Nathaniel Grey and the Obsidian Crown

by Farrell Keeling

  ‘You have the means within you,’ a voice said.

  The hackles stood upright against Nathaniel’s neck.

  ‘Who was that?’ Nathaniel called out into the room, half-expecting to see a pair of silver eyes watching him from the darkness.

  ‘Who was what?’ the old man’s brown furrowed.

  Something metallic rolled across the floor by Nathaniel’s side. Something glowing green. The rod Zaine had found in Bela’s saddlebags. The rod belonging to Thorne Grey.

  A wild thought crossed Nathaniel’s mind, one so ridiculous it made him laugh, much to his cellmate’s annoyance – had the rod spoken?

  ‘Don’t turn your back to me, boy!’ the old man rapped his knuckles against the bars.

  Nathaniel brought the rod up to his face. He hesitated a moment before whispering to it, ‘was that you?’

  The rod was still, then its runes flashed green. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘I can’t believe it!’ Nathaniel said, barely managing to curb his excitement. ‘How long have you been able to do this? Does Thorne know?’

  ‘Your Grandfather knows better than most.’

  Nathaniel had so many questions but, remembering his plight, he made an effort to calm himself and address the situation. ‘You said I had the means within me, what did you mean by that?’

  ‘Must I always spell it out for you Greys?’ the voice took on a tired, condescending tone.

  ‘Spell out what?’ Nathaniel pressed the voice. ‘How do I get out of here?’

  The old man knocked his forehead against the bars behind Nathaniel. Moaning about how fate had spited him with a ‘loony.’

  Nathaniel thought he heard a yawn, but the rod was otherwise silent.

  ‘Answer me!’ Nathaniel hissed.

  The rod lost its bright glow and lay cold in his hands – a useless lump of metal once more. Perhaps the old man was right. Maybe he had lost his mind after all.

  The sound of a heavy lock protesting against a key forced Nathaniel’s eyes away from the rod, which he hastily tucked into the side of a boot.

  The woman who walked in was dressed far too splendidly to set foot in a dungeon and it showed on her face. Bereft of her pink dress, it took Nathaniel a while to realise who stood grimacing before their cells. The Pink Lady – the Stewardess of Morne, bearing the gold medallion of her station. She gave Nathaniel a suspicious look, as if she knew what lay in his boot. He did his utmost best to match her gaze and not glance down at his legs. With a sniff, she turned to the old man, still leaning against the bars, and utterly unwilling to look at her.

  ‘Father,’ she gave a curt nod.

  Father?

  ‘Daughter,’ he grumbled.

  ‘I trust you have given a warm welcome to our newest prisoner?’ the Stewardess.

  The man replied with a rueful shake of his head. ‘Is this how you intend to torture me, Mortellia? Saddling me with lunatics till I squawk like one too? Does this amuse you?’

  ‘This is no lunatic, father, I have caged the Kinslayer himself.’

  The old man gave Nathaniel a once over and burst into a fit of laughter that had him doubled over and clutching his stomach, as if to prevent his innards from bursting out. It felt stupid but Nathaniel couldn’t prevent the heat rising against his cheeks.

  ‘By Ozin’s beard!’ the old man whimpered out the last dregs of good cheer with tears in his eyes. ‘You mean to – Bahahaha! – you mean to tell me that this…. This infant killed the Regal Emperor?’

  I didn’t kill the bloody Emperor! Nathaniel wanted to scream the words at them both. Experience taught him it would be a supreme waste of effort.

  ‘I wouldn’t be so surprised, father,’ the Stewardess’s smile had a particularly smug curve to it. ‘After all, aren’t you notoriously familiar with the havoc a Grey can unleash?’

  ‘A Grey?’ the old man rose to his feet suddenly, as if stung by a wasp. ‘As in the Greys?’

  The mix of emotions that crossed the man’s face, as he stared down at Nathaniel was most peculiar. Dislike was far too simple a description of what curdled in those dark eyes – a none too small portion of hate no doubt but also a grudging respect… and fear.

  Having achieved the desired effect, Mortellia walked over to Nathaniel’s cell. Her eyes had become frighteningly calculating. ‘Now, tell me. Why should I not send a raven to his eminence, Draeden Kusk, telling him I have the Kinslayer secured in Morne?’

  ‘Because you don’t believe I did it?’ Nathaniel said. It was a hopeful play, which sounded pathetic even to him.

  ‘A pity,’ the Stewardess shook her head mournfully, ‘for word has already been sent to Obsidia.’

  Nathaniel felt himself sliding deeper into the floor. So, she was going to serve him up on a silver platter for the Szar.

  ‘What about Crow?’ Nathaniel said, ‘he’s not going to be happy when he finds out you’ve crossed him.’

  Mortellia lips curled into a wicked smile, ‘it’s not Crow with the army, Regal. Guards!’

  Chest plates rattling, two guardsmen stumbled into the room and stood to attention.

  ‘Take these two to my carriage and make sure to chain them first!’ the Stewardess barked her orders even though the guardsmen stood right in front of her. ‘If either escape… I’ll have the head of the man responsible.’

  The guardsmen shared a look between the visors of their helmets, bowed, and quickly retreated.

  ‘Morne’s gates open at first light!’ the Stewardess roared after them.

  Chapter 32

  The carriage shook and trembled as it crawled over the mud and cobblestone of Morne’s streets.

  In the almost blacked out carriage, Nathaniel sat facing the Stewardess and her father, sandwiched between two of Morne’s guardsmen. His hands and feet had been shackled together, and Mortellia had told him, in no uncertain terms, that if she heard so much as a peep, she’d have one of the guards cut out his tongue.

  Her father, apparently, still couldn’t decide how to feel about Nathaniel. The looks that flew his way ranged from cautious reproach to mild curiosity, as his tongue ran over cracked lips. The old man scratched at the uneven patches of salt and pepper stubble marking his jaw. Nathaniel noticed he was missing two fingers and the tips of others. Had the Stewardess done that to him? Her own father?

  ‘Do you really think announcing your departure from the city in this way is a good idea, Mortellia?’ he asked the Stewardess. ‘I raised you smarter than that.’

  ‘You also raised me to think for myself, father,’ Mortellia countered. ‘Besides, seeing their Stewardess, out and about, in their streets will give the people hope.’

  ‘Right until you dash it on the rocks by leaving Morne,’ the old man muttered scornfully.

  ‘Right after opening the gates for trade to resume and merchants to go about their business once more.’

  The old man turned his head back to his curtained window, muttering something under his breath. He noticed Nathaniel staring at him and turned his level look on the Regal.

  ‘Your Grandfather cost me a great deal,’ he said flatly.

  Nathaniel gave a pointed look at Mortellia. Did this not qualify as a ‘peep?’

  The subtle nod of her head suggested quiet conversation lay in the bounds of her liking.

  ‘Did he now?’ Nathaniel replied.

  ‘Oh yes. Almost cost me my damn life, Thorne Grey.’ The old man spoke with a far-off look in his eyes, before a rueful shake of the head brought him back to the present. ‘Though, I suppose it would be unfair to apportion him all the blame…’

  ‘And who is deserving of your blame?’ Nathaniel inquired.

  The old man gave a derisive snort, ‘it matters little, Regal.’

  The carriage jerked, as it came to a sudden halt, throwing Nathaniel into one of the guardsmen’s shoulder plates. Nathaniel rubbed his sore temple and sat back against the seat, scowling. The conversation that took place outside was muffled and, ultimately, short-
lived. The carriage was soon rumbling on ahead again.

  ‘You’re playing a dangerous game, daughter,’ the old man said.

  ‘The game would be boring if it wasn’t, father,’ Mortellia replied with a smirk.

  The old man shook his head, disapprovingly.

  It was a strange thought to have, given his predicament, but Nathaniel felt oddly relieved. At least, he wasn’t the only one who had a difficult relationship with their father.

  The journey became a little less bumpy once the carriage had left Morne in its wake, only jolting occasionally, as it ran over stones or potholes on the road.

  It couldn’t have been long after that, that they came to another abrupt stop.

  ‘What in Ozin’s Throne…’ Mortellia said.

  ‘A complication, my daughter?’ the old man gave the Stewardess a sidelong glance, with a smug expression on his face.

  ‘If this is your work–’ she sneered back.

  ‘My work? What, with you having me caged like an animal?’ the old man scoffed.

  The Stewardess knocked sharply on the roof of the carriage. A square door in the middle of the roof slid back to reveal a nervous, moustached face. ‘I–Mistress… there’s a boy… he appeared out of nowhere! I had to–’

  ‘Then, get him to move!’ Mortellia hissed up at the driver.

  ‘Right away, Mistress!’ the man disappeared, as swiftly as he appeared, and the compartment was replaced.

  A moment passed before the door slid back again and the moustached driver popped back into view. ‘You won’t believe it, Mistress – he’s gone. I can’t bloody see him!’

  ‘Then what are we still doing here?’ Mortellia demanded. ‘Move on at once, you fool!’

  ‘Right away, Mistre–aghhhhhhhh!’

  Something blurred past overhead, taking the driver with it, and causing the horses to shriek outside. The loud and sharp crunch that ended the man’s screaming sounded awfully fatal.

  The Stewardess had shrunk away from the carriage door. ‘What are you two gawking at? Defend me!’ she gestured for the guardsmen to exit the carriage.

  The guardsmen hesitated – Nathaniel could hardly blame them – gripped the pommels of their swords tightly and then burst out of the carriage. Though instinct suggested otherwise, Nathaniel leaned forward in his seat to peer through the now ajar carriage door. The guardsmen held their swords - trembling, Nathaniel thought - out before them, standing back to back against this unseen foe.

  One of them approached something laying on the ground out of view from the carriage’s doorway. ‘Must have been some wild beast, Mistress,’ the guard said. ‘Broke Digby’s neck clean.’

  ‘The reins are snapped Mistress!’ cried the other, ‘the horses have done bolted!’

  ‘Wild beasts don’t leave their prey uneaten,’ the old man murmured. All the smugness had dissipated from his voice and his face seemed to have gone a shade paler. His eyes sunken deeper within the shadows of his skull.

  One of the guardsmen uttered a short cry outside, disappearing from Nathaniel’s view by the time he’d looked back through the carriage doorway.

  ‘It’s back! It’s bloody back!’ the remaining guardsman howled. The man swung his sword in reckless arcs around him, cutting nothing but thin air.

  Mortellia shoved a knife about as thick as a knitting needle against her father’s ribs. ‘Call it off,’ the Stewardess commanded him. ‘I know this is your doing.’

  ‘You think I did this?’ the old man looked aghast.

  Nathaniel had never seen anything move as fast as the blur that took the last guardsman. The man didn’t even have time to cry out. The seconds seemed like hours, as they sat altogether in the carriage, stunned to silence.

  ‘You can come out now,’ someone spoke gently from the outside. The man’s voice sounded far too soft for someone who had just murdered a handful of guardsmen.

  Mortellia’s father groaned in response but didn’t move. And, as far as Nathaniel was concerned, leaving the relative safety of the carriage was absolutely the last thing he wanted to do.

  However, the Stewardess had other thoughts and the coolness of the blade that appeared against his throat made them clearer. ‘Are you deaf, Kinslayer?’ Mortellia hissed in his ear. ‘Move!’

  Nathaniel inched slowly out of the carriage, with the Stewardess in tow, making sure he remained conscious of the knife pressed against his neck. A boy, who looked barely a year or two older than Nathaniel, stood beside the last guardsman’s corpse, looking extremely uncomfortable. Keeping the knife trained against his throat, the Stewardess shepherded Nathaniel forward.

  ‘Uh… hello,’ Nathaniel said, gulping down bile as he examined the bodies strewn about the road.

  He was hunched over with his arms wrapped tightly around his stomach as his whole body shook violently. His eyes kept wandering down to the body at his feet. Every time he did so, he would immediately turn to the sky and shake his head profusely, as if scolding the Gods.

  It couldn’t have been him that had done all this, could it? The boy looked so ill that a stray gust of wind might bowl him over. His skin was draped so tightly over his face it was a wonder how it didn’t snap under the strain of his jaw.

  The boy suddenly looked up, fixing Nathaniel with a stare.

  ‘Nathaniel Grey?’ the boy asked. Just getting out Nathaniel’s name seemed laborious for him.

  The Stewardess turned the knife so only the point rested against his skin. ‘You set this up?’ she hissed into his ear.

  ‘I’ve never seen him before,’ Nathaniel said.

  ‘To be fair… he hasn’t,’ the boy gave a not so reassuring smile.

  The knife twisted, causing Nathaniel to take a sharp intake of breath and drawing a line of crimson that wetted the edge of the blade. ‘Where is it?’ she said sharply.

  ‘Where… is what?’ the boy frowned. He snuck another look at the dead guardsman and shut his eyes with a grimace.

  ‘Your pet! The beast that did this!’ Mortellia shrieked, gesticulating towards the bodies. ‘You tell me right now, or I’ll… wait… what are you doing with that, boy?’

  Mortellia extended her finger towards the boy’s chest and the gold medallion that hung from the chain around his neck. Now that Nathaniel thought about it, it looked distinctly like the one Mortellia wore.

  ‘This?’ the boy ran his fingers over the medallion, ‘it belonged to my father.’

  ‘You’re a Steward’s son, boy?’ Nathaniel heard the old man call from the carriage. ‘Dear oh dear, Mortellia, what have you done now?’

  ‘Quiet!’ she spat back. ‘Well?’ she said.

  ‘Formerly a Steward. He’s dead now.’ The boy didn’t sound particularly broken up about that.

  The old man poked his head out of the carriage. There was an apprehensive look on his face that suggested he had an inkling of what the answer would be and it was not one he liked. ‘Of which place, boy? Who was your father?’

  ‘The City of Light,’ the boy replied, staring at the old man. ‘My father was-’

  ‘Xalem.’ The old man finished his sentence with a look of abject horror etched across his face. What followed sent a slow chill down Nathaniel’s spine.

  ‘The v-vampire,’ the old man stuttered.

  Nathaniel was looking at the boy with a new found dread. He wasn’t sure what would be a worse way to go. At the Szar’s hands, or the vampire’s maw.

  The vampire uttered a low groan, as he clutched his stomach. He really did look ill. ‘Let the boy go, Stewardess.’

  Please don’t, Nathaniel thought, suddenly very reluctant to go ahead with this rescue.

  ‘You can have the Regal, demon–’

  Gods alive, don’t goad it!

  ‘–after the Szar is through with him.’

  ‘Foolish girl,’ the old man muttered behind Nathaniel.

  ‘That won’t work,’ the vampire replied.

  ‘Then I’m afraid we’re at an imp–’

  Th
e vampire left no time for Mortellia to finish her grandstanding, moving so fast his shadow seemed to take a second to catch up to him. Plumes of dust rose from the road, as Nathaniel rolled away from the Stewardess’s grasp.

  When he looked up, he saw Mortellia held up by her throat and her blade buried in the carriage’s lacquered frame beside her. The vampire’s lips had parted all the way to his gums and he was taking in heavy breaths.

  ‘WAIT!’

  All turned to witness Zaine sprinting towards the carriage, Lycans and Vaera huffing and puffing behind him.

  ‘Hunter,’ the vampire’s eyes had not left the Stewardess.

  Gabe was the second to arrive at the scene. ‘Woah.’ His brow lifted as he took in the remains of the guardsmen littering the road.

  ‘Put the Stewardess down, Valen. She need not die,’ Zaine placated the vampire with one hand, whilst – Nathaniel noted – his other worked its way round the ruby pommel of his sword.

  ‘Do your damn job… Hunter… and kill this beast!’ Mortellia garbled out the command.

  Valen gave Zaine a flat look. ‘What’s it to be, Hunter?’

  Zaine paused or a moment and then fingers slipped from his sword. Valen closed his eyes and released his hold on the Stewardess. Mortellia fell on her knees, clutching her throat as she coughed and spluttered onto the dirt track.

  Zaine turned to Nathaniel and clutched his shoulder. ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘I am now, thanks,’ Nathaniel smiled uneasily. But how, by Athrana’s grace, did you find me?’

  Zaine nodded towards Valen.

  ‘That monster,’ she shrieked at Valen, slapping herself as tightly against the carriage as she could. ‘You, Hunter! Kill that thing, this minute!’

  ‘I don’t answer to Stewards,’ Zaine said, dismissively, barely glancing at her.

  The Stewardess looked from person to person, searching for someone who’d jump to her aid. However, her eyes practically bulged when they met Kaira’s, who was advancing towards her.

  ‘YOU–’

  Mortellia crumpled to the ground, almost immediately after Kaira’s fist had connected with her jaw.