The Narhl are a part of the mountains. We truly live here, in a way that you do not. It’s the magic, you see, so thick in this part of the world. If you live here for long enough it becomes a part of you. The landscape becomes a part of you. I can summon the cold, as can my father, and my aunts and uncles. The Narhl royal family are truly a part of the ice and snow.’ He smiled again, and yet he looked sad. ‘It ties us here in ways you cannot imagine.’
From beyond the cell door came the sound of someone shouting, along with the slightly quieter sounds of other people trying desperately to slow them down. Prince Dallen winced.
‘Speaking of which, it sounds as though I can delay your meeting my father no longer.’
16
The Narhl were taking no chances. They bundled Frith and Wydrin from the cell, quickly tying Frith’s arms behind his back with a stern warning not to even attempt to use the Edenier, and then they were marched from the low stone building onto an outside path. Frith got a brief impression of snow and cobbles, elaborate dwellings of stone and ice looming to either side, but he wasn’t given much opportunity to observe. Next to him, Wydrin kept up a string of pointed questions dotted here and there with lively obscenities, which the guards took no notice of whatsoever. They were quickly joined by Sebastian, who looked dishevelled but still alive at least.
‘Where have you been?’ asked Wydrin. ‘Do you know what’s going on?’
Before he could answer they were brought up short in front of a long, low building. It was built entirely from black ice, as smooth as marble, with enormous golden doors set into the front. These were carved with images of wolves and walruses, and as they were pushed up the steps, Frith realised that this had been their destination all along: the Hall of Ancestors. There was a flurry of shouts and the doors swung open, revealing a long room with a wood-timbered roof, the planks dark and polished to a shine. Points of blue and white light hung in the rafters, and to either side stood enormous blocks of clear ice. At first, Frith couldn’t make out what the slim dark shapes at their centres were, and then it clicked into place.
‘Oh, this is cheery,’ said Wydrin, her voice tight. ‘Is that what happens to your prisoners? A set of antlers on the wall are usually decoration enough for most people.’
‘These are our honoured ancestors,’ said a woman to their right, and Frith saw that Olborn had joined them. Her lips were thin and bloodless. ‘They stay within the hall for ever, advising our king.’
They were marched up the hall, past the icy coffins with their shrivelled contents, and at the far end came to an enormous throne made of more ice. It was occupied by a huge, bearded man in his late middle-years; rather than robes and finery he wore leather armour that looked like it saw a lot of use, and there was a great axe propped at his feet like a faithful dog. His beard and hair were salt-and-pepper grey, his skin white and brown and crusted with greenish lichen, and he watched them come towards him with eyes as bright as chips of onyx. He shifted in his seat as they came, either eager to see them or eager to be elsewhere.
Next to the throne and a few diplomatic steps behind, stood a young man with a short brown beard and untidy brown hair. He also wore armour, and a silver circlet on his forehead; this, Frith guessed, was the Prince Dallen Wydrin had mentioned. Beyond the prince were more Narhl men and women, some dressed in lavish furs, others grasping spears and swords. There was undisguised anger and disgust on every face.
Frith saw the prince murmur something to the king, and the big bearded man twitched with irritation.
‘Warmlings, the lot of them.’ His son had been softly spoken, but King Aristees had no such qualms about projecting his voice. His words boomed around the hall. ‘Trailing their stink through our city, bringing their filth and disease! Melting a hole in our wall!’
Prince Dallen cleared his throat, but Aristees got to his feet, lifting his enormous axe as easily as a broom handle. Thick muscles bunched at his neck.
‘Come to steal from us, have you?’
Sebastian took a step forward, the guards still flanking him.
‘Your majesty, I am Sebastian Carverson. This is Wydrin Threefellows of Crosshaven, and Lord Aaron Frith of the Blackwood. We were employed by the people of Skaldshollow—’
‘To come around thieving, that’s what you were employed for!’ bellowed Aristees. ‘To steal the very heart of the mountain!’
‘Well, we were given to understand it was more a case of us stealing it back,’ said Wydrin. ‘Since you stole it from them first.’
‘Stole it?’ Aristees stomped down from the dais towards her, his axe held out in front of him as if he meant to chop their heads off right in the middle of his own throne room. ‘We gave it freedom! Skald scum have been tearing the soul out of the mountain for generations, and we finally said, enough!’ He punctuated this last by letting the axe head fall to the stone floor with a crash. Frith tensed, feeling the Edenier churning in his gut. He did not have the words to channel it and his hands were tied, but perhaps, if he focussed hard enough . . .
‘Clearly, we weren’t privy to all the facts,’ said Sebastian. ‘Perhaps it would be best for all if we—’
‘What would be best,’ King Aristees thumped his chest with one giant fist, ‘would be if you stinking warmlings never came here at all. Sweating and pink, like pigs in filth.’
‘Hold on,’ said Wydrin. ‘I’ve had at least two baths this year.’
‘You!’ Aristees poked a thick finger into her face. ‘You people are a disease!’ There was a murmuring of agreement from the Narhl gathered in the hall. ‘You sicken my people, and you destroy the mountain spirits!’
‘Please,’ tried Sebastian again. ‘This has all been a misunderstanding.’
Abruptly Aristees turned his back on them, pounding his way back to the throne.
‘Cut off their heads, Dallen,’ he said, in a bored tone of voice. ‘Spill their warmling blood into the snow and let them grow cold, as all things should be.’ He sat back down in his chair, letting the axe fall to the floor again. ‘Do it at sunrise, on the eastern cliff. Aye. We’ll give their small bodies to the mountain, so she will know we mean to heal her.’
Wydrin and Sebastian both began talking at once, but Frith shouldered his way between them. Let the Edenier move as it used to, he thought, when I had no control. I will burn them all . . .
The magic poured out of him, lighting him up like a taper – violet, churning light. He saw the men and women at
the back of the room gasp, and scramble away.
‘Let me show you what I think of your threats!’
The light grew brighter, the beginnings of orange flames licking at the edge of the aura. Fire, he thought, burn them all . . .
And suddenly the prince was there, holding out his arms towards him, and the temperature in the room dropped like a stone. Frith gasped, and the air he dragged down into his lungs was so cold it was like swallowing glass. The violet flames vanished as quickly as they’d appeared and Frith dropped to his knees.
‘Please,’ said Prince Dallen, his tone sorrowful. ‘I’m sorry, but it will do you no good at all.’
‘What are you doing?’ Frith could hear Wydrin’s voice next to him, but his vision was growing dark. It would be easier to lie down and sleep than to face this cold. He gasped again, and his mouth felt coated with ice.
‘Stop it!’
There was a scuffle as Wydrin struggled with the guards, and then abruptly the cold was gone. Frith shuddered violently, his limbs tingling.
‘Take them to the pens with the rest of the beasts,’ said Prince Dallen. ‘They will die in the morning, as the king commands.’
The ‘pens’ turned out to be a godsforsaken caged enclosure in the shadow of the great ice wall, made of what looked like the giant bones of a whale, sealed and fortified with glittering rivets of ice. The three of them were thrown inside, next to a cage full of animals; a fat mother goat, which smelt as though she was currently suffering from a chronic illness of some sort, eyed them without curiosity. Wydrin immediately went to the bars of their cell, running her gloved hands over the bones. It was very cold, with little shelter from the winds and the mists, and the watery sun was already setting. A small crowd of guards stood off to one side, sharing jokes and a bottle of something.
