by Andy Roberts
Gendrick lifted an hourglass that was as tall as the heads of two men combined and almost certainly as heavy. ‘What does it matter?’ he said. ‘We’re on our way.’ He turned the hourglass over and set it down next to a broad sea-chart that was stained in places and curled at its torn edges.
‘But we don’t yet have the boy.’ Snake didn’t take his eyes off the mounting action. ‘And there’s no way of summoning the Dragon Lord without him.’
Gendrick’s gaze was as preoccupied with the running sand as the poisoner’s was with the dock. ‘Relax, no-one will dare approach the Gods,’ he said. ‘We can hold at the strait for as long as it takes.’
Giblin ran a hand though his salt-‘n’-pepper beard. The heavy coat was gone and he now wore his favoured white shirt with tan waistcoat and matching trousers. ‘The men worry.’ He folded his cuffs to mid-forearm, revealing skin that was patterned with blue ink.
Gendrick relieved himself of his own cloak and tossed it onto the wide sweep of the bench. ‘I thought I told you to assemble a crew of men?’
‘When the time comes, they’ll do what’s required of them.’
‘They’d better.’
A sudden volley of loud noises outside took their attention. ‘They’re firing on us,’ Giblin said heading quickly for the door.
‘Get your men to put their backs into it,’ Gendrick shouted after him. He went to the rear window, keeping his head low as lead-shot ricocheted off the wooden stern and plinked against the frosted glass.
Philly clutched the stone wall of Little Brook Bridge, its distinctive arched hump over the shallow stream all but hidden under a blanket of the purest white. The water beneath made its way to the ocean with the sound of someone running a stick along a line of glass bottles. ‘Give me your hand.’
‘See to yourself,’ Griff told her. He went to ground and crawled to the other side, leaving a great trough of flattened snow in his wake. Ahead, Brindmere was beginning to stir, daylight dipping its toes into the sleepy valley later than it had done only a few days previously. They smelled woodsmoke and heard the song of pots and pans preparing breakfast. A dog barked madly—the same scruffy hound that had alerted the village to the druid’s arrival at Watty’s Forge.
Philly pointed to the brow of the hill. ‘The horse tracks head up towards the inn.’ She wiped a flake from her eye and then another. ‘It’s starting again.’
Griff held out his hand and caught one. He rubbed it between finger and thumb. ‘Ash not snow,’ he said in a whisper.
The ash fell heavy, the air thick with something that smelled acrid. Griff hopped through the snow, his arms supported either side on the shoulders of the others. They broke over the brow as the side-wall of the inn faltered and crashed to the ground in an untidy pile. Griff pushed and pulled like an overtired child, shoving them away, freeing himself as they tried to protect him from the awful sight. He threw himself into the snow and crawled. Philly reached for him.
‘Don’t,’ the druid told her.
‘Let me go,’ she said trying to get loose of his tight grip.
‘He must do this alone.’ Tamulan stood still, all the time watching the innkeeper pull himself closer to what had once been his home. ‘It’s his way.’ Philly broke free, anger providing the strength to do so, and bounded through the snow after Griff. She tried to raise him from the ground but he pushed her away, cursing everyone and everything.
No-one could have survived such utter devastation and yet somewhere in the courtyard, a voice whimpered, barely audible over the sounds of bricks cracking under duress of the heat. It came again, louder this time, though its owner remained nowhere to be seen. Philly squelched through the mud towards the source of it, slipped and struck her head against a charred piece of timber. She raised a hand and felt the makings of a good-sized soggy lump. She splashed water on her face and drenched her hair to keep it from igniting in the searing heat. Her breath stung and her skin felt as though it were cooking. ‘I’m here,’ she called when she had partial sight of the smithy. ‘You’re safe now.’ She’d met him only once, and fleetingly at that, but she’d known instantly that he was a good man. All at the inn were. The smithy shook his head and mouthed something she couldn’t quite make out. She dropped to her knees, slid against him and put a soft hand on his cheek. Watty groaned with the pain of it and rolled his head towards her to reveal a face that was as raw as a skinned rabbit. Philly tried to not show her fear, she knew that he was dying and took his wrist with both hands and raised it to her mouth. Something rough and sharp cut her bottom lip. She refused to show her grief until he was gone. ‘What have they done to you?’ she asked trying as best she could to hide the stubby bits of bone that were once three of his fingers. Watty was finished talking and pushed her away. She pulled at his arm but it was useless, the mud refusing to give up its claim on him. Someone dragged at her, lifted her to her feet and took her away kicking and screaming. She saw Watty erupt in a ball of bright flame.
The riders came out of nowhere, a half-dozen Threskans on horses that were as white as the driven snow. Sly seemed to forget what he was doing and let go of the farmer’s throat without running him through. He re-sheathed his blade and reached for his horse. A dory would be waiting at Bannif Bay to take them around the southern coast to the Raven, after that, they’d set sail for the strait and whatever lay beyond. But something troubled him deeply. The Threskans shouldn’t have been this far outside the city. The bloodshed should have begun by now, leaving everyone in Randor too preoccupied to notice the triple-master sneak away from the dock. Had Elba Doss betrayed them? Were Gendrick and Snake in shackles? It was impossible to know. He checked Brae was still alive, that the cold hadn’t thickened the blood in his young veins and killed him. If that happened, all else would be futile. A murmur from the boy satisfied him enough to make his way in the opposite direction to that of the horsemen. Half of them stayed where they were, alert to the possibility of ambush, while the others pulled away from the road, following the footprints as they headed towards him.
Tamulan dropped Philly a safe distance from the flames. She slapped at him, her face filthy and contorted with rage and grief combined.
‘There was nothing to be done for him. He’s at peace now.’
‘How can everything be so black and white for you?’ She sank on her buttocks, her skirts and undergarments sodden and stained with mud and streaks of charcoal. Tamulan didn’t answer, it wasn’t his way. To him, all decisions in life were simple—choices to be made using informed logic. If he’d left the girl a moment longer, she too would be dead. He knew that, even if emotion and fear had blinded her to the fact. Philly watched him return to the mud, looking for something. She turned her attention to Griff. The innkeeper was knelt in a shallow puddle, bent with sorrow. She called and received no reply, moved to his side and he waved her away. She reached for him, touched him gently and he collapsed in her open arms.
Sly heard them shout. He didn’t speak their foreign tongue but knew immediately that the farmer had given him away. He cursed himself for not having pinned the old man to the tree with his sword. Time was winding down quickly and he made a sudden break for it.
The run-and-chase played out as though caught in slow motion, the horses up to their hock-joints in snow that hid the road and ditch in equal measure. The shouting increased as soon as Sly cleared the tree-line, the riders in the open calling on those hidden within the silent wood. Whatever the language, its meaning was clear, they wanted him dead or alive. He lowered his head and pressed it tight against the horse’s withers as the first of several quarrels flew by. He kicked his spurs and used knowledge of the local landscape as his only advantage. He looked to a focal point high on the hills, pulled left suddenly and headed towards it, only to cross right again. Over his shoulder he saw two of the horses tumble into the hidden ditch, their riders thrown well clear. The other horsemen stopped to regroup, at least one of them dismounting to check the surface underfoot. Sly congratulated himse
lf on the evasive manoeuvre and disappeared into the trees, the Threskans following again but more slowly now. He’d opened a good lead on them and in the distance saw the tin-foil horizon line of the Wandering Depths.
Chapter
— 23 —
Philly hugged him and felt the spasms of grief poke at his body. She wasn’t quite sure what to do next; didn’t know if she should speak or remain quiet. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said wishing instantly that she could have thought of something less pathetic sounding.
‘Help me up. I need to find her.’
‘Aw Griff—’
‘Do this one thing for me, please.’ He didn’t bark and asked politely.
Philly stood, both of them slipping about, neither willing to fail. Precious little of the inn remained to identify it as such, its walls lying scattered, stout oak beams reduced to little more than silvered lengths of apple-core shaped charcoal. There was something else in the debris, not wood or brick, but charred corpses caught in contorted poses that didn’t seem in any way possible, either in life or death.
‘It’s my Molly,’ Griff said standing over one of them. The face was swollen beyond all recognition, lips retracted to expose a near-perfect set of white teeth. Philly had no idea how he could know with such confidence, but didn’t see it fit to argue. ‘We should bury them,’ he said. Again she thought it best to keep quiet.
Madoc had fully expected the foreign soldiers to finish off what the hireling had started, though thankfully, the fleeing horseman seemed to be of more interest to them. It was while he stood and watched them disappear into the distance that he saw an object lying partially covered in the snow. At first he thought it was a broken branch from one of the nearby trees. When he got closer, he knew immediately that he had to get back to the village. He called Socks’ name, whistled, and with a heavy heart, left for home.
The horse refused to take the coastal path, rightly uneasy at the possibility of falling onto the jagged rocks below. Sly gave Brae no warning before heaving him to the ground with a rough shove and sudden thud. The teenager squealed through the gag as he hit his ribs on something solid and hidden beneath the surface of the snow. The hireling slid from the saddle and yanked him to his feet, making him lead with a blade held to the small of his back. Brae struggled against a strong arm and earned himself a slap to the side of his head, the blow catching his ear lobe, making it ring like a bell.
The Threskans were closing the gap between them, though Sly knew that things would likely even themselves out again when the soldiers dismounted on the coastal path. The empty dory lay at a kilter on the shingle beach, the sea advancing and retreating before it, as though unable to decide what to do next.
Brae teetered on the brink of the drop, hesitant not knowing what lay beneath his feet. He tried to ask where they were going, but his words came as a mumble only.
Sly tried to find a landmark that was familiar, his head flicking this way and that until he made his mind up. ‘Move.’ Brae put a foot frighteningly close to the edge and held his breath until his boot rested on something firm. He slipped immediately, Sly catching him by the elbow with a tight fist. He didn’t want to be saved and contemplated taking them both onto the rocks. But he’d seen Griff and Tamulan making their way back to the inn, and if they were quick, then there was every chance they’d get there in time to save the others. A flurry of quarrels landed nearby, the snow exploding all around, showering them with the wet powdery stuff. Sly shrieked and buckled under his own weight, grabbing at the rear of his mid-thigh as he went down. Again, Brae tried to speak, but couldn’t. Sly got to his feet and shoved him away, putting distance between them before turning his attention to the quarrel. He grabbed the short shaft and pulled. ‘Aargh.’ It came with a sucking sound and was worryingly smooth in its exit. ‘Fuck!’ He snapped the shaft in anger and hurled it into the air. The head was broken off inside him and would likely cost him a leg. He knew that getting to a healer quickly was his only chance of saving the limb, but the Raven was crewed by a bunch of toothless hacks who’d strap him down and dig about inside his screaming flesh with a blade cleaned with rum and flame. He’d seen it many times during the war. The first night he’d get the sweats. The next he’d lie in a fitful sleep, his clothing drenched, body beginning to smell like meat gone bad. On the third day they’d drop him in the ocean—the fish drawn to him by his rank odour.
The shingle beach carried little snow, sea-salt eating away at it as hungrily as the black flesh would soon his leg. The foot of the grassy bank had caught a fair amount of drift, though what lay beneath he had no way of knowing. Several of the soldiers raised their crossbows and sighted him. He grabbed Brae and used him as a human shield as the quarrels ripped through the cold air with a volley of swishing sounds. With nowhere else to go, Sly threw them both over the edge.
Brindmere was curiously subdued. On such a crisp, snowy morning, Madoc would have expected to see the village children wrapped warmly in colourful hats and long, trailing scarves, throwing snowballs and laughing loudly as dogs ran in circles and chased their tails. But there were no children outside, no parents building snowmen or delivering hot drinks—and no clinking coming from Watty’s Forge for that matter.
A cottage door opened and a short, round man came towards him, tentatively picking his way through the snow in boots and off-white long-johns. Madoc raised a hand. ‘Rhilf.’ The baker blew smoke in the air and regretted instantly not wearing something more appropriate for the occasion. But he hadn’t had time; had only just got back from the inn when he saw the farmer trudge past.
‘What’s goin’ on?’ Madoc pointed to the empty hillside and road.
‘A terrible affair, so it is.’ Rhilf took a puff on his smoke and offered the farmer a turn. Madoc leaned and inhaled a long and deep drag, the tip of it glowing as orange as one of the druid’s embers. Rhilf took another before speaking, a network of blue veins pulling tight across his rosy cheeks. ‘There was an almighty fire at the inn last night.’ The baker had a habit of speaking in short, clipped sentences that came with little explanation. ‘No survivors to be found,’ he said with equal lack of preamble. He hopped on the spot to keep warm and offered Madoc another drag.
The farmer didn’t notice. ‘Poor Griff.’
‘Didn’t die. The rest did.’
Madoc looked up. ‘Griff survived?’
‘It’s what I said. Griff, the druid and a young girl are all.’ Madoc was on his way again, trudging through the snow, headed for the remains of the inn. ‘Half the village is still up there,’ Rhilf called after him.
Griff sat on a rock warming his hands on a cup of hot tea brought up from the village. Tamulan wandered about toeing smouldering debris, lifting larger items occasionally to check underneath. ‘What’s he doin’?’ Griff asked.
‘Looking for Windsong.’
The innkeeper tossed the contents of his cup into the snow and pushed himself upright. ‘All these people dead and he’s huntin’ for a crossbow?’
‘You know it’s much more than that.’ Philly reached for him. ‘She’s the only family he has.’
Griff managed to avoid her outstretched hand and pushed past. ‘It’s time we laid them to rest, starting with Watty.’ He tugged at his beard. ‘We know that’s him.’
‘Watty.’ Philly almost shouted the name. With everything else, she nearly forgotten. She grabbed the innkeeper by both shoulders and shook him. ‘Brae’s alive.’
Griff gave her a hard stare. ‘That lump on your head has knocked all sense out of you, so it has.’
Philly put her hand to it. ‘Just a scratch,’ she said dismissively. ‘Watty told me that Brae was taken by a horseman.’ She smiled, or tried to at least. ‘He wasn’t here when the wind-riders started the fire.’
Griff’s eyes narrowed. ‘Taken where?’
Philly looked away. ‘I don’t know. Watty didn’t know.’
Tamulan dropped a length of metal sheeting. An old lady appeared before him and slapped his f
ace. ‘Shame on you, druid for lettin’ this happen.’ The woman said no more and then walked off again. He pulled his hood tight against his head and approached the innkeeper.
‘You knew?’ Griff squared up to him with both fists clenched tightly. ‘Of course you did, you know everything.’
Philly stepped between them. ‘Tamulan would never—’
“‘Have to let things run their course,” is how he said it.’ Griff ground his teeth. ‘You sacrificed my family.’
‘Tell him it’s not true.’ Philly looked from one to the other.
Tamulan caught Griff’s fist in mid-air and held it just inches from his scarred cheek. ‘The boy summoned the Foolish Wind, not I.’ He stared at the innkeeper from deep within the shadows of the hood.
Griff tore his hand free and spat on the druid’s boots. ‘Our tie is broken, so it is.’
They landed in a heap, Brae on his back, with Tyne-Sly coming to rest on top. Sly wasted no time at all and pulled him to his feet, pushing him towards the waiting dory. The shingle shifted beneath their trampling feet, the ocean bathing it in swathes of hissing foam. The wind blew across the beach in blusters, snatching at the airborne quarrels, sending them harmlessly off-target. The Threskans chose to not jump and took a more circuitous route that cost them several precious moments of time.
Sly grabbed at a short length of rope tied to a metal cleat on the bow of the boat. ‘Take it.’ He threw the rope at Brae and moved to the stern, pushing at it with his hip. ‘Heave you useless bastard.’ He looked up and saw the boy holding his tethered wrists out in front of him. He limped towards him, slicing through the leather strap and a small amount of superficial flesh without caring. Brae pulled the gag from his mouth and rubbed his wrists. ‘I said heave.’ Sly waved the blade under Brae’s nose to show that he meant business. With the two of them hard at it, the dory slid on the shingle, building momentum when the beach angled towards the advancing waterline. Brae was up to knees in water before Sly got his boots wet, the boat rising and falling on the breaking waves. ‘Get in and row.’ The saltiness of the cold water stung his open thigh and he kept the floating obstruction between himself and the oncoming Threskans.