by Den Patrick
‘What do you hear?’
‘So much noise. It’s hard to make sense of it. Some are older messages I think, still drifting on the breeze even now. The newer ones are louder, mostly in Solska, but some are in Nordspråk. A few are in the Spriggani tongue.’ He let out a weary sigh and opened his eyes. ‘I grew up speaking Shanish with my mother and Nordspråk with my father. I don’t understand a lot of what is being said.’
Kjellrunn was still holding the boy’s hand and gave him an encouraging squeeze. ‘I’m sure you’ll get better at it over time. Try not to strain yourself. The arcane does terrible things to a person’s body.’
‘We may never find Steiner again if I don’t listen out,’ replied Maxim solemnly. ‘Or worse yet we may run into trouble that I could have warned us about.’
Kjellrunn, who had never had a shred of maternal yearning in her short life, was suddenly overcome with love for this earnest, dedicated boy. ‘Come on. It’s time for bed.’
Maxim wrinkled his nose. ‘I don’t have a bed. I slept in the galley last night.’
Kjellrunn released an incredulous laugh. ‘The crew often have to sleep where they can.’
‘And am I crew?’ he said hopefully.
‘Perhaps when you’re older. Why don’t you come to my cabin tonight? I’m sure it’ll be nicer than the galley and I can keep an eye on you.’
All night long the leviathan toiled beneath the dark waters of the Ashen Gulf. Kjellrunn drifted into wakefulness often, listening to the creaking ship and the lap of waves on the hull for want of anything better to do. Maxim rolled over in his sleep, mumbling. Kjellrunn had made a nest of blankets on the floor and lulled him to sleep with old rhymes her father had sung to her when she had been small.
Marek. Her heart ached at the thought of him, of what he must be enduring, at the prospect of not finding him.
‘If I can do nothing else,’ Kjellrunn whispered as she looked at Maxim, ‘goddess help me to keep you safe, at least.’
Another half-hour of sleepless waiting passed by and she slipped from bed, into her clothes, taking her boots out on to the deck so as not wake Maxim. Standing at the prow, silhouetted by the first light of day, was a slender black-clad figure. Kjellrunn approached Trine and paused when she reached the remains of the foremast. Another soul she felt deeply responsible for.
‘Morning,’ she said to the priestess as she walked up beside her.
‘Morning,’ said Trine in a voice husky with the many hours of silence she had sat through. Kjellrunn smiled. The warps attached to the bow were still taut and the dark shadow beneath the waters swam, dragging the Watcher’s Wait ever onward.
‘We are close to Arkiv,’ said Trine.
‘And to Steiner,’ whispered Kjellrunn, ‘I hope.’
‘How long until we make landfall?’ asked Trine.
‘Perhaps an hour,’ replied Kjellrunn, reaching out with arcane senses to join with the leviathan. ‘But there will be resistance. We must be ready.’
‘I’ll rouse the crew,’ said Trine. ‘It will give me something to do beside waiting. I’ve never had the patience for it.’
The crew arrived on deck not long after, listening and waiting with a quiet curiosity.
‘I hope you all slept well,’ said Romola cheerfully. ‘Because we’ve a blockade to overcome and your attendance is requested by none other than the Stormtide Prophet.’ A few of the crew chuckled at her forced frivolity, but a few eyed the captain warily, not used to her flippant tone.
‘Untie the ropes,’ said Kjellrunn, feeling a shiver of trepidation run down her spine. Trine passed on the order to the crew and they went about their work with puzzled expressions, casting looks at Romola, who could do little else but shrug and nod that they continue. The Watcher’s Wait drifted onward for a time until its momentum was spent. The leviathan slipped deeper under the water. For a moment all was still and the dark horizon transformed itself into a welt of burning gold. Just three miles distant lay Arkiv Island, watched over by two ships, undoubtedly Imperial vessels.
‘What have you done, Kjellrunn?’ said Romola as an Imperial galleon unfurled its sails and set a course to intercept the Wait.
‘It has begun,’ replied Kjellrunn with her eyes closed. She could feel a faint sheen of perspiration across her brow that grew chill with the morning breeze.
‘What’s begun is that you’ve led us out here and we’re adrift,’ said Romola, her voice loud enough for all to hear. ‘We’ve no sails to escape and no way to defend ourselves.’
‘Have some faith,’ replied Trine. Her black hair had come loose in the night and she looked wild and strange in the dawn light.
‘I have faith.’ Romola frowned at the oncoming galleon. ‘I have faith in canvas. I believe in rigging and sails; I believe in tides and obedient crews.’
‘Obedient crews need weapons,’ said Kjellrunn. A few of the sailors went sprinting off across the deck to gather cutlasses and bucklers. A few short spears were handed out and everyone exchanged nervous glances. The Imperial galleon surged onward; Kjellrunn guessed its sails were given life by arcane winds. It was difficult to tell how many Vigilants were aboard, but it was safe to assume there would be a Troika of them. Graduates of the Plamya, Vozdukha, and Zemlya Academies would pool their talents for all eventualities.
‘You’re using us as bait,’ said Romola with a dreadful bitterness. The Imperial galleon was close now, maybe a half a mile from where the Watcher’s Wait drifted aimlessly. Romola surged forward and made to grab Kjellrunn by the throat, but the Stormtide Prophet drifted into the air, eyes still closed, a look of terrible concentration etched on to her young face. She raised her arms before her and the Imperial galleon rocked and shuddered. Screams could be heard across the water, distant and yet no less appalling for all that. Romola could only stare, startled and shocked. The galleon rolled again and the Imperial crew reacted with shouts of alarm. The panic was tangible even at this distance and the crew aboard the Wait watched with terrible fascination. All sailors told tales of sea monsters, but that’s all they were. Tales. No one really believed in them.
‘Is that it?’ said Romola, her lip curling in disgust. The leviathan appeared to have given up and the galleon continued on its way, sails billowing with summoned winds. ‘A couple of bumps on the hull? I don’t doubt a handful of them have soiled their breeches, but I was hoping for more.’
Kjellrunn drifted down to the deck with her head bowed, hands shaking. Her hair was wet with perspiration. The prophet said nothing. How? How had she failed so thoroughly so soon?
‘Prepare to repel boarders,’ hollered Romola. ‘They’ll not give quarter freely, so there’s no point in asking for it, right?’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Kjellrunn
The arcane powers of wind and fire are draconic in nature. When a human draws on those powers they are drawing on the strength of dragons, which pollutes the body. Dragons are magical reptiles, after all, and humans are frail by comparison. This pollution of the body manifests in many ways, and it is for this reason the Holy Synod would often speak of the taint of witchsign. They knew all too well the high cost of using the arcane.
– From the memoir of Drakina Tveit, Lead Librarian of Midtenjord Province
The same crew who had barely survived the assault on the beaches of Dos Khor looked far from ready as the Imperial galleon came ever closer. Kjellrunn had been floating in the air just a moment ago, held aloft as the arcane surged through her. Now she stood on deck with rounded shoulders and head bowed. Her breath came fast and hard, but of the leviathan there was no trace. Her connection to that vast creature had become dull and indistinct, before fading to nothing. The ship lurched and Kjellrunn reached out for the handrail and clung on.
‘Where is it?’ whispered Trine, an anxious expression on her slender face. ‘Where has it gone?’
‘I don’t know. One moment it was there. I was commanding it but now …’ Kjellrunn frowned, fighting off dizziness and confusi
on in equal measure.
‘You’ll fight like heroes or die like dogs!’ shouted Romola at her crew as the prow of the Imperial galleon cut through the murky waters, closing the gap between the two ships. The sick feeling in Kjellrunn’s gut told her they’d all be dead soon enough.
‘Why I trusted a deranged Nordvlast girl and her pet sea monster is beyond me,’ snarled Romola in a low voice meant only for Kjellrunn and Trine. ‘This whole endeavour has been pure foolishness, and it will cost us our lives.’
Kjellrunn felt a glimmer of anger and clutched the handrail a little tighter, a snarl crossing her lips to match Romola’s.
‘We can still win,’ replied Trine. She raised her arms either side of her and splayed her fingers. Moments later her hands were wreathed in fire.
‘Prepare to repel boarders,’ shouted Romola. The crew wore looks of bewilderment as they brandished their weapons. The Watcher’s Wait had survived by outrunning danger, not meeting it head on. A lance of fire raced forward from the Imperial galleon and darted overhead, landing in the waters behind Romola’s ship.
‘We can still win,’ repeated Trine, launching her own arcane fire back at their enemy. The fiery lance crashed into the mast and the mainsail burst into flames, but the Imperial ship continued to speed towards them.
‘You might want to pray to the goddess a little harder,’ added Romola with a hard stare. Kjellrunn stared back, both ashamed and furious. The Imperial galleon came up beside them. So close now. Kjellrunn could see the crew, glimpse the weapons clutched in their hands, look into their eyes and witness the seething hatred.
‘I should have retired,’ muttered Romola.
A dull thump of thunder sounded so hard that everyone flinched. Rylska dropped her cutlass and swore while Romola looked at the clear skies above the ship.
Not thunder. Timber. The sound of breaking timber.
A heartbeat later and the galleon was listing to one side, masts leaning, sailcloth flapping. Sailors tumbled from the rigging into the churning waters below. Kjellrunn remained at the handrail, clinging on with gritted teeth as if she were caught in a gale. Her blonde hair had fallen across her face while her eyes were squeezed shut.
‘I thought you said the leviathan abandoned us?’ said Trine.
‘Not abandoned,’ replied Kjellrunn, eyes still closed. ‘I lost the connection for a moment.’
Imperial sailors, who until a moment ago had been preparing to board, now clung to their ship fearing for their lives.
‘This is more like it,’ shouted Romola cheerfully. Trine stepped forward and a bright flare of arcane fire sped towards the Imperial vessel. Orange and yellow light hit the mizzenmast and flames consumed the canvas with a hungry intensity. A handful of Imperial sailors jumped over the side of their ship to escape the inferno. The fleeing men and women caught sight of the leviathan too late, its vast maw split wide in the sea beneath them. Kjellrunn watched four people disappear into the creature’s cavernous mouth and tasted blood.
‘Imperial or not, I wouldn’t wish that on anyone,’ muttered Romola, wrapping a hand around Maxim’s eyes a moment too late. The leviathan extorted a bloody toll from the Imperial crew, smashing the gunwales and tearing through the fiery mainsail. A lone Vigilant levitated above the pitching deck of the ship but was knocked down by a falling mast, disappearing beneath the churning waters in a heartbeat.
‘One less of the bastards,’ replied Trine. A few of the Imperial crew leapt the distance between the two boats and clambered up the side of the Watcher’s Wait.
‘Let them surrender!’ shouted Romola above the din. ‘No need to be hasty!’
Four Imperial crew made it aboard and those who still had weapons gave them up willingly. They looked over their shoulders with shocked expressions writ large on their gaunt faces.
‘I’d heard tales but I never believed it,’ said one of the Imperial sailors.
‘Get these people a tot of rum to steady their nerves,’ said Romola to Rylska. ‘Then find somewhere to secure them.’
For a time all anyone could do was watch the galleon sink beneath the waves. Romola dispatched a handful of her people to scavenge any flotsam that had floated free of the hold, but most likely it would all be waterlogged and useless.
‘You did it,’ said Trine, drawing close to Kjellrunn. The prophet had a feverish cast to her skin and her eyes remained closed. She swayed on her feet in a way that had nothing to do with the motion of the waves.
‘You should get some rest,’ said Romola. ‘Both of you.’
‘I will,’ replied Kjellrunn. ‘Just as soon as I’ve taken care of those other two galleons blockading the island.’
‘Your plan of attack didn’t exactly run smoothly.’ Romola looked over her shoulder at her crew. ‘It’s too risky to attempt such a thing again so soon.
‘But we must reach the island,’ replied Kjellrunn. ‘Steiner needs me. My father needs me.’ She cast a look over her shoulder just as the Imperial galleon slipped beneath the water. ‘We can do it. I know we can.’
The streets of Arkiv were lined with people. Earlier they’d cheered loud enough to be heard out in the bay, but now they had settled down to a reverent silence. The sky was a cloudless and vivid blue, and though the breeze was bitterly cold the sun shone brightly in the sky. The Stormtide Prophet, priestess of Frejna, had come to free of them of Imperial tyranny and now she was among them, clad in the black robes of her goddess. Scores of the islanders formed a long queue, desperate enough to beg the Stormtide Prophet for some small boon or favour. Many simply wanted to touch her or see her for themselves. The crew of the Watcher’s Wait had formed a cordon in the hopes of keeping order while Maxim and Rylska had remained by the captain’s side.
‘Kjellrunn!’ Romola called out loud enough to turn several heads, not caring that she was interrupting. A look of irritation passed over Trine’s face but Kjellrunn retained her composure. The prophet finished her conversation with two islanders and excused herself.
‘This could take a while,’ said Romola, eyeing the queue. ‘What shall we do in the meantime?’
‘Ordinarily I’d suggest resupplying,’ replied Kjellrunn, ‘but these people have less food than we do.’
‘Do we have enough time to repair my masts?’ said Romola.
‘I don’t know how long we’ll be staying. No one seems to know anything about Steiner.’
‘I’ve never been one to stand around doing nothing.’ Romola rolled her eyes and Trine stepped forward to remonstrate. It was then the cats started appearing. They came over rooftops and from winding alleys; they ran along pavements and streets. They jumped down from walls and windows, all heading towards Kjellrunn.
‘It seems Frøya is pleased,’ said Maxim, laughing.
‘And Frejna too, right.’ Romola stared up at the rooftops. Clusters of black birds looked down from their vantage points, feathers as dark as the robes of the two priestesses.
‘Excuse me,’ said a voice a few places back in the queue. ‘I need to talk with the prophet.’ The replies were quick and to the point. Heads turned and the mood soured as angry grumbling filled the air.
‘Wait your turn.’
‘What makes you so special?’
‘Self-important librarians.’
Kjellrunn glanced along the queue and headed towards the source of the disturbance. The woman wore rumpled purple robes. She had twenty or so summers to her name and a shock of blonde hair that had been tied up in a high ponytail. Her eyes were puffy from sorrow or smoke or maybe both. Like everyone else on Arkiv, she had a hungry look about her, cheekbones just a little too sharp, complexion a touch too pale.
‘The prophet will see you in a moment,’ said Romola, loud enough for everyone to hear. She took a step forward and laid her hand on her cutlass to deter any thoughts of violence.
‘I’m Drakina,’ said the woman, eyes darting warily from the angry people in the queue to Romola. ‘I think I can help you. I worked for Felgenhauer. I’ve seen
Steiner Vartiainen. I’ve met him.’
It took a while longer to extract Kjellrunn from her crowd of worshippers but soon they were heading through the liberated city. Ships were already leaving port, promising to return with food as soon as the winds and tides permitted. Drakina led Kjellrunn, Trine, Romola, and Maxim to a tower that overlooked the remnants of the Great Library. The ground was blackened rubble and the ashes of thousands of books lay all around.
‘Bittervinge did all of this?’ asked Kjellrunn. Drakina nodded and her mouth creased with unhappiness.
‘Once it started burning’ – the blonde woman sighed – ‘there was nothing that could be done. Nothing. They’re still pulling corpses out of the rubble. Soldiers mostly.’
They headed up the stairs of the tower and Drakina shared what little food she had left.
‘You said my brother was here,’ said Kjellrunn. She sat on Felgenhauer’s desk as if she were holding court. Trine remained close at hand, ever the faithful courtier. Drakina relayed what she knew to the Stormtide Prophet, and the brief moment she had met the dragon rider.
‘I thought he’d be taller,’ she admitted.
Kjellrunn smiled. ‘I’d say his legend is tall enough.’
‘Envoy de Vries died during the fighting,’ said Drakina, resuming her tale.
‘One less Envoy in the world is fine by me,’ said Romola.
‘And so did Silverdust,’ continued Drakina.
Maxim made a small noise, loaded with shock and sorrow. Everyone turned to him and Romola put an arm around his shoulders.
‘He …’ Maxim’s eyes filled with tears. ‘He helped us on Vladibogdan. He helped Steiner.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Drakina. ‘I never met him …’ She looked away, awkward and uncomfortable at being the bearer of such grim news.
A great wave of tiredness overcame Kjellrunn. She struggled to breathe and the edges of her vision began to darken. She was much too warm in the tower despite the chill. The floor lurched upwards and Trine caught her by one arm but struggled to slow her fall. Only Drakina’s intervention prevented the Stormtide Prophet from slipping to the floor.