There was silence between them for a time, before Fen said, ‘Joha’s a real bastard sometimes, isn’t he? Turning his back on his daughter like that.’
Cade had never really thought about it, but she had a point. ‘Reckon you’re right. Gods don’t make the greatest role models.’
They went quiet again, but Cade fancied the silence was more companionable than before. The lake water sloshed against the wall beneath their feet while he studied the piled walkways and wings of Skavengard, its bridges and spires, the outbuildings that clung like limpets to the vertical rock. After a time, he became uncomfortable and looked away. He had a growing sense that Skavengard was watching him, rather than the other way around.
‘Were you at Salt Fork?’ he asked.
Fen stirred next to him, as if she’d forgotten he was there. ‘We all were.’
‘What happened?’
Fen considered her answer for a long time. ‘We tried to make a difference,’ she said. ‘We failed.’
Cade frowned. ‘Not much of a storyteller, are you?’
‘Never had much opportunity to practise.’
‘Well, you start by adding in a few details. Was there a battle? Treachery and betrayal? That sort of thing.’
‘Fifty of us went to Salt Fork to start something. Eight of us got out. Now there’s four. What else is there to say?’
Cade was disappointed. She wasn’t a very forthcoming sort. He supposed that was one of the downsides of being mysterious.
‘But you are with the Greycloaks?’
‘There’s no such thing as the Greycloaks,’ she said, bitterly.
‘Course there is! Not everyone’s willing to put up with things the way they are. Who’s fighting back against the Krodans, if not the Greycloaks?’
‘Scattered groups like us. Too small to do much good. Some of them claim they’re with the Greycloaks, but they’re just using the name. If there was any great resistance movement, we’d know by now. But this secret underground network you’ve heard of, these freedom fighters battling the Krodans on your behalf? They don’t exist. The Greycloaks are a folktale.’
‘Can’t you all team up or something?’
She gave him a tired look. ‘People have tried. Sooner or later, someone sells them out. The Iron Hand had Ossians betraying their own kind right from the start.’ Faint anger flickered across her face. ‘The more people you trust, the more you’re asking to let you down.’
The idea shocked and saddened Cade. ‘The squareheads have a saying: “Tie two Ossians to a cart and they’ll pull in different directions.” Never believed it before now.’
‘Time to start,’ Fen said.
He examined his reflection in the water. ‘Is Garric going to kill us?’
She snorted. ‘You think he’d go to all this trouble to rescue you if he was?’
‘Did you rescue us? Or did you capture us? ’Cause I gotta say, it ain’t exactly clear.’
‘Well, seeing as you were about to die at the hands of the Krodans, I’d say you were rescued,’ she said. ‘We came for Aren. Garric wanted to get him out of the camp and take him somewhere safe. Apparently that’s the limit of his obligation, though, so the first town we find, you’re on your own. Assuming your friend makes it that far.’
‘But Garric acts like he hates us! Aren especially.’
‘Maybe he does.’
‘So why rescue him?’
‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Garric.’
Cade made a strangled noise of frustration. ‘You came all the way to the middle of nowhere to pull Aren out of a Krodan camp, and you don’t know why?’
‘We regrouped after Salt Fork, made plans for what to do next. Then Garric got some news and the plans changed. He said there was a boy called Aren of Shoal Point in a camp at Suller’s Bluff, and we had to make a detour to break him out. We asked why – of course we did.’
‘And?’
‘He said it was a debt of honour. Wouldn’t say who he owed it to. Wouldn’t say why. Said he’d do it alone if he had to. I guess Garric’s not much of a storyteller, either.’
‘A debt to Aren’s father?’ Cade guessed. ‘But Randill said the Hollow M— Garric would kill him!’
‘I don’t know anything about that. But we all owe Garric enough that there wasn’t much question of saying no. Once we were sure Aren was in there, we made a plan to strike from the forest while the guards were marching you up to the mine. They weren’t real soldiers; they would’ve run, first sign of trouble. The prisoners would likely make a break for it, and the Krodans would’ve been too busy hunting all those runaway Ossians to notice one missing.’
‘But we got wind the Hollow Man was looking for us, and we broke out first,’ said Cade, as it started to make sense in his head. He harrumphed. ‘Reckon we needn’t have bothered, since you were going to break us out anyway.’
‘No, it was lucky you did,’ said Fen. ‘We had no idea there were dreadknights around. If you hadn’t slipped their notice and got away, they’d have been on us much faster, and it would have been eight of us dead instead of four.’ She raised her eyes to his briefly. ‘Don’t listen to Garric. Wasn’t your friend’s fault Varla and the others died. If anything, it’s down to you that we survived.’
Cade glowed at that. Even if he didn’t fully understand the situation, it definitely sounded like a compliment. ‘So what’s the plan now?’
‘What plan?’
‘You said you made a new plan after Salt Fork. We were just a detour. Where were you going originally?’ He jabbed a finger at her. ‘And don’t say you don’t know.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m just not going to tell you.’
Cade threw up his hands and swore. ‘Why not?’
‘If I told you the plan and Garric found out, he might change his mind about leaving you safe in a town, and leave you dead in a ditch instead. What you don’t know, you can’t tell the Krodans.’
‘I’d never tell the Krodans!’ Cade protested.
‘That’s what they all say, until they do.’
‘But you are on a mission, though?’ Cade asked slyly. The thought excited him. ‘Something secret? Something important?’
‘We were,’ she said. ‘That was before. Now, I’m not sure.’
Another half-answer. ‘I’m sick of being left in the dark,’ he complained.
‘We’re all in the dark,’ she said. ‘Get used to it.’
Cade tried a new tack. ‘Tell me about yourself, then,’ he said brightly, and slapped his knees. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Does it matter?’ she asked. Then she swung her leg over the wall and walked away towards the boathouse without so much as a goodbye.
He studied the water, disappointed. He’d been ripped from his home town, worked near to death, rescued by strangers and pursued with inexplicable determination by Krodan dreadknights. All his life he’d been tossed on the tides of fate, letting others make his choices for him. That was the way things were, it had seemed. Foolish for a carpenter’s son to expect anything more from life.
But everything was different now. That carpenter’s son from Shoal Point had seen things, survived things. In breaking out of that prison, he’d climbed walls in his mind that he hadn’t known were there. It had always been Aren who called the shots, Aren who looked out for him. Rich, educated Aren, the highborn boy. But it was Aren who needed looking out for now, and there was no one but Cade to do it.
He needed to know what they were mixed up in. And if Fen wouldn’t tell him, well, he’d have to find out for himself.
Dawn was just touching the sky when he climbed down off the wall and headed back towards the fire. It was a new day, and with it Cade felt an unfamiliar sense of purpose. The future was full of wild possibilities for the first time in his life. As he climbed the stairs to the chamber where the others slept, he felt happier than he’d been in months.
He entered the room, and his heart froze in his chest.
The othe
rs were awake and gathered round Aren’s still form, wearing grave expressions. The druidess had her ear pressed to his naked chest, her face-paint smeared with sleep and her eyes closed in concentration, while her hound sniffed at him cautiously.
He let out a cry and ran over to them. ‘What’s happened?’ Suddenly his momentary happiness felt selfish and disloyal. How could he think of the future while his friend was still in mortal danger?
‘Easy, lad,’ said Osman, reaching out to calm him; but he knocked the hand away angrily.
‘Is he alright?’ Cade demanded of the druidess. She didn’t reply, just stayed there with her eyes closed and her head against Aren’s ribs. ‘Is he alright?’ he shouted.
She opened her eyes slowly, sat back on her haunches and looked up at him, serene. Then she smiled, and Ruck barked happily. ‘The worst has passed,’ she said. ‘Do not fear for your friend. He will live.’
Relief flooded through Cade, a rush so strong that it made his knees weak. ‘You’re sure?’
‘I am. Another day of rest will see him back on his feet.’ She tried to stand, and needed Keel’s help to do it.
An unstoppable, silly grin spread across Cade’s face. He looked around for someone to share the joy that threatened to burst out of him, found only Osman and hugged him impulsively. Osman chuckled and hugged him back.
‘Sorry about the, er, your hand,’ said Cade afterwards, miming a swipe.
Osman waved his apology off. ‘I’m just glad the lad will make it.’
‘Lucky for you that he will,’ said Garric, glaring at Cade and Grub.
‘Grub was born lucky,’ said Grub, which Cade thought unlikely, considering his face.
‘My thanks, druidess,’ Garric said. ‘I owe you a greater debt than you know.’
‘If you want to thank me, you can start calling me by my name,’ she snapped. Keel handed Vika her staff and she limped tiredly back to her blankets. Cade noticed she was dragging one foot, and one arm hung loosely at her side. ‘And get more wood for this fire.’
‘Vika, then,’ said Garric, with a nod. ‘If it’s wood you want, I’ll fetch it myself.’
‘Is she alright? What’s up with her leg?’ Cade asked Keel.
‘Joha only knows,’ said Keel, frowning. ‘She’s been half-lame since she woke up. Doesn’t seem much surprised by it, though.’ He shrugged. ‘She’s a druidess,’ he said, as if that explained it.
Cade gave up trying to understand and plonked himself down next to Aren, where Ruck had also settled herself, as if watching over him. He scratched her under the chin, his eyes on his friend. Aren’s pallor had all but faded, and there was blood in his cheeks again. ‘I’ll never leave you behind,’ he’d said to Cade once; and he was true to that, as he was true to all his promises. He was going to live. He was going to stay.
‘Never doubted you for a minute,’ he told Aren.
Ruck barked at him disapprovingly. She knew a lie when she heard one.
35
After the sun was up, the Hollow Man decided to scout the valley. No sense going through Skavengard if they could go around. Grub volunteered to row the boat, which surprised everybody.
‘Grub strong!’ he said, with a grin that was meant to be ingratiating but ended up horrific. ‘Grub make himself useful!’
The Hollow Man gave Grub a look that oozed suspicion and distaste, but Grub kept grinning until he waved his assent. ‘Fen, Keel, you come, too. Osman, keep an eye on the boy.’
‘You mean Aren?’ Moustache said pointedly. ‘He has a name.’ Grub was pleased with that. Even Hollow Man’s own people didn’t like the way he treated Mudslug.
‘You know who I mean,’ replied the Hollow Man dangerously.
Painted Lady was mixing up a paste to smear on Mudslug’s chest and back to warm him. She was making a messy job of it – it wasn’t easy with one working hand – but she’d refused any help. She reminded Grub of the blood-witches back home, who filed their teeth to sharp points and huddled by the fireside in their furs, casting the bones of babies that had died in the womb. She was strange, and not a little frightening, but even Hollow Man respected her after what she did at the gate.
Mudslug was still asleep, but he was in good hands, and Grub was glad of that. He wouldn’t want to see Mudslug die. Not yet, anyway. He might still be useful.
They took the stairs down to the lake. The Bitterbracker examined the boat that rested in the cradle there, and seemed impressed, so they lifted it and carried it to the water, where it bobbed among the remains of other, inferior boats.
‘Doesn’t even leak, after all this time,’ said the Bitterbracker. ‘What we’d have given for a craft like this in our seafaring days, eh, Garric?’
Grub made a show of examining it, too, humming and haahing his agreement, but in truth he saw nothing to get excited about. It was just a boat.
Once they were on the water, the eerie quiet closed in. The only sound was the splashing of Grub’s oars, the squeak of the rowlocks and the lapping of water against wood.
The lake was a murky green. Great patches of weed floated on the surface and it smelled faintly of rot. The islands of Skavengard reared above them, cliffs of grey stone which were eventually consumed by the lower reaches of the castle. The valley walls to either side were bleak and lifeless, rising to jagged snowy peaks with tatters of cloud clinging to them like wind-blown rags caught on a fence.
‘The spine of the Ostenbergs,’ said Freckles, looking up at them. ‘This valley cuts through the worst of it.’
‘Can they cross it?’ asked the Hollow Man. ‘Will they be waiting for us on the other side?’
‘I wouldn’t like to guess what a dreadknight can do. But the passes will be snowed under by now, and it will take them several days at least. If the way out of Skavengard is as well hidden as the way in, I don’t give much for their chances of finding it. I think they’re behind us for now.’
‘Mountains in Skara Thun higher than this,’ Grub put in. ‘Skarls cross them all the time.’
‘Is that so?’ sneered the Hollow Man. ‘Seems every Skarl I ever knew spent half their time boasting about their homeland. Shame so few of you stay there.’
‘Skarls free spirits!’ Grub said with forced good humour.
‘Aye,’ said the Hollow Man. ‘And I never met one wouldn’t stab you in the back, soon as it afforded them advantage.’
‘Oh, Grub not that way!’ he protested. ‘Grub want to help excessively angry man.’
The Bitterbracker coughed back a chuckle and the Hollow Man scowled. ‘Just row,’ he said.
Grub’s smile faded as soon as no one was looking, and the loathing in his heart bled out onto his face. Let them treat him like a cur; it was no more than he was used to. The only account of him that mattered was the one made when he died, when the Bone God spread out his skin and read upon it the deeds of his life. Then all these humiliations would be as nothing.
But Grub had half a body to cover before he dared let the Bone God lay eyes on him; and for that, he needed these people, whether they liked him or not.
Half a body, to atone for the other half.
He tipped his head back to look up at Skavengard, its doleful spires reaching towards the sky. He sensed fear and wariness in the others, and that excited him. There were stories within, dangers to face, deeds to be done. That was good. He needed more tales of valour and craft, more victories to bring back to the Sombre Men, so that the skin-scribes might mark them on his body. Breaking out of the camp at Suller’s Bluff had been a good start; escaping the dreadknights had been better. But he had a long, long way to go yet.
‘There’s a wharf,’ said Freckles. At the foot of the nearest and smallest island was an inlet where a stone landing had been built, studded with mooring posts. ‘A door, too.’ She narrowed her eyes and peered closer. ‘I think it’s ajar.’
‘If we put in there we’ll have to make our way through the whole length of the castle,’ said Garric. ‘Keep looking.’
There was no further landing spot, and the sheer cliffs made for an impossible climb for anyone but Grub, so he rowed on. No one spoke, as if reluctant to disturb the uncanny peace. Soon the rhythm of the oars lulled him and he began to daydream of better times. The cold, crisp air and snow-capped mountains brought to mind summer in Skara Thun, and those brief, precious months when he hadn’t been a cur, when no one had thought him wretched. He had a different name then, and the skalds had sung of his deeds, and all of Skara Thun had lifted their drinking-tusks in his honour. As they toasted him, Grub had allowed himself to believe that no one would ever sneer at him again, or despise him, or kick him like a dog.
In that, he’d been sorely mistaken.
He came from the slums of Karaqqa, somewhere amid the maze of crumbling tunnels and chambers that surrounded the greatest necropolis of the north. There he was conceived in a dirty wrestle in the corner of a crowded sleeping hall, between a man he’d never know and a mother he could scarcely remember. All his recollections of her were yearning and desperate. He was forever pawing at her leg, clamouring for her breast, cowering from her. He couldn’t see her face in his mind; she was a shadow to him, ever looming in fury or turning away in disgust.
Sometimes, when he was very young, he’d find her in a stupor, and he’d cry and push at her, afraid she’d never wake. Sometimes he had to pretend to be asleep, shivering in the chill while she grunted and hunched beneath a blanket and a strange man. Other times she disappeared for days on end, and he was forced to forage for food among the sleeping families, or wander the tunnels looking for her.
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