The Iron Ghost

by Jen Williams

  Wydrin laughed. ‘Sebastian has hunted much bigger prey than your little wolf, Snake-eyes. Remember what happened to your mother?’

  The Second glowered, her clawed hand going to the belt where her dagger hung. Sebastian held up his hands.

  ‘The wolf will be dealt with, but first—’

  ‘We go there now. Together,’ said the Second. Her hair hung over her forehead in tangled mess. ‘All three of us. We will hunt the wolf, and kill it, and leave its carcass on the path so that other beasts know not to come this way.’

  Sebastian sighed and shifted his weight. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘We hunt and we kill the wolf. But let’s move quickly now. The valley is not unknown to visitors.’

  The trees were alive with the sounds of water and birds; the continual drip of melting snow, the trilling cries of small feathered things. Sebastian moved slowly, half in a crouch, relishing how quietly he could move when he really tried. Wydrin was nowhere to be seen, circling around to his left, and the Second was a green shape in front, moving with steady confidence. They had been tracking the wolf for some hours now, and they were close, very close.

  Sebastian touched his left fingers to the badge of Isu he still wore at his breast. He mouthed a silent prayer to the god-peak, remembering how this token had turned Gallo’s blade from its killing stroke. The mountain watches, he thought.

  In front, the Second suddenly crouched, and made a quick gesture over her shoulder. Their prey was in sight.

  Sebastian moved forward and saw it, a lithe brown shape standing at the foot of a tree, its snout down, scenting the earth. Its shoulders were thick with fur and muscle, its dark snout wrinkling back to reveal curved yellow teeth in black gums.

  Ahead of him the Second slid a long throwing knife from her belt, keeping her palm over the blade so that the light wouldn’t catch it and forewarn the wolf. It was a long dagger, and fearsomely sharp. As he watched, the Second lifted it carefully over her shoulder, her arm tensing while the rest of her body was still.

  A flex of muscle and the blade was flying through the air. Sebastian saw it strike the animal across the back, splitting the fur and flesh there like it was butter. In an instant the wolf was away, fleeing through the trees.

  Without thinking about it, Sebastian followed, his heart in his throat. The thought of it getting away suddenly seemed untenable, and the simple movement of it – the sudden fleetness, the wounded panic in its gait – was like a fire in his blood. He pounded after it, dimly aware that the Second was running too, that she was moving alongside him, her pointed teeth bared in a grin. In front, the brown shape of the wolf flickered between the trees like a ghost and Sebastian forced himself to run faster. It was suddenly glorious to be here, out in the green earth-stinking world, his prey fleeing ahead of him and its sudden death weighing heavily on his short sword. Soon, he would spill its blood.

  Wydrin appeared in front of them, startling the wolf and throwing it off course. It was enough for Sebastian to close the gap between them and he struck out with his short sword, paring the wolf open along its belly. Moments later the Second fell upon it, her short blades flashing, first silver and then red. Sebastian brought his sword down again, nearly severing the animal’s head from its neck, and then he stopped. The thunder in his blood had abruptly left him. He felt cold, disappointed. The Second looked up at him, grinning. Her teeth were already stained crimson.

  ‘You can feel it,’ she said. ‘The joy of the hunt. It runs from our blood to yours, and I can see it in your eyes.’

  Wydrin appeared at that moment, tramping noisily through the undergrowth now that there was no need for stealth. ‘Nice job,’ she said, grimacing at the wolf’s bloody corpse. ‘Although it might have been useful to keep that pelt intact.’

  Feeling faintly ill, Sebastian put his own short sword back in its scabbard.

  ‘We did what we came to do.’ He caught Wydrin’s curious look and ignored it. ‘Let’s head back.’

  21

  The scarf Siano had tied around the lower half of her face was damp and starting to ice over, so she paused in her ascent to unwind it. Away to the west, dusted with erratic moonlight on this cloud-streaked night, were the stones and lights of Skaldshollow. She watched them for a moment, noting how some of the lights were moving. A strange place, this distant neighbour of Apua, and one rarely mentioned in the House of Patience – not once in its long history had a client ever requested an assassination there – but she remembered what little she had been taught. The land and the mountains that scarred it were soaked in magic; it was a place of unforgiving weather, of curses, and of ghosts. Perhaps that was why the House of Patience had seen no business there – who wanted to take the chance that the man whose death you ordered might hang around to haunt you afterwards?

  Siano snorted at such superstitions. She was approaching the settlement at an extreme curve, not wanting to get too close to the enormous granite walls. Instead, she intended to skirt close enough to be able to watch the city, and then follow one of the paths up to Joah Demonsworn’s tomb, unobserved and in secret.

  Settling herself under the low branches of a clutch of pine trees, she pulled the rabbit she’d caught earlier from her pack and deftly began skinning it, before building a small fire. She was still far enough away from Skaldshollow to not worry too greatly about being seen, and the Narhl territories were far to the west, beyond the mountains that loomed all around her.

  Once the rabbit was skinned she went to slip the knife away, but instead she sat with it still held between her fingers, staring away into the night. After a moment she began to cut again, digging deep into the flesh of the animal this time, gouging a rough pattern. She did it unthinking, her hands seeming to move of their own accord. She remembered the puppies in her father’s woodshed; so many small warm bodies, half blind and helpless. Flesh and skin and blood, the yielding and the gristle . . .

  When the voice spoke she jumped violently, almost cutting one of her own fingers off.

  ‘You are so close, young Siano. You have the blood ready?’

  Siano looked down at the rabbit. The remains of its raw face were still, but the voice was issuing from its narrow throat.

  ‘That is my dinner you are speaking through.’

  The voice laughed hard at that, and despite herself Siano shivered.

  ‘Many apologies, but I wanted to check everything was going smoothly.’

  ‘You made me cut the rabbit,’ said Siano. There was that quiet voice inside her again, warning her to be careful, but she had to know. ‘You just pushed my mind to one side.’

  ‘Just a little push, young Siano. Your mind is accustomed to my presence. And what a mind it is. So cold and empty, with so little to grasp on to. I had thought – well, it hardly matters. A shame, though. If you were just a touch more human on the inside, you would have been perfect. Human minds are so much more comfortable.’

  Siano shook herself. Once again, she had no idea what the voice was talking about, and it made her uneasy.

  ‘I’ve brought the blood,’ she said, trying to recover. ‘Vials from every family member you asked me to kill. It made for quite a heavy pack in the end.’

  ‘I’m sure it did!’ The voice sounded amused again. ‘And you will need every last drop. I will be with you again, before the end.’

  And then the voice was gone. Siano sat for some time, looking at the bloody mess of the rabbit, before spearing the remains with a long stick and propping it over the fire. After a few minutes, the fat began to spit.

  The Prophet knelt on the bedclothes, playing with the Narhl finger bones Tamlyn’s niece had brought. Into each it had carved a sigil, an ancient sign known only to one other.

  ‘The girl would have been a good host. Stronger, faster than this one.’ It held out a hand, looking critically at the long, delicate fingers. This body was growing, that was true, and at this time of the girl’s life it would be very fast now. Already she was much taller than she had been, her long legs c
oltish and awkward, and the Prophet found it was very comfortable in this mind – it was so easy to use this voice, to move this face into the right shapes. So easy to push the girl’s own personality to one side. Now that the Prophet had such a firm hold in this body, there was no need to let her speak any more, and in time there could be lots of advantages to this body, that was true. The Prophet longed for an adult body, one that had been trained to kill and maim with precision, but sadly Siano’s mind was all wrong – it was cold and featureless, with none of the useful emotions and anxieties it used as a way to anchor itself to a body. And she was not willing. A host had to offer themselves, and although there could be no doubt that Siano was one of the Prophet’s creatures, she was much too closed off. The revulsion she’d felt when she’d realised she’d not been entirely in control of the knife had been very clear. ‘I am stuck here for now, it seems.’ It ran the girl’s fingers over the bones, listening to their soft rattle. ‘And there are worse places to be.’

  There was movement at the door. Tamlyn Nox was there, the shape of her mind hot and feverish.

  ‘Do you have a moment?’ Her words were polite but her tone was clipped and precise.

  This one won’t be strung along much longer. ‘Of course. Do come in, Tamlyn dear. Close the door behind you though, there’s a terrible draught.’

  There was a soft click as the door shut, and Tamlyn came over to the bed, a dark shape beyond the curtains. The Prophet could see that her hair was loose across her shoulders, and as it watched the Mistress Crafter paced back and forth in front of the bed, her hands clasped behind her back.

  ‘The first part of the plan has failed,’ she said eventually. ‘The mercenaries you recommended have let us down. No doubt they have been captured by now, and executed, and the Heart-Stone remains in Narhl territory.’

  ‘This is unfortunate.’

  ‘Unfortunate?’ The anger Tamlyn thought she was so good at hiding briefly rose to the surface. Behind the curtains, the Prophet grinned. ‘Unfortunate? That stone is the lifeblood of Skaldshollow. Without it we are crippled.’

  ‘It is not so important. You place so much significance on it, Tamlyn dear.’

  ‘I can craft nothing of use! We can make more werkens, but we cannot awaken them.’ She came over to the bed and knelt in front of it. After a moment, she put her hand on the curtain. When she spoke again her voice was little more than a whisper. ‘What you have told me about your friend – it is all true?’

  ‘Tamlyn, when he comes again, you will learn so much. More than you could imagine. These trifling, stumbling creatures you make now will be the least of it. You and he will create wonders.’

  ‘But before . . . all of our histories tell us—’

  ‘Propaganda,’ said the Prophet dismissively. ‘The truth was twisted, and that is always the way of history. Believe me. My friend was the greatest crafter of the Edeian that ever lived. Imagine what you can learn from him, Mistress Crafter.’

  Tamlyn’s hand clutched at the gauze. ‘But the price . . .’

  The Prophet reached out with the girl’s own small hand and took hold of Tamlyn’s fingers through the curtain. It gripped hard, letting the fingernails dig into the older woman’s skin.

  ‘Do you not wish to see the Narhl wiped from this world? To cleanse the mountain of their savagery? Never again will you see the blue streak of their wyverns in the air, and hear the screams of your people as the ice rains down on them. You will bring a war to them they can’t possibly hope to win. Forget about the Heart-Stone, Tamlyn Nox. I bring you a much greater gift.’

  For a few moments there was only silence on the other side of the curtain, save for Tamlyn’s ragged breathing. When she spoke again her voice sounded very young.

  ‘When?’

  The Prophet let go of Tamlyn’s hand. ‘Very soon now, actually. Very soon.’

  22

  ‘This procedure. What does it involve, exactly?’

  Sebastian had managed to catch Dallen alone for a moment as Olborn supervised his soldiers; they were moving furs and blankets into one of the icy egg sacs, creating a small, comfortable space for the prince to work. Wydrin was standing over by the ponies, drinking steadily from a flask.

  ‘I must use the cold-summons to take her deep into a trance, to try and connect her to this land as we are connected.’ Dallen looked him straight in the eye. ‘I won’t lie to you, Sir Sebastian. Warmlings, uh, that is to say, people who are not Narhl, tend to find this quite uncomfortable. But your friend is strong.’

  ‘And stubborn. It’s not in Wydrin to say no to something like this, but she doesn’t always have her best interests at heart.’ Sebastian absently touched the scar on his cheek. ‘It is normally down to me to keep her from getting herself killed, your highness, and I am not happy about this.’

  ‘I mean her no harm, and I will be as careful as I can be.’

  ‘We could just tell the Skalds,’ said Sebastian. He had suggested this already, more than once. ‘I, for one, would be glad to carry your message. My own people believe mountains to be sacred.’

  Dallen shook his head. Behind them, his soldiers were decking the ice dwelling with cold-lamps, so that the little dome shone like a piece of daylight, lost.

  ‘It’s not enough. I don’t doubt your conviction, but the Skalds don’t want to hear the message. This is our best chance.’

  ‘Wydrin is dear to me. If you should harm her –’ He paused. ‘Actually, if anything goes wrong, it may well be Frith you have to worry about first. He is no stranger to vengeance.’

  Lord Frith was lurking by the entrance, his face hidden within his hood. He hadn’t spoken to anyone since the plan had been agreed.

  ‘They are close, then? They make a strange couple.’

  Sebastian smiled, amused by the genuine bemusement in the prince’s voice.

  ‘Not a couple, not as such. A mess, is how I’d describe it.’

  ‘I have found that relationships often end that way.’ Prince Dallen looked away, apparently having said too much. He took a deep breath before speaking again. ‘Your people worship the mountains as gods, then?’

  Sebastian nodded.

  ‘In Ynnsmouth we live under the four god-peaks, Ynn, Ryn, Isu and Isri. As a knight I swore to abide by their codes, and as a child I dreamed of the mountain’s voice.’ He cleared his throat. That had all ended so well, after all.

  Dallen looked at him, and there was that shrewd glitter to his gaze again.

  ‘You should have been born Narhl, I think – although we do not name the mountain spirits; they are too unknowable for that. Look,’ he nodded towards the mound of hollow ice, where Olborn was standing to attention, ‘it appears we are ready.’

  Wydrin lay back on the blankets, suddenly feeling rather self-conscious. Prince Dallen knelt next to her, his face carefully composed, while Sebastian and Frith lurked at the entrance, neither looking particularly happy.

  ‘Is there anything I need to know?’ she asked. She had brought Mendrick into the ice cave and the werken was now crouched at the edge of the blankets.

  ‘You’ll be cold,’ said Prince Dallen evenly. ‘You may find it difficult to breathe. You may see things. I can’t tell you what you’ll see, or experience. It could be unnerving.’

  Wydrin grinned at him. ‘Your bedside manner isn’t reassuring, your highness. What if I backed out now? Decided I didn’t want this deeper link after all?’

  Prince Dallen’s face grew more serious. ‘You are still my prisoners. The future of my people depends on your taking this message to the Skalds.’

  ‘Right. Well. Hold on a moment.’ She slipped a flask from her belt and took several large gulps. ‘That should keep my insides warm at least.’

  Dallen leaned over her and held out his hands, palms down. She glanced up at his pale eyes, his mottled face. After a few moments she felt the temperature around her drop, slowly at first and then sharply. She gasped and saw her breath cloud in front of her.

  �
�This is unwise.’ It was Frith’s voice from the entrance. From the corner of her eye she saw him try to elbow his way over to her, but Olborn held him back with the tip of her spear. ‘Your prince nearly killed me with this power of his.’

  ‘I did nothing of the sort,’ said Dallen shortly, never taking his eyes from Wydrin. ‘I merely incapacitated you briefly. Now please, be quiet.’

  Wydrin began to shiver violently, her teeth chattering. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to sink further back into her thickly furred cloak, but it did little good.

  ‘Accept the cold, do not hide from it,’ said Dallen. ‘This will be easier for you if you don’t fight.’

  Wydrin tried to nod, but she was shaking too violently. She gasped a breath inwards, trying to speak, but the air was so cold it bit at her throat, and the air that slipped into her lungs was as freezing and deadly as icicles. There was a pain in her chest now, and the world seemed to be going dark.

  What a stupid way to die, she thought.

  Prince Dallen’s face filled her vision. His beard was fringed with frost, and his hair looked as white as Frith’s. She remembered standing in the Blackwood with Frith, how his healing magic had been so warm, the complete opposite of this cold death. It was difficult to remember what warmth felt like.

  There is no deeper link here, she thought, no longer able to move even her fingers. There is only the cold and lifeless mountain.

  The pain in her chest grew so enormous there was nothing else, and even Prince Dallen’s face disappeared behind the tide of black. There was a sensation of sinking, like drowning in the deepest part of the ocean . . . and a star woke in the darkness. A single point of light, followed by another, and then a sprinkling of lights, and suddenly the darkness was thick with stars, pregnant with them; glowing swirls of blue, red and purple stars, some too bright to look at.

  The stars are dying, she thought, and somehow it was possible to feel the violence of their passing, even as the silence pressed in on all sides.