by Jen Williams
‘Dead,’ croaked Frith. ‘Still dead.’
‘As you will be, shadow-mage, if you do not get away from that abomination.’
Frith looked up from the floor to see Xinian looking down at him. She was no longer composed of shadows and half-seen things. Now she looked solid and real; he could see the deep warm brown of her skin, the sharp intelligence in her eyes. There was a scar on her left cheek, a horizontal slash, and she wore silver rings up both her arms.
‘You see me now, little man? You see me clearly, yes? It is because you are dying. As you lie there, mewling on the floor, you move ever closer to the shade world.’
Frith shook his head. He felt as though every part of him had been beaten. His head was a hot ring of fire, and he could taste blood in his mouth.
‘He will be back soon,’ he said, and even those few words made his vision turn black at the edges. ‘And he’ll end it then, at least. He has to.’
Xinian the Battleborn scowled at him. The bruise-coloured light from the Rivener shone off her bald head.
‘No, you must end him.’ She paused, and looked behind her as though she had heard someone coming. ‘I am going to give you a memory, shadow-mage. A memory that is a key. Let’s see what you can do with it.’
She reached down and the touch of her hand on his forehead was blessedly cool.
‘If you’re a ghost, how can I . . .?’
It was the same as when Joah had performed the ‘crossing’. One moment he was lying on the floor of the Forge, the next he was in another place entirely. It looked like an abandoned city full of white marble buildings, lit with a strange, shifting blue light. The streets were empty. He saw Xinian there, looking much as she had done in the Forge, and she was running beside another woman, a mage in travelling leathers and a short cloak. She was carrying a long staff carved with mage words, and her pale blond hair was tied into a pair of winding braids that rested on her head like a nest of snakes. Xinian carried a strange sword in her hand; the blade was a deep, shining blue and it curved to a wicked point. For some reason it felt familiar to Frith, although he couldn’t place why.
‘We have him now,’ cried the blonde woman. They had stopped in front of a bulbous white marble building shaped like a fat teardrop. ‘Where else would a bone conjuror like him hide, but in a crypt?’
‘You wait here, Selsye,’ said Xinian. ‘And I shall go after him.’
The other woman’s laugh echoed strangely in the silent street. ‘Treasure of my life, but you do say some strange things. Of course we shall go together.’
‘I have the god-blade.’ Xinian’s stern expression was familiar. ‘Only I can kill him. You will be in danger.’
‘I will be a distraction,’ the blonde woman called Selsye smiled. ‘I will keep his attention diverted while you move in for the kill. No one can wield that sword like you, my love, but we need all the help we can get at this point. We’ve already lost so many.’
Xinian pursed her lips, looking as though she might argue further, but in the end she nodded.
The two women entered the crypt, and Frith followed, a silent shadow. The memory faded before another came to take its place, and all at once Frith was in the middle of a pitched battle. He was in a low-ceilinged room, lit with magical fire. He saw the mage called Selsye, crouched behind a stone tomb, periodically firing shots of bright green flame from her staff towards a man in dark robes. It was Joah. He was standing against a rack of mouldering shelves filled with ancient skeletons, both hands held out in front of him, holding off the woman’s magical attack with apparent ease. There were other shadows moving in the chaotic darkness: bony, skeletal shadows. Frith spotted Xinian herself, whirling and striking like a snake, dashing the skeletal assassins to pieces with her strange sword, but she was being pressed back into an alcove. As he watched, she held up her other arm, the one that ended in a stump, and a wave of freezing ice flew from it, trapping several of the walking corpses in a sudden snow drift.
‘That’s it, ladies,’ bellowed Joah, ‘come to your deaths!’ He was grinning wildly, his hair hanging in his face. None of the gentle manners Frith had experienced from the rogue mage were in evidence here.
‘It is your death that is coming for you, Demonsworn!’ cried Selsye. She flicked an enormous fireball over the top of the tomb, and it crashed into Joah, blasting pieces of bone and rock across the small room, but when the flames had passed, Joah was still there. He laughed.
‘They send you two to finish me? Have they learned nothing?’
He waved a hand, almost casually, and the lid of the tomb Selsye was hiding behind suddenly flew backwards, striking her full in the face. Frith heard the terrible noise the stone made as it crushed her skull to powder, saw the bright splash of blood against the dusty floor.
There was a howl of anguish. Xinian the Battleborn stormed across the chamber, her face wild with grief and fury. She elbowed past the reaching skeletons without even looking at them and threw herself at Joah.
To her credit, even Joah looked startled by the extent of her rage. He sent a bright pulse of red light shooting towards her that punched into her flesh just below the ribcage. Frith saw the burning hole left by the attack but it did not slow her down. In seconds she was on him, and Joah Demonsworn, genius and greatest of mages, was too surprised to do anything about it. She thrust the sword home with a scream of triumph and it burst out through his back.
For the briefest moment they stood together, two people joined by a sword. Joah glanced down at the hilt sticking out of his chest. He looked mildly surprised.
‘But the demon,’ he said, and blood ran over his lips. ‘The demon told me . . . no steel can harm . . .’
‘This is not steel,’ spat Xinian through gritted teeth. ‘Die now, and may my face be the last thing you see.’
Joah nodded, as if agreeing with her, and slid slowly to the ground. Xinian braced one foot against his chest and drew the sword out, before staggering away. She took four, maybe five steps, trying to reach Selsye, before collapsing onto the ground herself. The strange blue sword dropped from her fingers to land next to a grinning skull.
‘And that is where it is still.’
Frith blinked rapidly. He was back in the Forge with Xinian the Battleborn standing over him, conspicuously missing the hole in her chest.
‘The sword?’
She nodded once. ‘The only thing capable of killing Joah Demonsworn is the god-blade. And it rests in the lost city of Temerayne, along with my remains, along with my beloved Selsye.’
Frith shook his head. There were too many questions. ‘But his body was in a tomb in Skaldshollow! They said the mages gave him a full burial, because they honoured him.’
Xinian grinned at him without humour. ‘It was not a mage that collected Joah’s body, but agents of the demon. You are our last chance, shadow-mage, and you must stay alive.’
There was the clang of an iron door, and Frith could hear shouting. He tried to lift himself up onto one elbow, to ask Xinian more questions, but already she was fading from view.
43
Wydrin ran down the metal corridor, wincing at the sound her boots made on the strange floor. Glassheart was held ready in both hands.
‘They’d better keep him busy out there,’ she muttered to herself. ‘I don’t much fancy him popping up behind me.’
She emerged cautiously into a large round room full of stone benches and rusted instruments, lit with a strange purple light that gave her an instant headache. There was a still form sprawled on the floor.
‘Frith?’ Wydrin went over to him, sheathing her sword. It was Frith, but she barely recognised him. His warm brown skin was grey, and he’d lost weight, so that his already sharply angled face looked almost skeletal. His eyes fluttered open at the sound of her voice.
‘Wydrin? Is that you?’
‘Ye gods and little fishes, what has he done to you?’ He was bleeding from his ears, and one of his arms was encrusted with blood. ‘Can you get up,
Frith? We need to get you out of here.’
‘She gave me a memory,’ he said. His eyes rolled up to the whites, before he coughed, blinking rapidly.
‘That’s it, keep talking to me,’ she said. ‘Even if it is nonsense, just keep talking. I need you awake.’ She slipped an arm around his back and lifted him into a sitting position. He took hold of her arm and gripped it fiercely, as though they were walking into a howling gale and he might blow away otherwise.
‘Wydrin, he broke into my mind, saw everything. He killed Gwiddion.’
‘Come on.’ Wydrin bit her lip, and pulled him inelegantly to his feet. They staggered together for a moment, until Wydrin convinced him to lean on her, one arm slung over her shoulders, her own arm wrapped around his waist. ‘I’m sorry, Frith, I really am. Let’s get you out of this shit hole.’
They lurched towards the far door. From outside they could hear the distant sounds of shouting and the occasional rumble as a magical attack hit the ground.
‘When we get outside, we may have to make a run for it.’ Wydrin shifted her grip on him, trying to ignore the boniness of his ribs. ‘I don’t think you’re in any fit state to be taking on this Joah bastard.’
‘I did burn him,’ said Frith. Some strength seemed to be coming back to his voice. ‘I burnt the bastard.’
Wydrin laughed. ‘Glad to hear it.’
They’d reached the iron corridor. At the end of it they could see orange and blue light flashing. Frith squeezed her shoulder.
‘I thought I’d never see you again.’
Wydrin glanced at him, but his head was hanging down and his face was hidden by his unruly white hair.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said. ‘You don’t get rid of me that easily.’
Sebastian hit the ground, rolling so that his cloak flapped over him wetly. He looked up to see the wave of burning flame pass over him and hit the snow-covered outcrop behind him. A cloud of steam billowed like a ghost. That was a close one.
And they had been lucky so far. Joah seemed extremely distracted, throwing attacks without seeming to care where they fell, making strange mistakes, such as aiming a cone of freezing blizzard at Dallen, who only felt revitalised by such magic. Sebastian thought it could be the burns – perhaps the pain was making him careless – or the injury he’d taken to the shoulder when Mendrick had jumped at him, but, whatever it was, his lack of concentration had allowed them all to live this long. Dallen moved past him, throwing an ice-spear like a javelin, and beyond him, Nuava crouched behind Mendrick.
There was movement in the tunnel. Sebastian saw Wydrin come staggering out, supporting Frith, who was leaning on her heavily. They were moving as quickly as they were able to, trying to get to shelter, but Joah turned at their approach. All at once, his magical attacks died. The small hill grew very quiet. Sebastian could hear Dallen’s ragged breathing, and the sound of the wind beginning to pick up.
‘Aaron?’ Joah’s voice was quiet, but they all heard it clearly enough. ‘What are you doing out here? You need to rest.’
Wydrin drew her sword, holding it awkwardly whilst still supporting Frith.
‘Your big mage reunion is over now,’ she said. ‘So just back off.’
‘This is the woman, isn’t it?’ Joah took a few steps towards them. ‘Aaron, I thought we talked about this. We can have no distractions. These people, they will only keep you from greatness.’
Frith shook his head. ‘There is no greatness, Joah. Only your madness. You have to let me go. You have to let all of this go.’
Joah reached up and touched his own face. Absently he began to peel away his burnt skin.
‘Aaron, think about what you are saying. We could do great things! I am offering you a brotherhood you’ve never experienced.’
Sebastian shifted, getting ready to run. Joah was turned away from him now, apparently having completely forgotten about the rest of them.
‘I want nothing from you,’ Frith raised his voice. ‘You are not my brother!’
For a few seconds there was silence again. In the dying light of the evening Joah looked like a raggedy scarecrow, some pretence of a man left on the hill to scare away the ghosts. He shook himself once, all over.
‘Then I shall take from you everything you truly want.’
Sebastian moved immediately, running now towards the couple standing together at the mouth of the tunnel.
‘Wydrin!’ he shouted. ‘Get down!’
But it was too late. Joah held up one hand and a bolt of silver lightning shot from the ends of his fingers, striking Wydrin square in the chest and blowing her off her feet. Sebastian had time to see the horror on Frith’s face as she was torn out of his arms, and then the young lord was a churning mass of light and heat. Somewhere within it all, Sebastian could hear Frith bellowing with fury.
‘You see what you can be?’ screamed Joah. ‘Look at your true power!’
A bolt of fiery light shot from the boiling mass that was Frith but Joah caught it somehow, moulding it into a ball of flames in his hands.
Sebastian crouched low and ran towards Wydrin’s prone body. She had hit a pile of rocks and was sprawled with her red hair covering her face. Sebastian pushed it away, trying to see some life there. He placed a hand against her chest and almost felt his own heart stop. No, no, he thought. Not like this.
‘Frith!’ he called, half hopeless against the deafening roar. Joah and Frith were exchanging fireballs now; Joah’s were landing with accuracy, Frith’s were wild and unfocussed. ‘I need you over here, Frith!’ If he is lost to his rage now, thought Sebastian, then we’ve lost her too. ‘Now, Frith!’
Joah threw an enormous wave of flame that blotted out the sky, and for a few moments everything was chaos. Sebastian covered Wydrin’s body with his own, remembering Y’Ruen’s attack on the battlefield at Relios. When it was over, he looked up to see Joah running back down the tunnel into the hill.
‘He’s retreating!’ cried Dallen, who threw an ice-spear after him to be sure. ‘We have him now.’
‘No,’ said Frith. The light surrounding him winked out, and he staggered. His face was the colour of old milk. ‘We have to get out of here. The Rivener is rising.’
As he spoke, the ground beneath their feet began to jump and shake. Sebastian gathered Wydrin’s limp form into his arms and they all turned and ran down the hill, Frith staggering to keep up. The rock cracked and splintered. Sebastian found himself dodging huge chunks of stone as they thrust up through the ground, and it was all he could do to keep on his feet.
They reached the lower ground and turned just in time to see the hill tearing itself apart. An avalanche of stone and earth rumbled down towards them as something moved under the fabric of the ground. A great stone and metal arm, like a werken’s but much, much bigger, burst through, reaching for the sky with a clawed hand.
‘By all the gods, what is that?’ cried Nuava.
The metal and stone creature dragged itself free of the hilltop, shaking off the earth and stone like a dog in a muddy puddle. Sebastian saw Edeian-rippled stone joined to huge pieces of iron, all covered in glowing runes and darkly shining words. He saw moving parts, held together by rivets and magic, and he saw two pairs of enormous glowing eyes, like violet-hued lamps against a stormy sky. Free of the hill, the Rivener looked like the offspring of a man and a beetle – a humanoid shape with six jointed limbs, covered in plates of black iron like chitinous armour. There was a glowing aperture in the thing’s head, a slot filled with swirling purple light, and just beneath that there was what looked like a caged platform. Sebastian caught one glance of Joah there, standing with his hands wrapped around the iron railing, and then the Rivener took three or four faltering steps, turning away from them. It was silhouetted against the red evening sky, a monstrous shape straight out of a nightmare, and then it was sprinting away from them, skittering across the hills.
PART THREE
The Graces’ Own
44
Truss took t
he flask from his belt and held it between his hands. Heated by his wife that morning, he could still feel some remnants of warmth through his gloves. He unscrewed the lid and took a large gulp, wincing slightly as the warm grut burnt its way down to his empty stomach, before pushing the flask back through his belt loop. He’d have to pace the stuff; he was likely to be up here for several hours yet, and with little chance of anyone covering his post.
From his vantage point on top of Skaldshollow’s southern wall he could see soft snow-covered hills, the distant brown blur that was the riverlands, and the looming presence of the mountains to the west, seeming to smudge out half the noon-day sky.
To his left he saw Ninnev approaching on the back of her werken; it was her job to patrol the southern side, back and forth, back and forth, while he sat where he was, his own werken a quiet pile of rock beneath him.
‘Anything to report, Truss?’ she called as she grew nearer. She was a few years older than him, her black hair cut short above her ears, and she rode a werken shaped roughly like a giant bear. Its green eyes shone white in the brightness of the day.
‘Nothing of interest, Ninnev,’ he replied. ‘Unless you wish me to report a thoroughly frozen arse and an increasingly irresistible desire to throw myself off this wall?’
Ninnev smirked. ‘No one wishes to know the condition of your arse, Truss, believe me.’ She drew up close to him, the werken stopping dead in its tracks. ‘No movement out there?’
‘Nothing at all, honestly. I am sitting here waiting for the snow to fall.’
‘Well, it’s probably a good idea for you to sit tight for a while.’ She nodded at his werken. It had taken substantial damage during the attack, and now a goodly section of its back right leg was patched up with the substance they half jokingly referred to as ‘witch’s porridge’. It was a rough paste mixed by Tamlyn Nox herself, used to fill cracks and holes when a werken was damaged. After the attack a great number of Skaldshollow’s werkens were sporting ugly grey patches of the stuff.
