by Matthew Ward
Wolf-voices howled on the night air. Mirika glanced at the fire. It blazed merrily, the bright tongues more than enough to keep the pack at bay. They’d find easier prey elsewhere. There was no shortage of unprepared fools in Frostgrave. And she’d nearly been one, hadn’t she? But for Yelen…
Mirika stared out through a jagged crack that served her as a window. The barrows of the Lower Reach shone in the intermittent moonlight, their wisps dancing and bobbing as they had in the day. She saw other shapes, too. Dark and shapeless at that distance, they flowed across the rises like oil across water, creeping tendrils of the greenish light writhing like snakes around them. Mirika had chosen their campsite specifically so she’d see any pursuit. So far, nothing had even stirred in their direction. Nothing had even approached the iron-fenced perimeter, much less entered the streets. Still, she was determined not to touch the timeflow until well away from the Lower Reach. The memory of the wight’s caress had only faded so far. Not that it mattered. The moon broke through often enough to give warning. She’d keep watch the whole night if necessary…
Not that Mirika felt tired. As ever after a close call, her mind and body were abuzz. She could scarcely credit the distance they’d travelled that day, nor the exertions she’d made. She felt as though she could have walked the rest of the way to Rekamark, Yelen slung over her shoulders. It didn’t matter. She’d sleep tomorrow, in her bed at the Guttered Candle. The anticipation of the almost-clean sheets and the warmth of the hearthfire did much to banish the horrors of the day.
Hoisting up her haversack, Mirika drew forth the golden orb. She still harboured a certain anxiety at the destruction of its onyx case, but those worries had faded with the daylight. By its very nature, a reliquary was a container, not necessarily a thing of value in itself. It seemed only logical that Master Torik had sought this very orb.
She turned it over and over in her hands, the metal warm against her bare skin. She saw nothing engraved on its surface, and her prying fingers found no join, no seam. It was featureless. Perfect. That alone made the orb valuable – that it was fashioned of gold made it doubly so. But there had to be more to it than that. Master Torik had little eye for art, and appreciated only items of a practical nature. And he’d all but said that the reliquary was vital to curing Yelen. How had he put it? The last piece of the puzzle. Ergo, the orb had some practical use.
But it was beautiful, all the same. Mirika held the orb tight, staring at it as if examination alone would yield up its secrets. She longed to bathe it in the light of times past, to see what secrets the timeflow concealed. But for the memory of the barrow, and the wights cavorting less than a mile to the south, she’d have done so. Instead, she clutched it tight and listened to Yelen’s soft snores until the feeble rays of dawn crested the eastern hills.
* * *
‘Pick up the pace, sleepy-head! The day’s a-wasting!’
‘I’m coming! Don’t be so blasted cheerful about it.’
Yelen sighed, for the fifth time that afternoon wondering where Mirika found her energy. She herself had slept ten hours, give or take. Still the grey clouds of slumber clouded her mind. Still her limbs felt heavy as lead. Nonetheless, she did as instructed, all the while planning vengeful rebuttal once the sleepless night caught up with her older sister. Gratitude only went so far, after all.
At least there’d been no nightmares – presumably thanks to her deliberate abstinence from chanin tea. But maybe not. Maybe Azzanar was simply lying low. Maybe the part of her subconscious that worried over the demon’s growing confidence had been as tired as the rest of her. Maybe anything. That, Yelen reflected, was the problem when you were losing your grip on your mind – all analysis became suspect.
And what of Azzanar? She’d been almost… helpful. And demanded no cost – the first thing Yelen had done once she’d clambered to the surface had been to check the tattoo. It hadn’t changed. Perhaps the demon realised her days were numbered, and sought to win by slyness what she was about to lose by force? The thought provoked a savage smile. If that were the case, she was in for bitter disappointment.
Little by little, the lifeless cobbled streets fell away beneath Yelen’s feet. The dark waters of the Nereta River appeared on the horizon, the fluttering banners and bright murals of Rekamark close behind, a splash of riotous colour amongst the cold drabness of the ruined city. Each blazon marked out territory, be it belonging to a delver-gang, a trader’s post, a dispossessed noble’s home-in-exile, or one of the other settlers who called Frostgrave their home. A hundred paths led to the frozen city – most terminated there – and there was a story behind every one. Not that Yelen cared.
Twice in the next hour, their path crossed that of outbound travellers. The first was an elderly enchanter, bent almost double beneath the weight of his pack and the tool-belt strung across his shoulder. A pair of colossal timber constructs stomped behind him, their barrel-chested frames festooned ropes that in turn supported sacks of all shapes and sizes. The enchanter nodded politely, but gave the sisters a wide berth, cleaving close to the opposite side of the street before vanishing into an alleyway.
Yelen shook her head in amusement. Caution was good, but either one of the old man’s towering escorts could have flattened both sisters into paste. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted the bother of rinsing the blood off their fists afterwards. The constructs had been beautiful pieces, delicate, swirling patterns tracing across their featureless faces. Probably they were as close to family as the old man had any longer.
The second group was a different matter. Numbering a dozen or so in all, they marched up the rubble-strewn cobbles with the faultless step of soldiers on parade. Their shields bore blazons of spread-winged eagles, and their armour gleamed. At the very rear strode a heavyset woman in a sigilist’s layered robes and white mantilla. The paymaster, no doubt.
‘Toy soldiers, out for an afternoon’s stroll,’ muttered Mirika.
Yelen stifled a giggle. ‘Or fresh off the boat.’ There was something childlike, almost innocent, in the earnestness on the approaching faces. Newcomers to Frostgrave, for a certainty. She wondered what they’d thought of Rekamark.
The sigilist halted abruptly. ‘Can I help you?’
Mirika opened her mouth to reply. She closed it again as Yelen dug an elbow into her ribs, not trusting her reply.
‘Where are you headed?’ Yelen asked.
The woman frowned – judging by the lines on her face, it was something she did a great deal of – then clearly decided the information would do no harm. ‘The Lower Reach.’
Azzanar laughed softly, breaking what had been a long and welcome silence. ‘You’ll not see them again. What a shame.’
Yelen sighed. She didn’t like the woman’s attitude, but to say nothing made her as bad as the voice in her head. ‘Watch your step. The barrows aren’t as quiet as they seem.’
The sigilist looked the sisters up and down, perhaps weighing the value of Yelen’s advice against her ragged appearance. Then she sniffed, leaving Yelen in no doubt as to the conclusion reached. ‘We’ve nothing to fear.’
That parting shot delivered, the sigilist lengthened her stride to rejoin her column.
‘You can’t help some folk, poppet.’
Gods help her, but Yelen agreed.
Mirika shook her head in silent mirth. ‘You know who that was, don’t you?’
‘Should I?’ asked Yelen.
‘That, little sister, was Mariast Levonne.’
‘What? The Mariast Levonne?’
‘The Green Widow herself. No trap untriggered, no ambush unembraced. She’s a treasure, is our Mariast. I wonder if those soldier boys know how many expeditions she’s led to their doom?’
Yelen shrugged. The credulousness of others was hardly her problem. ‘No supply of idiots around here.’
‘True. Lives a charmed life, that one.’
‘Must be her winning personality.’ Yelen held her deadpan expression a heartbeat longer, then collapsed into a fit of giggles. ‘Com
e on. I want a drink, a bath and a fireside. I hear them calling.’
* * *
Rekamark’s gate, like the rest of the settlement, was an ungainly affair, braced at either end by ageless stone, and held together with rusted nails and rotting rope. The wooden leaves didn’t look as if they had been built, but had instead crawled into the gap between the two buildings and died. Mirika knew Yelen viewed it as a parallel to humanity’s tenuous foothold within Frostgrave. She preferred to treat it as a symbol of the ingenuity and determination that made life at all possible.
A thin, dark-haired figure detached itself from the shadows between the gate’s leaves as they approached. He ambled over, the confidence of his stride matched by that on his craggy, moustachioed face. ‘If it isn’t the Semova sisters. Profitable saunter, was it?’
Mirika knew that face well. Even if she hadn’t, the spider-brand on his cheek spoke volumes. ‘That’s our business, Kardish.’
He offered a disinterested shrug. ‘This side of the gate, sure. If you want through, it’s another matter.’
Yelen exchanged a glance with Mirika and rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, come on. Flintine’s trying this again?’
‘Mister Flintine expects those who benefit from his protection to show their appreciation.’
‘And did Mariast’s bunch of hopefuls show their appreciation?’ asked Mirika.
Kardish sniffed. ‘There’s no charge for outbounds.’
He didn’t fancy his odds at extorting from a small army, more like, Mirika decided. Maybe Flintine really was trying to tithe returning expeditions. Theoretically, the old man’s gang did contribute the most swords when a fractious giant or a troll pack took it upon themselves to have a crack at Rekamark’s ramshackle wall. Not that it really mattered. Rekamark may have looked like a town – if viewed charitably – but it was really just a huddle for survival. No one owed anyone else nothing. More likely, Kardish was throwing his master’s name around in search of easy profit. In theory, it’d be a lucrative business. For every delver who resisted, there’d be another who palmed over a cut in the hope of avoiding a brawl.
‘What do you think?’ she asked Yelen.
‘Doesn’t matter what she thinks,’ interrupted Kardish. ‘It’s how things are.’
Yelen ignored him. ‘I think we’ve nothing to pay.’
That was true. Orb aside, they’d nothing to show for their foray beyond the Broken Strand. Unless Kardish was prepared to accept payment in stale supplies, which seemed doubtful.
‘Like my sister told you,’ said Mirika, ‘we can’t pay.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Then you won’t mind opening up your packs for me to take a look, will you?’
He stepped closer, hand going to the hilt of his sword. Two hulking figures emerged from the shadows behind the gates, clad in patchwork leathers akin to those worn by Kardish. Mirika recognized both faces. Two of Flintine’s musclemen, too stupid to stumble about Frostgrave proper, and instead tasked with ‘collecting’ debts inside Rekamark. Not that their presence proved Flintine’s approval of Kardish’s actions – they could equally well have been promised a cut of his takings. Not that it would have mattered, Mirika decided, setting her hand on her own sword. They weren’t getting the orb.
Kardish checked his advance, allowing the bruisers to reach his side. ‘Let’s not do anything foolish. I’m sure I can think of some way you can pay your debt…’
Thin fingers closed around Mirika’s arm. Yelen turned her back on Kardish and fixed Mirika with a steady stare. ‘Maybe we should head back out. We’ve still a few days’ supplies – enough for a delve on the edge of the Grey District. That’ll meet the fee.’
‘No.’ Mirika hissed the word, annoyed that Yelen could even consider backing down. ‘We let him do this once, we’ll never cross that threshold for free.’
Irritation flickered across Yelen’s face. ‘I’m tired and cold. You’re tired and cold. You really want to make a fight of this? There could be a dozen more of them behind the wall.’
‘I’m not giving them anything.’
Yelen’s brow tightened. ‘You see? This is precisely what I meant. You don’t listen to me.’
‘Did you forget about the Gilded Rose? We go back out there, and there’s a good chance we’ll bump into them. I’d rather tussle with Kardish than cross that knight of Cavril’s.’
Yelen stared unflinchingly back. She didn’t understand. Or she didn’t care.
Mirika’s patience, already strained by Kardish’s ultimatum, snapped. ‘Then again, I guess it won’t be your problem for much longer, will it? Not with you leaving.’
Yelen’s lip twitched, her gaze turning cold as the snows. ‘Do what you want.’
She stepped aside, leaving Mirika with the not entirely pleasant sensation of having won an argument by unfair means.
Mirika shook the feeling away, kindling her growing anger with the guilty warmth in her stomach. If Kardish wanted a fight, she’d give him one he’d not forget. ‘Get out of our way.’
Kardish snapped his fingers, and the two heavies started forward.
Mirika smiled. After the horrors of the barrow, she needed this. She reached into the timeflow. Her tempo glinted like gold beneath her fingers.
* * *
Yelen didn’t really see her sister move. Then again, she seldom did when Mirika cut loose.
The heavy to Kardish’s left crumpled, mewling in pain. He struck the roadway, hands clasped across his groin, expression adrift on a sea of private pain. Mirika stared triumphantly down at him. Then she darted away, her sword scraping free of its scabbard and meeting the second thug’s blade with a dull chime.
‘That looks entertaining,’ said Azzanar. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a go, poppet? You only have to say the word. It’ll be fun.’
‘I’ll pass, thanks.’ Yelen ground out her reply through gritted teeth. She couldn’t believe what her sister was doing. She didn’t doubt Mirika would win the skirmish. It was more the aftermath that concerned her. Kardish wasn’t the type to forget humiliation. They’d be looking over their shoulders the whole time they were in Rekamark.
Mirika struck her opponent’s blade aside and rammed her boot up between his legs. By luck or judgement he twisted aside, the kick going wild. His meaty fist grabbed at Mirika’s flailing braids. It closed on thin air. Kardish, always alert to the risks of personal intervention, backed towards the gate.
‘She’s very impressive.’
‘I’m sure she’d agree with you.’ Belatedly, Yelen remembered that Azzanar was the enemy. ‘Shut up.’
‘Pardon me, I’m sure.’
The demon laughed all the way back to the recesses of Yelen’s mind.
Mirika ducked under a lazy sword swipe, and rammed her heel into the heavy’s instep. He howled with pain and reeled away, then slumped as the pommel of Mirika’s sword cracked into his head. Yelen winced in sympathy. Though not fatal, it was a vicious blow by her sister’s standards.
Kardish thrust two fingers into his mouth and a shrill whistle rang out. Six more heavies loomed in the gateway, an assortment of cudgels and blades held ready.
Yelen started forward, worry mingling with her anger. ‘Mirika!’
She grasped the meaning at once, turning towards the gateway. ‘I guess this was old man Flintine’s idea, after all.’
Yelen hurried to Mirika’s side. ‘Let this go. We’ll come back.’
‘No! I’m just starting to enjoy it.’
She grabbed her sister’s arm. ‘You can’t take all of them.’
Mirika’s eyes blazed. ‘Watch me.’
Yelen flinched, taken aback by the wildness in her sister’s eyes. For a heartbeat, Mirika looked like a stranger, the shadows falling across her face all wrong. Then the moment passed, the unfamiliar giving way to the all-too recognizable smirk of a Mirika certain in her course.
‘Perhaps she needs help?’
‘I’ve heard enough out of you, too,’ snapped Yelen. A horrible though
t struck. ‘Are you doing this to her?’
Mirika’s expression tightened. ‘What?’
Azzanar laughed. ‘Oh, poppet. That’s simply too priceless for words.’
Mirika pulled free. Distracted by the voice in her head, Yelen didn’t notice until her sister pounced on Kardish. Seizing him by the throat, she slammed him against the gate. Timber scraped on timber, the impact drawing the binding ropes taut.
‘Unhand me!’ Kardish’s choked demand barely reached Yelen’s ears.
Mirika leaned closer, her grin one of pure revelry. ‘Are you sure? There’s a toll.’
‘Get her off me!’ His second shout was aimed at the heavies marshalling in the gateway.
As one, they started forward.
‘Stay back! I mean it!’ shouted Mirika.
The heavies ignored her.
Yelen ran towards the gate. As she ran, Mirika’s first victim rose up on his hands and knees and grabbed at her ankle. She staggered, righted herself, and stamped down on the fellow’s other hand. He bellowed with pain, and pressure on her ankle vanished.
‘I don’t rate your odds, poppet. Let me help. After all, I’ll be gone soon, won’t I. What harm can it do?’
The heavies closed in on Mirika. What harm indeed? thought Yelen. It didn’t matter that her sister had provoked this fight. She had to help. ‘Alright, but I’m warning…’
Kardish screamed.
It began as a low wail but swiftly grew in pitch and volume. Her acceptance of Azzanar’s offer interrupted by the outburst, Yelen stared at him. Nothing had changed. He still stood with his back to the gate, Mirika’s hand locked about his throat. But as Yelen watched, a change crept over Kardish. His black hair turned grey, then white. His flesh sagged, the skin stretching oddly across his face and hands as years rippled faster over him than all others nearby.
‘Stay back!’ shouted Mirika. ‘Stay back! Or I’ll keep going until he’s dust!’
Confounded, the heavies checked their advance.
Yelen felt sick. She’d always known Mirika could do such a thing if she wanted – it was no different to what Azzanar had helped her do in Szarnos’ tomb, not really – but she’d never witnessed it before. It felt wrong. Obscene. ‘Mirika! What have you done?’