Nightfall

by Den Patrick

  You have always been queen of your own destiny, replied Flodvind.

  ‘That may be true but there’s something else,’ said Kimi. ‘It’s time I started using all the advantages I have available.’ She unsheathed a short dagger and a trail of ashes fluttered to the ground. ‘No matter how distasteful I find them.’

  Namarii growled, Let us defeat Bittervinge together.

  Stonvind reared up. No more fear, no more hesitation.

  Flodvind nodded once. With all the means at our disposal.

  Taiga held out her arms to the princess and they embraced a moment.

  ‘Be careful where you point that thing,’ whispered Taiga, glancing from the corner of her eye at the Ashen Blade. Kimi sheathed the dull grey knife.

  ‘Now let’s pray to the goddess for Tief’s safe return,’ said Kimi. ‘And let’s do it properly this time.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Ruslan

  It is impossible to fully relate just how badly the city of Khlystburg suffered during that time. The leviathan’s passing caused a series of great waves that battered the docks and surrounding streets. All the while Bittervinge continued attacks across the city, setting fire to buildings and causing them to collapse. Refuse began to mount up along with the corpses of the fallen and disease became rife. Khlystburg had always been an unforgiving city, but there had been rules its people could understand. At that time there was simply chaos and uncertainty.

  – From the memoir of Drakina Tveit, Lead Librarian of Midtenjord Province

  There was nothing beautiful about the docks of Khlystburg. There was nothing beautiful about any dock in any town or city as far as Ruslan could remember, though he would be the first to admit he was not well travelled.

  ‘But this,’ he said to himself as he stood on a choked street that led to the sea. ‘This is carnage.’ The wrecks of three Imperial galleons floated in the water, burned and smashed. Once they had represented everything noble and proud about the Solmindre Empire: masts bearing the finest canvas, stout hulls seemingly impervious to marauders or pirates. The Stormtide Prophet had reduced them to empty hulks, drifting in endless flotsam. Festering corpses floated in the water, promising a feast for the fishes and crustaceans who lingered in the depths. The piers had been abandoned, the stacked cargo left unguarded and untouched except by the water. The leviathan had thrown up vast wave after vast wave, all rushing inshore with feverish intensity.

  ‘The prophet’s leviathan,’ said Ruslan, scanning the horizon for a glimpse of the colossal creature. Nothing, just the becalmed waters of the bay and a drowning silence. Ships had been left at their moorings, no longer under the watchful eyes of their first mates, given up as lost by their captains.

  ‘Never in all my days,’ whispered Ruslan, uneasy in the silence that bathed the two-mile stretch of the waterfront. Only the rats went about their business seemingly untroubled by recent events.

  Ruslan, now shorn of his master, sought to make use of himself. He grinned as his eye fell on the strange form of a dark red frigate with a burned prow. The missing masts left him in no doubt it was the vessel he sought. He’d paid a good deal of coin in a handful of taverns learning and checking the rumours. This was the Watcher’s Wait, ramshackle though she was, chosen ship of the Stormtide Prophet.

  The wind gusted fitfully across the waterfront, bringing with it a snatch of music played on a stringed instrument. Ruslan headed towards it, straining to hear which direction it came from.

  ‘Ruslan.’ The voice came from behind him, as familiar as his hands or the tongue in his mouth. He turned to the Boyar with a look of disgust on his face. Sokolov was a pale, haggard shadow on a pale, haggard street. The look of pained nobility he so often wore had been replaced by one of shock and grieving.

  ‘Ruslan, I have made a mistake. I failed Dimitri and I have failed you.’

  ‘And now Steiner and his aunt are paying the price for it.’ Ruslan clenched his hands into fists. ‘Get away from here. Crawl back to Vend Province if you can.’

  ‘What will you do now?’ asked the Boyar softly.

  ‘Why should I tell you? So you can haul yourself before the Emperor and prostrate yourself some more?’

  ‘I want to help,’ said Sokolov. ‘I want to set right the wrong I have done.’

  ‘Your conscience never troubled you before, why the change of heart?’

  ‘I have no conscience of my own, Ruslan. Only you. I should have listened to you.’

  ‘I’m going to seek out the Stormtide Prophet.’ Ruslan glowered at the Boyar, hating himself for obeying, even after everything that had happened at court. ‘I’m going to find her and tell her how much danger her brother is in. I can’t save him, but she might be able to.’ He took off without a moment’s hesitation.

  Romola’s crew had holed up at an inn. The building had been abandoned when the sea had broken upon the docks. It was impossible to know how high the waves had been, but the waterfront was littered with debris and plenty of ground-floor windows were now shattered. The leviathan’s passing had extracted a terrible price from Khlystburg.

  Ruslan found a woman of mixed blood sitting on a chair outside the inn. She strummed an instrument and hummed softly. Ruslan stopped to listen, taking in the deerskin boots and many bangles of jet and copper about her wrists. Her black hair reached past her shoulders while her skin was neither pale nor dark brown but somewhere in between. Ruslan swallowed hard and blushed as he entertained thoughts he’d not had for many a year.

  ‘Came for the music, right?’ She smiled at him with a note of challenge or mockery, Ruslan wasn’t sure which.

  ‘I have news for the prophet, Kjellrunn.’ Ruslan knew he was staring but couldn’t help himself.

  ‘That’s her name: the Stormtide Prophet.’ The dark-skinned woman strummed another chord on the instrument. ‘You haven’t seen too many people like me before, have you?’

  ‘I’m from Vend Province,’ said Ruslan, almost apologetically. ‘My name is Ruslan. Steiner is in danger. I need to tell his sister.’

  ‘Well, Ruslan from Vend Province.’ The pirate, for that’s surely what she was, stopped playing and stood up. ‘You’d best come inside, right. And you can bring your friend with you.’ She nodded to a point behind him and Ruslan realized the Boyar must have followed like a whipped dog.

  ‘He’s not with me. He’s the reason Steiner is in danger. He’s a worthless son of a—’

  ‘I get the idea,’ said the pirate. She beckoned with a finger. Maybe she wasn’t a musician? Ruslan felt less sure of himself with each moment. He was more used to following orders than making his own.

  ‘Who are you?’ A gaunt young girl with black tattoos that spiralled over her shoulders and arms blocked the doorway. She had a shock of black hair and a sour look about her. Ruslan answered her.

  ‘Weapons?’ she asked.

  ‘I have none,’ replied Ruslan.

  ‘Then you’re more brave than you look,’ replied the black-clad girl. ‘Or touched in the head.’

  ‘This is Trine,’ said the pirate with a cheerful smile. ‘She’s only sixteen but she’s killed more people than anyone else I know. Well, assuming I don’t count the prophet herself.’ She took a moment to consider this, then abandoned her thoughts with a shrug and pushed past the raven-haired girl with the spiral tattoos. Trine scowled at both of them and stalked to a spot near the staircase.

  ‘We’re still recovering from our first night in port,’ said the pirate, waving a hand at the chaotic and waterlogged scene as Ruslan followed her inside. The main common room of the inn was littered with men and women in various states. They ran the gamut of fast asleep to wary wakefulness, and covered a continuum from merely hungover to still quite drunk.

  ‘This is the fearsome crew of the Watcher’s Wait?’ asked Ruslan, feeling more than a touch disappointed.

  ‘Fearsome, dreadful fearsome,’ repeated the pirate. ‘Every one of them a bloodthirsty killer and ne’er-do-well. I’m their
captain. My friends call me Romola but you can call me sir.’

  Ruslan nodded, unsure if the woman was gaming with him or not. The whole scene had the vividness and weirdness of a particularly strange dream. Boyar Sokolov entered the common room and took a seat, staring at the pirates with disbelieving eyes. It was then that Kjellrunn Vartiainen descended the stairs: enemy of the Solmindre Empire, priestess of a proscribed religion, the Stormtide Prophet herself. She was clad in black vestments and her blonde hair was tied back from her face. There was nothing ornate or special about her but Ruslan dropped to one knee on instinct.

  ‘We have to keep this one,’ said Romola. ‘He is just adorable.’

  ‘Like a puppy,’ slurred a drunk pirate with deep red hair. Kjellrunn struggled not to smile and shook her head.

  ‘Ruslan, was it?’ She spoke softly and her voice was husky in a way that suggested she had been sleeping until just a few moments ago.

  ‘Perhaps it would be best if I explained why we are here,’ said the Boyar, rising from his seat and drawing himself up to his full height.

  ‘Perhaps it would be best if you sat your old bones down,’ said Romola. ‘The prophet will speak to you when she’s ready.’

  The Boyar opened his mouth to say more but decided against it as Romola drew an expensive-looking fencing sword.

  ‘I was at the Imperial Palace yesterday,’ said Ruslan.

  ‘You can stand up now,’ said Kjellrunn. She looked exhausted, her complexion faded to the point of translucency, her blonde hair the colour of palest ashes. Ruslan did as he was told.

  ‘I was at the Palace yesterday. I heard the Emperor has hatched a plan to cause trouble for your brother, Steiner.’ Ruslan glanced at his former master, unsure of just how much he wanted to say. ‘Your brother was given directions to the catacombs beneath the palace, but he was sold a lie. The catacombs hold only death.’

  ‘And how is it’ – Romola circled Ruslan – ‘that a peasant like you finds himself in the presence of the Emperor?’

  ‘I was there in service to my former master,’ replied Ruslan. ‘It was he that—’

  The Boyar lurched from his chair and crossed the room in two quick strides. He took Ruslan by the arm but stopped suddenly as Kjellrunn lunged forward to press her knife beneath his throat.

  ‘I’ve lost count of how many Imperial lackeys I’ve killed.’ Kjellrunn’s soft and husky voice had been replaced by something altogether more demanding. ‘One more won’t trouble my conscience so greatly.’ A tense moment passed and Ruslan was sure his former master would do something to warrant a slashed throat.

  ‘Sit. Down.’ Kjellrunn’s unblinking gaze brooked no refusal and Sokolov shrank backwards.

  ‘I run a ship,’ said Romola, her gaze fixed on Kjellrunn. ‘We work on land and we work on water, right.’ She looked around at the huddled mass of hungover crew mates. ‘We don’t work in catacombs. Especially catacombs beneath the Imperial Palace.’

  Kjellrunn nodded; then her eyes glazed over. She took a stumbling step before Ruslan caught her. Trine darted across the room in a heartbeat, fixing him with the blackest of looks.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Kjellrunn, and for a brief moment Ruslan saw a young girl rather than a person of legend standing before him.

  ‘Perhaps you should sit down?’ suggested Romola. Kjellrunn took the pirate captain’s advice and held her head in her hands.

  ‘I was expecting more than this,’ complained the Boyar. ‘Drunk pirates and peasant girl who can barely stand.’

  ‘Have you ever brought an entire port to a standstill, my lord?’ asked Kjellrunn.

  ‘No.’ Boyar Sokolov fidgeted in his chair.

  ‘I thought not.’ Kjellrunn looked up and caught the Boyar in another hard, unblinking gaze. ‘It’s not easy. The amount of concentration required is staggering. And so you find me staggered. You will not always find me like this.’

  ‘We should burn him,’ said Trine, and flames began to dance around her hands.

  ‘Stop that,’ said Kjellrunn softly. ‘It’s not good for you.’

  Trine looked crestfallen but bowed her head in obedience.

  ‘What will you do now? asked Ruslan.

  ‘What I’ve always intended to do since I set out from Dos Khor,’ replied Kjellrunn. ‘I’m going to save my family.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Silverdust

  The Emperor Volkan Karlov was a man of contradictions. On the one hand he wanted all appearance of the arcane removed from Vinterkveld, and yet there remained a part of him that wanted to show off the enchanted artefacts of an earlier age. It was his way of proving he had wrestled order out of chaos across the provinces. The minor artefacts he displayed in the Great Library at Arkiv, and even some of these were merely relics with no noticeable arcane power. The artefacts that really mattered, the ones with power, either cultural or arcane, he hid away. Those artefacts he placed in a vault, so it was said, a vault with an Impassable Gate, though few believed it really existed.

  – From the memoir of Drakina Tveit, Lead Librarian of Midtenjord Province

  ‘Now I know what it was like to live in the forges beneath Vladibogdan,’ said Felgenhauer. They had been walking for hours, trying to make sense of the winding passages beneath the Imperial Palace.

  ‘This could be nothing more than tunnels and caverns that lead nowhere,’ complained Steiner. ‘The way ahead could be blocked following the subsidence and collapse.’

  You have a point, but your great-grandfather assured us we could enter the Palace this way.

  ‘I’d prefer it if he was here to show us the way,’ said Felgenhauer. She sat down at the base of a statue ten feet high.

  As would I. I am amazed he was able to manifest for as long as he did, and that you were both able to see him.

  The torchlight flickered and the shadows danced, revealing a stone dragon leering in the gloom. Water dripped down walls of unworked stone, and a muddy slurry made footing unreliable.

  ‘My feet hurt,’ said Felgenhauer. ‘We should eat.’ She climbed on to the plinth of the statue, leaving muddy scuff marks on the stone.

  You should rest. You are both exhausted.

  ‘No use finally getting to the palace only to be dead on our feet,’ said Steiner. ‘Oh, sorry, Silverdust. I didn’t mean …’

  It is of no consequence.

  ‘What is that?’ Felgenhauer grimaced and rubbed her temples as Steiner joined her on the statue’s plinth. ‘It’s like the pressure that builds before a storm but …’

  There are arcane sources close by. I feel them too, though I cannot decide if they are artefacts or something else.

  ‘We’d best reach the palace soon,’ said Steiner, rooting though his pack. ‘Because I didn’t bring much food. I had no idea the tunnels could go on for so long.’

  Steiner and Felgenhauer ate in silence. Silverdust felt the turmoil of their minds quieten before they fell asleep, huddling around the feet of the stone dragon; he hoped it wasn’t an omen of things to come. If the food ran out before they found a way forward there would be nothing anyone could do to avoiding starving to death.

  The silence was absolute in the depths beneath the palace and Silverdust was left with his thoughts and the presence of arcane power, close at hand yet enigmatic.

  Sleep now. Rest. You will need all your strength to face Volkan Karlov.

  And so aunt and nephew slept in the deep darkness beneath the palace, huddled together, muddied, bloodied, and bruised.

  The halo of pale light that played around Silverdust’s feet was one of the more unusual side effects of such pronounced mastery of the arcane, though he barely needed the light to see. His mind was better able to pierce the darkness and sense the minds of anyone who might venture near.

  Or anything.

  It was the growing feeling of hunger that alerted him to the creatures’ presence. Silverdust had not needed to eat in decades, and had neither the stomach nor inclination to feed on anything save
the arcane itself. And yet still the feeling of hunger grew.

  Steiner! Felgenhauer!

  It was not his own hunger he felt; the hunger was outside of himself and it was close, so close he could almost taste it, like raw meat.

  Quickly!

  Steiner lurched to his feet in a daze, but months of crossing the continent and fighting had his mind working instinctively. His hand already gripped the sledgehammer and he blinked and squinted into the darkness.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘And what?’ added Felgenhauer.

  Silverdust summoned a lance of fire in his hand and threw it into the darkness. The lance followed the direction they had come from, illuminating the jagged walls, glittering from the ever-dripping water. For a heartbeat there was movement before the arcane lance crashed into the wall and extinguished itself in a shower of sparks. Bone-coloured legs were revealed briefly, and black eyes glittered before the light died out.

  ‘Corpse spiders,’ muttered Steiner. He jumped down from the plinth and pulled on his pack.

  What are they?

  But Felgenhauer and Steiner were already running, trying their best not to slip and fall in the muck underfoot. Silverdust threw another lance of fire, ahead of them this time, to light their way.

  ‘They’re behind us!’ said Steiner.

  I would prefer to avoid an ambush.

  The tunnel ahead was clear and the arcane light revealed crude brickwork; an archway beckoned them from a hundred feet away, though what lay beyond remained a mystery. The arcane lance hit the wall and exploded in a dozen tongues of fire that sizzled as they died.

  ‘Come on, Silverdust!’ shouted Steiner.

  The cinderwraith, who had spent decades disguising his gait as a walk, flew into the air and sped along the tunnel, passing overhead. His right hand gestured a silver beacon of light for his friends to follow, and it was with some relief the space beyond the archway was revealed to be empty and silent.

  ‘Dammit,’ wheezed Steiner as he fled from the corpse spiders. Scuttling legs scrabbled on the stony walls and splashed in the mud. Silverdust cast carefully aimed javelins of fire at the sides of the tunnel, hoping to deter the creatures, who ran on bone-coloured legs with tips like spear points.