The Iron Ghost Page 8

  The young man’s blood fell on the grass in a hot shower. Sebastian grabbed the shoulder of the brood sister and yanked her back; her eyes, when they turned to him, were wide and yellow, the pupils shrunk down to narrow slits – Tidal, he thought belatedly, that’s her name – but now the girl was running. As one, he felt the attention of the brood sisters latch on to her fleeing shape.

  ‘Stop! Don’t run!’

  The father was standing, his mouth hanging open as his son’s blood ran into the dirt. The girl was already some distance down the slope, her scarlet hood flapping wildly. The brood sister who had disarmed the young man had already joined the chase, her white hair streaming behind her.

  ‘Damn you all!’

  Sebastian set off after them, pounding down the grass with his heart in his throat, but another shape quickly overtook him. At first he thought it was another brood sister joining the hunt, but then he saw the familiar swinging shape of Ephemeral’s braid. Within seconds she had caught up with her sister, who, thankfully, had yet to catch the girl, and tackled her forcefully to the ground. There was a chorus of hissing and Sebastian arrived just as Ephemeral was threatening to tear her sister’s throat out. Denia was still running to the lake – so quickly, that Sebastian feared she would run straight into it.

  ‘I hope you are happy.’ Sebastian took a deep breath, and shook his head. ‘You may well have doomed us all.’ The brood sister on her back looked up at him and bared her teeth. He wasn’t very surprised to see it was the Second.

  ‘The human ran,’ she said. She was breathing hard. ‘It is prey.’

  ‘Not any more it’s not. Get up.’

  Ephemeral eased her weight off and the Second scrambled to her feet, shooting her sister a poisonous look. Sebastian glanced up to where the rest of the brood army waited. The father still stood there, amazingly, looking punch drunk. He was swaying gently on his feet.

  ‘Isu be cursed,’ muttered Sebastian. He could feel a rage building inside him, a hot slither like a snake in the dark. ‘Any hope we had of travelling through this land without attracting attention has gone. And that boy –’ he turned to the Second, his hands grasping the pommel of his sword, too tight – ‘he could never have harmed you. Any of you.’

  ‘Father, what will we do?’ Ephemeral was watching the girl, who had made it to the shore of the lake and had fallen to her knees. ‘The humans will sound the alarm.’

  ‘We must kill them,’ said the Second. There was no hunger in her face now, no need for the hunt. Just a simple pragmatism. Sebastian wasn’t sure which he hated more. ‘The girl and her father, or we forfeit our own lives.’

  ‘No.’

  Sebastian could feel Ephemeral looking at him. ‘No,’ he said again, ‘we’ve spilt more than enough blood today.’

  With a heavy heart, he walked back up the slope. The bearded man had fallen at his son’s side now, cradling the boy’s head in his arms. He was shaking all over.

  ‘Get away from him,’ Sebastian snapped at the brood sisters, who were standing and watching the man’s grief with blank faces. He knelt by him and placed a hand on his shoulder, but the man just shook his head. His eyes were dry, and when he turned his face, Sebastian saw that it had lost all of its previous ruddy colour.

  ‘You must go to your daughter,’ he said in a low voice. ‘She is frightened. Take her home, and—’ He stopped, thinking of young Denia’s first lake-singing test. She wouldn’t take it now, of course. How many lives had they ruined just by walking this path? ‘Take her home. There is nothing I can say to repair what has been taken from you. But if I can help you one day, I will.’ The man looked at him, uncomprehending. ‘I am sorry.’

  Sebastian stood up. Tidal, the brood sister who had torn out the young man’s throat, was standing at the very edge of the group. Her mouth and neck were red with rapidly drying blood, and she looked almost as lost as the man kneeling on the ground.

  ‘Move,’ he said, gesturing brusquely down the slope. ‘Quickly now. We’ll likely have a mob after us before the sun goes down.’

  Much later, when the brood sisters were safely hidden away in a thicket of dark forest, Ephemeral came and stood with Sebastian while he kept watch at the edge of their camp. He had forbidden any fires, and she was little more than a light patch of gloom in the forest, her hair the brightest thing he could see.

  ‘Will we be safe?’

  Sebastian laughed a little, although he had no humour in him. ‘Oh, we’re safe. It’s everyone else who’s not.’

  Ephemeral nodded, as though she had expected this answer. ‘When one of us disobeyed Y’Ruen, she would kill us. There was never any question. But you have let Tidal live.’

  Far off in the dark forest, an owl fluted its evening call. A moment later, another owl answered.

  ‘If I had killed Tidal, if I became her executioner, then I would be no better than Y’Ruen. I will not say I did not want to. For a moment I could have killed her, and the Second too, and I may not even have regretted it.’ Sebastian sighed. It was a freezing night, and he could feel his fingers growing numb through his gloves. The brood sisters did not like the cold, and many had complained about the lack of a fire on the coldest night they’d seen so far. ‘Ephemeral, I am responsible for you. That boy’s blood is as much on my hands as it is on Tidal’s. I can only try to stop it happening again.’

  ‘I did not like to see it,’ said Ephemeral. When he looked at her, she shrugged. ‘The boy dying. The screams of the girl. It was . . . unjust. There was no joy in it.’

  Looking back into the darkness between the trees, Sebastian wondered if the alarm had been raised yet. The man would have eventually taken his daughter home, or perhaps more family members would have come out to find them. It might take some time to get any sense out of Denia or her father, but the words would come in the end, and then they would remember the stories of the army of monstrous green women who had marched across Creos and Relios, right up to the city of Baneswatch. The rumours that some had survived that terrible battle would be confirmed.

  ‘Why did they come with me, Ephemeral?’ he said, still looking into the darkness. ‘Why did these ones follow me? Plenty of your sisters wouldn’t.’

  ‘And they all died at Baneswatch,’ said Ephemeral. He looked at her, trying to gauge if her comment was as sardonic as it sounded, but it was impossible to make out her expression in the gloom. ‘My sisters are confused, and as alone as they have ever been. You are the only thing that makes sense to them, the only link their blood has left. The Second laid down her sword when she saw Mother torn through the sky, and the way forward has been lost to her.’

  Sebastian shook his head. ‘If they cannot see a running human without thinking they must kill them, then we will never make it to the mountains.’

  ‘They will listen to you,’ said Ephemeral. ‘Mother’s voice has gone from their hearts and they are looking for a new one. You must give it to them.’

  The next morning, Sebastian gathered them together in the weak grey light of dawn. Tidal was sitting on her haunches, still looking as though she expected a blow to fall any moment, while the Second stood at the back of the group with her arms crossed over her chest.

  ‘I will only say this to you once, and I hope that you will listen,’ said Sebastian. ‘If you want to continue living in this world, you must not take another human life. You must not.’ He looked around at them all; he saw fear there, and reluctance, and confusion, just as Ephemeral had said. ‘You must swear it to me. I can help you to learn about the world, and I can help you to live in it, but I must have this promise from you.’

  There was a murmur of assent.

  ‘If you break this oath, I will not kill you.’ He looked down at Tidal, who was staring at the ground. ‘But I will cast you out, which will be as good as death. You are strong, yes, frighteningly strong, but alone you will be lost, and without your sisters at your side the humans you meet will bring you down eventually. They might need a mob to do it, but the
y will. If you can keep this oath, then we will make it to the sacred mountains and there we will have space and time to learn what you need to.’ He paused. Off to his left he saw Ephemeral, standing utterly still. ‘Do you swear it?’

  After a few moments’ silence there was a chorus of assent. Some sounded more enthusiastic than others, but Sebastian was glad to note that every one of them took the oath, even the Second, who nodded once when he met her eyes. When it was done, he slung his pack over his back and ran a hand over his chin. He would need to shave again soon.

  ‘Good. And I swear to you that I will do what I can to give you a life here. I swear it by the god-peak.’

  11

  ‘How does it feel?’

  Wydrin came to a stop, shifting her legs around, trying to get comfortable. Beneath her the werken stood utterly still, its legs half buried in the sun-bright snow. She had tied a leather seat around its waist, which did something to cushion her behind, but even so, her rear end was already complaining. Ahead of her Bors sat astride his own mount, a werken shaped rather like an enormous bear, its shoulders broad and rounded.

  ‘It feels like my arse has gone to sleep for ever.’

  Bors laughed. ‘You’ll get used to that. In Skaldshollow, most of us are riding werkens as soon as we can walk.’ He smiled. ‘My father used to take Nuava and me out on his werken and do circuits of the city wall. It was safer back then.’

  ‘What a fine collection of rock-hard bottoms you all must have.’ She caught up with Bors and they stood still for a moment, looking out over the snowy landscape. They were to the east of the quarry that split the ground above Skaldshollow, following a rarely used path that headed deep into the mountains. Below them, Wydrin could see men and women and werkens working in the pit. She could hear their voices on the cold air, the chilly chink of hammers on rock, and every now and then the soft crump of an explosion as they delved deeper into the mountain. ‘Safer?’

  ‘The Narhl attacks weren’t so frequent then.’ Bors tugged at his knot of hair, not quite looking at her. ‘My mother and father were both murdered by the Narhl just after Nuava’s fifth birthday. They used to be Edeian trackers. It was their job to look for new veins of Edeian out in the northern territories.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that.’ Wydrin thought of her own brother lying in his cabin, half his body covered in burns after their deadly encounter with the dragon. Thanks to Frith’s magic, Jarath had survived, and that wasn’t something she’d forget in a hurry. ‘You and your sister are close, then?’

  He nodded. ‘We lived with Tamlyn after that, and Nuava has flourished under her tutelage,’ he said reluctantly. ‘She will be a fine crafter one day.’ He paused, and shook himself. ‘Anyway, I meant how does it feel to be riding the werken?’ He smiled at her, his honest face lighting up. Wydrin smiled back. ‘I imagine it is quite strange for you.’

  ‘Well, you know,’ Wydrin leaned forward and urged her werken beyond Bors and his mount, dragging stone legs through powdery snow, ‘I was always quite useless with horses. Big, flighty creatures, altogether too nervous. They can tell when you’ve had a drink, did you know that? I was brought up on an island, you see, not much call for them. I spent more time on boats than on horseback. This, though,’ she patted the werken on the space between its arrow-like stone ears, ‘this is easier. It’s an extension of myself, like the dagger in my hand. I think about doing something, and the werken does it.’

  Bors looked pleased. ‘I think you are a natural. You must have the mountains in your blood somewhere.’

  ‘Nah, that’s Sebastian.’ She looked down at the chip of green crystal nestled in her palm. It no longer hurt at all. ‘Although I suppose with this, now I do, in a way.’

  They moved on further, following a rough trail almost lost under fresh drifts of snow, until the quarry was out of sight and in front of them was a shallow dip in the terrain. Dark trees lined the far side of it, and above them rose the face of the mountain proper.

  ‘Are you feeling up to a race?’ Bors’ bear-shaped werken rose up briefly on its hind legs, displaying stony paws, before thumping back into the snow. ‘First one down to the treeline buys a round of drinks.’

  ‘Ho, that’s hardly fair!’ crowed Wydrin, although she moved her werken to the edge of the ridge, and curled a hand around the leather strap attached to the saddle. ‘You’ve been doing this all your life, and I’ve only just started. I would need at least a week to get used to how this stone beast handles and even then – GO!’

  She focussed all her thoughts into that single command and the werken leapt, surging forward with a burst of speed she had barely guessed at. Screaming with delight, she held on for dear life as the werken sped down the steep incline, sending snow flying in all directions. She could hear Bors shouting something – she couldn’t make out the words but his surprised amusement was clear – and then there was a startling thunder as his bear-shaped mount came after her, now struggling to keep up.

  ‘This bastard can move!’

  All at once the dark treeline was looming very close, and Wydrin yanked back on the leather strap, in her panic resorting to the little experience she had with horses, but the werken was suddenly turning, skidding into a stop with its back legs stretched out. Snow flew up in a wave, pelting the tree trunks with a wet splatter. Such was the violence of their sudden stop that some of the snow hit the back of Wydrin’s cloak, and she cried out in mingled delight and disgust as some of it slipped down the back of her collar. A handful of seconds later Bors joined her, although much slower; the bear-shaped werken thumped over to the trees at an amiable pace, having clearly given up the race.

  Wydrin grinned and leaned forward, patting the werken between the ears again.

  ‘You know, I think he likes going fast. He may not be as quick as yours over deep snow, but give him space to run and he’ll make the most of it.’ She laughed. ‘Mine’s a mead, by the way, none of this grut nonsense. And a bowl of stew while you’re at it, I’m starving.’

  Bors smiled, although he seemed to have lost some of his earlier humour. ‘They don’t like anything, Wydrin, they can’t. Your werken is a sleeker model, and it moves fast over short distances. Saying it likes going fast is like saying . . . like saying a table enjoys having food on it.’

  Wydrin wriggled in the saddle. The snow had melted and was now trickling down her back. ‘How can you know that for certain?’

  Bors and his mount moved closer. The edge of the blue sky was tainted with heavy clouds, promising a storm later. His hair, smoothed back into its tight knot, looked very black against his grey furs.

  ‘My friend, I have been down in the quarry myself, I have chipped the rock from the mountain. It is solid, inert, as you would expect. And I have seen it carved into functional shapes by my aunt, crafted into forms that will move. It is the magic of the mountain that gives it a semblance of life – it is that, that causes the werkens to follow our actions. They are a mirror, that is all.’

  ‘This one moved without a rider. You said it was defective, but what if it was something else?’

  Bors smiled again, his expression tight. ‘You’re an outsider here, so it’s not surprising you don’t understand. But listen, don’t go talking like that around my aunt, all right? The Narhl believe that the werkens are feeling creatures, and that belief fuels this war between us. Tamlyn – Tamlyn wouldn’t care to hear such views from guests, particularly guests she is giving large amounts of coin to.’

  Wydrin shrugged. Just for a moment, she tried to reach out with her mind to the werken – instead of issuing a command, she left her mind open. Are you there? Can you hear me? There was nothing, only the cold presence beneath her, and a potential for movement. ‘If you say so.’ She leaned forward in the saddle and wrapped her hands around the leather strap again. The werken had almost been as swift as the griffin, and she wanted to see how fast it could go. ‘How about another race, then? Back down to Skaldshollow, last one back buys the bottle.’


  12

  Tamlyn and Bors Nox came to see them off. Frith thought that the older woman looked unsure of herself, her wide brow furrowed into lines. She kept touching the beads at her throat, and whenever her nephew spoke to her she snapped at him, until the younger man hung back, not making eye contact with any of them. Not for the first time Frith wondered whether or not hiring them had, in fact, been Tamlyn’s idea.

  ‘We have given you all the tactical information we have on the Narhl,’ she said, when they were loaded up and ready to go. They stood on one of the winding paths that led up out of Skaldshollow; they would follow it out of mountain and into Narhl territory. ‘You must remember that they are savages, and that they care more for the dead stone of the mountain than they do about human life.’

  Sebastian, adjusting the way his broadsword hung over his back, frowned at this. ‘We shall see.’

  It was a five-day journey to the outskirts of the Frozen Steps, across cold, inhospitable hills and around winding paths that, half the time, Frith couldn’t see until they were right on top of them. Wydrin’s werken came along after them. Frith had protested at first, complaining that the creature would slow them down or make the narrower paths impassable, but Wydrin had insisted, pointing out that it could carry all their supplies and gear, leaving them able to move freely. And so far, its slim, narrow shape had caused no significant problems, although Frith often found it unnerving to glance back the way they’d come to see two points of eerie green light staring back at him. His own steed, Gwiddion, flew above them in its bird form, sometimes perching on rocky outcrops and waiting for them to catch up.

  Looking at the bird made him think of O’rin; his old teacher had never been far from a pack of squawking birds on Whittenfarne. Since Y’Ruen had been cast out of Ede, tumbling through a hole in the sky – a result of O’rin’s own long-planned spell – the god of lies had made himself scarce, preferring to stay at his Rookery, away from the world and its problems. He had paid Frith a few brief visits, usually when he was alone, walking in the Blackwood or in his own bare suite of rooms in the castle. The old god would appear in a flurry of feathers, full of questions and pointed comments about the welfare of his griffin, his great curved beak nodding rapidly. He would pretend that these visits were a result of his naturally curious nature, but Frith suspected that the old god was keeping an eye on him. That, or he was lonely. It seemed ludicrous that such a powerful being could want company, but he was the last of his kind now. And Frith had some idea what that felt like.