The Remnant

by Charlie Fletcher

  She was hoping it would not spoil their midwinter feast when she told them she would be taking a boat to America and going west on the Medicine Trail as soon as it opened up in the spring. There was another stolen child to take home, and though finding it would not bring Cait back to life, it would pay a debt.

  The whey-faced girl looks away from the window as the front door closes on the Last Hand, and smiles at her father who has come to take her downstairs for the festive feast that she has been smelling all morning.

  She does not exactly know who all the interesting characters are who have taken over the house on Chandos Place, but she is friends with Lucy who visits her often and tells the girl, who she calls her Good Samaritan, most amusing stories about the streets of the great city that she, as an invalid, is forbidden to visit.

  She does not know who they all are, these five oddities who Lucy Harker once accidentally called the Last Hand.

  But she does feel safer that they are there.

  EPILOGUE

  At the beginning there is noise.

  At the beginning he is underground but he can hear the world above.

  At this beginning, at the end of a long chain of beginnings, buried under the peat and the carefully laid rocks, he can see nothing but darkness.

  But some ancient part of him can hear the soft fall of midwinter snow on the wild heather on the hill above.

  This is not a new sensation.

  He has, he recalls, been here before.

  He is the first of the First Hand, as he is sworn to be the last of the Last, if it comes to that.

  If it has not already come to that.

  He will sleep now, and when the snow that is softly falling on the slopes above has gone, maybe then he will rise with the spring, next spring or maybe one of the ones that will come after.

  He has not gone.

  He is healing under the hill and the world will see him when it needs him, or when the black stain of the darkness has fully gone from his back. He can feel the blight of it now, and he knows why the Mother of Ravens trapped him beneath the ground.

  As ever, for his own good.

  Maybe when he next wakes, the black stain will be less, be gone even.

  The Smith turns and closes his eyes. He will sleep again. But now he knows he will wake one day and leave the darkness in the darkness and climb back into the light.

  And then he shall see what he shall see …

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I’m really grateful, as ever to my editors, Jenni Hill and Joanna Kramer at Orbit UK, and to Will Hinton in the U.S. Just the right combination of tough and indulgent. Again thanks to Lauren Panepinto for the work on the covers. Thanks too to my agents Karolina Sutton at Curtis Brown and Michael McCoy at Independent for helping me juggle my book and screenwriting lives. Much gratitude to Morag Stewart for keeping me straight with the Gaelic. And most importantly, thanks to my family—all three generations—for tolerating the grumpily ursine version of myself that seems to accompany the writing of books.

  There’s a very well hidden and extraordinarily well preserved souterrain on North Uist that precisely matches the one in which we left The Smith: I’m really grateful to Hugh Potter for being kind enough to allow me to climb down and explore it. My old friend the traveller and writer Barnaby Rogerson has been fascinated with these carefully made stone-lined galleries since we were students and passed on his enthusiasm to me. No one has much idea what they were built for—they appear to have no obvious ritual significance and weren’t used for burials, or food storage (as proved by absence of bodies or food debris). They seem to have been built, in Scotland at least, by the same Iron Age people who built the brochs, one of which is indeed close by the one I visited. Perhaps now we’ve seen where The Smith sleeps, we know at least one use.

  If you want to see a picture of the Monarch, the sturdy paddle-steamer tug which Mountfellon hired from Mr. Watkins, chances are you probably already have—Turner painted it towing in the dismasted hulk of the Temeraire in one of his loveliest and saddest paintings.

  The Fairy Flag which The Smith was so disappointed in is still held in Dunvegan Castle, and if you ask the MacLeods they may show it to you. Don’t tell them it’s an imposter. The fabled MacCrimmons were indeed the MacLeod’s hereditary pipers for generations, until they inexplicably just stopped. Now you know why. If you want to see the small island cemetery in the river where The Smith expected to find the true flag, take the road from Portree to Skeabost and you’ll find it to the west of the high bridge that crosses the River Snizort. Go at dusk. Don’t slip on the way down.

  The lead plates which interest Armbruster and Magill are very likely twins to the one found buried near the town of Pierre, North Dakota, left by the de la Vérendrye brothers in 1742 to claim territory as they pushed west across the Great Plains from their base in Quebec to become the first Europeans to see the Rockies from the east. As to why this is of concern to Armbruster and Magill, well, that’s a whole other story … Caitlin Sean ná Gaolaire may well now have to share it with them.

  extras

  meet the author

  Photo credit: Domenica More Gordon

  CHARLIE FLETCHER is a screenwriter and children’s author living in Edinburgh. His Stoneheart trilogy has been translated into a dozen languages and the film rights have been sold to Paramount. The first volume, Stoneheart, was shortlisted for the Branford Boase award and longlisted for the Guardian Children’s Fiction Prize. His standalone novel for children, Far Rockaway, was published last year to great critical acclaim and has been longlisted for the Carnegie prize. As a screenwriter, Charlie is currently working on two series, one for the BBC, the other for HBO.

  Find out more about Charlie Fletcher and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly newsletter at www.orbitbooks.net.

  introducing

  If you enjoyed

  THE REMNANT,

  look out for

  BATTLEMAGE

  by Stephen Aryan

  “I can command storms, summon fire and unmake stone,” Balfruss growled. “It’s dangerous to meddle with things you don’t understand.”

  Balfruss is a battlemage, sworn to fight and die for a country that fears and despises his kind.

  Vargus is a common soldier—while mages shoot lightning from the walls of the city, he’s down in the front lines getting blood on his blade.

  Talandra is a princess and spymaster, but the war may force her to risk everything and make the greatest sacrifice of all.

  Chapter 1

  Another light snow shower fell from the bleak grey sky. Winter should have been over, yet ice crunched underfoot and the mud was hard as stone. Frost clung to almost everything, and a thick, choking fog lay low on the ground. Only those desperate or greedy travelled in such conditions.

  Two nights of sleeping outdoors had leached all the warmth from Vargus’s bones. The tips of his fingers were numb and he couldn’t feel his toes any more. He hoped they were still attached when he took off his boots; he’d seen it happen to others in the cold. Whole toes had come off and turned black without them noticing, rolling around like marbles in the bottom of their boots.

  Vargus led his horse by the reins. It would be suicide for them both to ride in this fog.

  Up ahead something orange flickered amid the grey and white. The promise of a fire gave Vargus a boost of energy and he stamped his feet harder than necessary. Although the fog muffled the sound, it would carry to the sentry up ahead on his left.

  The bowman must have been sitting in the same position for hours as the grey blanket over his head was almost completely white.

  As Vargus drew closer his horse snorted, picking up the scent of other animals, men and cooking meat. Vargus pretended he hadn’t seen the man and tried very hard not to stare at his long-bow. After stringing the bow with one quick flex the sentry readied an arrow, but in order to loose it he would have to stand up.

  “That’s far enough.”

 
That came from another sentry on Vargus’s right who stepped out from between the skeletons of two shattered trees. He was a burly man dressed in dirty furs and mismatched leathers. Although chipped and worn the long sword he carried looked sharp.

  “You a King’s man?”

  Vargus snorted. “No, not me.”

  “What do you want?”

  He shrugged. “A spot by your fire is all I’m after.”

  Despite the fog the sound of their voices must have carried as two others came towards them from the camp. The newcomers were much like the others, desperate men with scarred faces and mean eyes.

  “You got any coin?” asked one of the newcomers, a bald and bearded man in old-fashioned leather armour.

  Vargus shook his head. “Not much, but I got this.” Moving slowly he pulled two wine skins down from his saddle. “Shael rice wine.”

  The first sentry approached. Vargus could still feel the other pointing an arrow at his back. With almost military precision the man went through his saddlebags, but his eyes nervously flicked towards Vargus from time to time. A deserter then, afraid someone had been sent after him.

  “What we got, Lin?” called Baldy.

  “A bit of food. Some silver. Not much else,” the sentry answered.

  “Let him pass.”

  Lin didn’t step back. “Are you sure, boss?”

  The others were still on edge. They were right to be nervous if they were who Vargus suspected. The boss came forward and keenly looked Vargus up and down. He knew what the boss was seeing. A man past fifty summers, battle scarred and grizzled with liver spots on the back of his big hands. A man with plenty of grey mixed in with the black stubble on his face and head.

  “You going to give us any trouble with that?” asked Baldy, pointing at the bastard sword jutting up from Vargus’s right shoulder.

  “I don’t want no trouble. Just a spot by the fire and I’ll share the wine.”

  “Good enough for me. I’m Korr. These are my boys.”

  “Vargus.”

  He gestured for Vargus to follow him and the others eased hands away from weapons. “Cold enough for you?”

  “Reminds me of a winter, must be twenty years ago, up north. Can’t remember where.”

  “Travelled much?”

  Vargus grunted. “All over. Too much.”

  “So, where’s home?” asked Korr. The questions were asked casually, but Vargus had no doubt about it being an interrogation.

  “Right now, here.”

  They passed through a line of trees where seven horses were tethered. Vargus tied his horse up with the others and walked into camp. It was a good sheltered spot, surrounded by trees on three sides and a hill with a wide cave mouth on the other. A large roaring fire crackled in the middle of camp and two men were busy cooking beside it. One was cutting up a hare and dropping pieces into a bubbling pot, while the other prodded some blackened potatoes next to the blaze. All of the men were armed and they carried an assortment of weapons that looked well used.

  As Vargus approached the fire a massive figure stood up and came around from the other side. It was over six and a half feet tall, dressed in a bear skin and wide as two normal men. The man’s face was severely deformed with a protruding forehead, small brown eyes that were almost black, and a jutting bottom jaw with jagged teeth.

  “Easy Rak,” said Korr. The giant relaxed the grip on his sword and Vargus let out a sigh of relief. “He brought us something to drink.”

  Rak’s mouth widened, revealing a whole row of crooked yellow teeth. It took Vargus a few seconds to realise the big man was smiling. Rak moved back to the far side of the fire and sat down again. Only then did Vargus move his hand away from the dagger on his belt.

  He settled close to the fire next to Korr and for a time no one spoke, which suited him fine. He closed his eyes and soaked up some of the warmth, wiggling his toes inside his boots. The heat began to take the chill from his hands and his fingers started to tingle.

  “Bit dangerous to be travelling alone,” said Korr, trying to sound friendly.

  “Suppose so. But I can take care of myself.”

  “Where you headed?”

  Vargus took a moment before answering. “Somewhere I’ll get paid and fed. Times are hard and I’ve only got what I’m carrying.”

  Since he’d mentioned his belongings he opened the first skin and took a short pull. The rice wine burned the back of his throat, leaving a pleasant aftertaste. After a few seconds the warmth in his stomach began to spread.

  Korr took the offered wineskin but passed it to the next man, who snatched it from his hand.

  “Rak. It’s your turn on lookout,” said Lin. The giant ignored him and watched as the wine moved around the fire. When it reached him he took a long gulp and then another before walking into the trees. The archer came back and another took his place as sentry. Two men standing watch for a group of seven in such extreme weather was unusual. They weren’t just being careful, they were scared.

  “You ever been in the King’s army?” asked Lin.

  Vargus met his gaze then looked elsewhere. “Maybe.”

  “I reckon that’s why you travelled all over, dragged from place to place. One bloody battlefield after another. Home was just a tent and a fire. Different sky, different enemy.”

  “Sounds like you know the life. Are you a King’s man?”

  “Not any more,” Lin said with a hint of bitterness.

  It didn’t take them long to drain the first wineskin so Vargus opened the second and passed it around the fire. Everyone took a drink again except Korr.

  “Bad gut,” he said when Vargus raised an eyebrow. “Even a drop would give me the shits.”

  “More for us,” said one man with a gap-toothed grin.

  When the stew was ready one of the men broke up the potatoes and added them to the pot. The first two portions went to the sentries and Vargus was served last. His bowl was smaller than the others, but he didn’t complain. He saw a few chunks of potato and even one bit of meat. Apart from a couple of wild onions and garlic the stew was pretty bland, but it was hot and filling. The food, combined with the wine and the fire, helped warm him all the way through. An itchy tingling starting to creep back into his toes. It felt as if they were all still attached.

  When they’d all finished mopping up the stew with some flat bread, and the second wineskin was empty, a comfortable silence settled on the camp. It seemed a shame to spoil it.

  “So why’re you out here?” asked Vargus.

  “Just travelling. Looking for work, like you,” said Korr.

  “You heard any news from the villages around here?”

  One of the men shifted as if getting comfortable, but Vargus saw his hand move to the hilt of his axe. Their fear was palpable.

  Korr shook his head. “Not been in any villages. We keep to ourselves.” The lie would have been obvious to a blind and deaf man.

  “I heard about a group of bandits causing trouble in some of the villages around here. First it was just a bit of thieving and starting a couple of fights. Then it got worse when they saw a bit of gold.” Vargus shook his head sadly. “Last week one of them lost control. Killed four men, including the innkeeper.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Korr. He was sweating now and it had nothing to do with the blaze. On the other side of the fire a snoozing man was elbowed awake and he sat up with a snort. The others were gripping their weapons with sweaty hands, waiting for the signal.

  “One of them beat the innkeeper’s wife half to death when she wouldn’t give him the money.”

  “What’s it matter to you?” someone asked.

  Vargus shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me. But the woman has two children and they saw who done it. Told the village Elder all about it.”

  “We’re far from the cities out here. Something like that isn’t big enough to bring the King’s men. They only come around these parts to collect taxes twice a year,” said Lin with confidence.

>   “Then why do you all look like you’re about to shit yourselves?” asked Vargus.

  An uncomfortable silence settled around the camp, broken only by the sound of Vargus scratching his stubbly cheek.

  “Is the King sending men after us?” asked Korr, forgoing any pretence of their involvement.

  “It isn’t the King you should worry about. I heard the village Elders banded together, decided to do something themselves. They hired the Gath.”

  “Oh shit.”

  “He ain’t real! He’s just a myth.”

  “Lord of Light shelter me,” one of the men prayed. “Lady of Light protect me.”

  “Those are just stories,” scoffed Lin. “My father told me about him when I was a boy, more than thirty years ago.”

  “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about,” Vargus grinned.

  But it was clear they were still scared, more than before now that he’d stirred things up. Their belief in the Gath was so strong he could almost taste it in the air. For a while he said nothing and each man was lost in his own thoughts. Fear of dying gripped them all, tight as iron shackles.

  Silence covered the camp like a fresh layer of snow and he let it sit a while, soaking up the atmosphere, enjoying the calm before it was shattered.

  One of the men reached for a wineskin then remembered they were empty.

  “What do we do, Korr?” asked one of the men. The others were scanning the trees as if they expected someone to rush into camp.

  “Shut up, I’m thinking.”

  Before Korr came up with a plan Vargus stabbed him in the ribs. It took everyone a few seconds to realise what had happened. It was only when he pulled the dagger free with a shower of gore that they reacted.

  Vargus stood up and drew the bastard sword from over his shoulder. The others tried to stand, but none of them could manage it. One man fell backwards, another tripped over his feet, landing on his face. Lin managed to make it upright, but then stumbled around as if drunk.