‘I live to serve, Father. I live to destroy the enemies—’
‘I know, my son,’ the Father interrupted. His voice held an edge of annoyance and for a second Forest wondered if he would indeed feel the sting of the whip, but instead the Father of Killers laid a hand on his head. ‘You are the most loyal of all, my one remaining son. And I have a further task for you.’
‘Name it, Father,’ Forest replied looking up eagerly, yearning for another chance to make his Father proud. As he did so he noticed the Father held two iron nails in his hands, rubbing them between his thumb and finger as though they gave him comfort.
‘You might be less willing when you learn of the task I would have you perform.’
‘I will do anything you ask.’
The Father smiled. ‘I know you will, my son.’
He took a step back and gestured for his son to rise. Forest obeyed, eager to know what would be asked of him.
‘River is at Keidro Bay. The Lords of the Serpent Road are being brought to heel as we speak and his task almost done. You will travel to Aluk Vadir. When River has completed his mission, he will travel there to receive his next instruction.’ The Father fixed Forest with his stare. ‘And there you will kill him.’
Forest understood the Father’s words, but could barely believe what he was hearing. Any other time he would have obeyed immediately, would already be on his way to carry out the Father’s bidding. Instead, he shook his head.
‘But we entered into a pact with him. He has upheld his part of the bargain. Why are we—?’
‘Do you question me, Forest?’
The Father’s words stung more than any whip and Forest quickly bowed his head in shame.
‘No, Father. I will do as you command.’
The Father of Killers laid a hand on his shoulder, saying again, ‘I know you will, my son.’ His words were calm once more, his ire forgotten. ‘I understand your concern; we have entered into an accord and it should be honoured, for without honour we are nothing. But there are greater things to consider, Forest. Things you are not yet able to understand.’
Forest trusted his Father, trusted his words, and he could only think those ‘things’ were something to do with the message and the battered leather wallet that had been delivered all those days ago by the foreign herald. Since then, his Father, usually so composed, had behaved strangely, his mood erratic, at times almost anxious and Forest had become concerned. On occasion he had spied the Father staring inside that wallet, his lips moving silently, though Forest had never had the courage to ask what lay inside.
Some things he simply could not question.
‘I do not need to understand, Father. I will do your bidding.’ Yet Forest wondered if it was the bidding of his Father or of the warlord Amon Tugha, to whom his Father seemed beholden.
‘That pleases me, my son. I know I ask much of you. River was your brother, and it is only natural you would retain some feeling for him.’
‘I bear no loyalty to that traitor.’
The Father of Killers smiled. ‘His betrayal burns inside you as it does in me. But fear not. You will have your vengeance. And I will have mine.’ With that he pressed the iron nails to his lips, as though they brought him some kind of comfort.
Forest’s brow furrowed. ‘You will, Father?’
‘Yes. River’s beloved queen still lives. But before your brother dies you will tell him that the pact we made was a traitor’s bargain, and worthless. And by the time you reach him, I will have torn out his lover’s heart and laid it at Amon Tugha’s feet.’
‘Then I will leave immediately,’ Forest said.
As he walked from the cavern he could sense the Father’s eyes on him, and felt the weight of this mission on his heart.
River had betrayed them, had murdered Mountain and turned his back on their Father. But was it right to break a pact – even a so-called traitor’s bargain?
Whatever the rights or wrongs of it, Forest knew he had no choice.
River would soon be dead. And so would his queen.
ONE
Waylian had never known cold like it. It crept through his cloak and his jerkin, into his very bones. The chill giving way to shivers giving way to numbness.
Of course there had been tough winters in Ankavern. The little hamlet of Groffham had been cut off for almost a month one year, but a judicious use of their stores had meant they could weather the isolation with nothing worse than a few grumbling bellies. Waylian had been small then, barely seven summers old, and hadn’t appreciated the danger. All he had wanted to do was play in the drifts and throw snowballs at trees to loosen the icicles hanging from their branches. He’d been wrapped up against the elements, and when his fingers had started to go numb there had been a hearth to warm himself in front of and hot broth to stoke a fire in his belly.
Well, there’s no hot broth now, is there! There’s not much of bloody anything up here other than the prospect of a cold and lonely death!
The wind howled, whipping the snow into his face; it blew his cloak about him, making it flap like an unkindness of angry ravens. Occasionally its fierceness threatened to sweep him off the mountain path and send him spinning to his death far below. He wanted to cry, to weep in sorrow at his lot, but the tears would have only frozen on his cheeks. If he could remember the way back down the Kriega Mountains to Silverwall he would have taken it, but he was hopelessly lost. Every path looked the same up here and it wasn’t like he could even see with the thick snow flurries blinding him at every turn. Of course there was a map – there was always a bloody map – but right now it was about as much use as a paper axe.
Waylian tried to find shelter, huddling behind a rock, but the wind still screamed in his ears, still whipped through his clothes. He wrenched the pack from his shoulder and opened it. Before he looked he knew what would be in there – a damp and useless map, a single apple and half a hunk of bread. All his dried beef was gone, along with the cheese. As though to remind him he’d been an idiot for eating it all so quickly his stomach suddenly grumbled.
Waylian let out a sob. He stared hopefully into the pack again, as though he might somehow conjure more food from the ether, but there was still just that apple and the mouldy old bread. Oh, and the letter she’d given him – the little roll of paper with the wax wyvern seal. He still had that at least. Good old Magistra Gelredida.
The fucking bitch.
This was all her fault. Every bit of it. He was going to die up here, of starvation or from the cold, and it was all her bloody fault. Why had he said yes? He was no grand explorer, no kind of hero. But how could he have refused? It had been his one big chance to prove himself. His one opportunity to show her he was more than just an apprentice.
And you’ve well and truly fucked that up, haven’t you.
All at once Waylian yearned for Groffham. For the quiet life he could have led – not the silent death that was slowly creeping up on him. He yearned for that winter so long ago, when the snows had seemed so harmless, and he cursed the day he had ever been sent to the Tower of Magisters. This was where his ambition had got him: an ignominious end on a lonely mountaintop.
Well, we all get what we deserve, don’t we, Waylian Grimm.
He should have known it was never going to end well. It was written in the stars – the omens were there for him to see. The journey from Steelhaven to Silverwall had been uneventful enough, if you discounted saddle sores and a randy horse, but that had been nothing compared to what awaited him once he reached the city. Oh, it had looked impressive enough – high spires and vast walls under the shadow of the mighty Kriega Mountains – but what Silverwall possessed in splendour it certainly lacked in integrity. Or that’s what Waylian decided when three robbers stripped his coinpurse from his belt then demanded his sandals for good measure. They’d been kind enough to leave him his robe, so at least he didn’t have to suffer the shame of wandering around Silverwall’s streets naked.
Could things have become any
worse after that?
Of course they could.
When Waylian had finally tracked down Crozius Bowe, he was not a stuffy scholar as he’d been led to believe, but a mad old codger, crazy as a bat. Half a day it had taken Waylian to convince the venerable loon who he was and why he was in Silverwall in the first place. He had almost been tempted to stuff the sealed letter up the man’s nose. Even after Bowe had decided to believe Waylian, he still made little sense, blithering on about ancient pacts and distant mountain keeps.
It was Bowe who’d given Waylian his altogether useless map and directions into the Kriega Mountains. He’d also given him travel advice, but Waylian had chosen to ignore that, making his way to a supply house for the requisite equipment and some sane guidance. Of course said ‘sane guidance’ had been not to travel at all. Venturing into the mountains alone was tantamount to suicide, but Waylian had been given his task and he was determined to see it through. And so, raising his chin like some fabled hero, he had set off to complete his task.
Looking back, such stubbornness had been foolish – suicidal even. Not much he could do about it now, though.
As he squatted down on the icy ledge he waited for the grumbling in his stomach to subside. It had got to the stage where he only ate if he was feeling sick or light headed. Who knew how much longer he would have to wander the mountain passes before he found what he was looking for. If he found what he was looking for. Waylian had been wandering for three days now, growing weaker, sicker and, it seemed, nowhere nearer to his goal.
When the grumbling had gone he staggered to his feet once more, clutching his cloak about him and pulling down the hood to try to shield his face from the blinding snow. It did little good, the snow seeming to fly every which way, even upwards to sting his eyes and assail his nostrils. He walked on blindly, keeping his eyes on the path in case he slipped off the edge. It was sheer luck that made him look up. Simple good fortune that he spotted the beast crouched there on an overhanging ledge.
Waylian froze, staring through the snowstorm. The thing was barely visible, but he could see its eyes watching him, two dark holes peering through the whiteness.
What should he do? Back away slowly? Turn tail and flee? Run at the beast screaming his lungs out in the hope of scaring it into flight?
No. Definitely not that last one.
The longer he stared, the more he could make out. At first he had thought it feline, like the mountain leopards of the north, but the more he looked the more it seemed a cross between wolf and bear. Whatever it was, it crouched ready to pounce, shoulders hunched, every muscle tensed.
Waylian took a single step back, not taking his eyes from the creature. He put one hand out, touching the wall lest he move too far along the precarious ledge and drop to his death. Still the beast did not move. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t interested in him.
Then it leapt.
Waylian didn’t wait to see what it did next. He shot off, boots slapping along the mountain path, heavy cloak flapping behind him. The slope ran steeply downwards and Waylian almost toppled head over heels along it. He slipped on the rocky path, sent drifts of snow over the edge beside him, his breath blowing in wispy gasps. Behind him was only silence – no cry of rage, no animal panting, no sounds of huge paws padding after – but he wasn’t about to stop and check. The thing must be coming, on the hunt, but there was no way Waylian was going to let it have him.
The path wound down the mountainside, and more than once he nearly fell, yet he always managed to right himself, running at a pace he’d have thought impossible. Was he less weak than he thought; or could being chased by a wild animal bring out the athlete in anyone?
Eventually the path levelled onto flat and he risked a glance over one shoulder to see if the thing was close.
That saved his life.
Waylian’s scream was an icy breath shooting out of his mouth as he saw the creature was almost on him. In a panic he lost his footing, landing awkwardly on the icy path as the creature leapt at him, all fangs and claws and white bristling fur. The monster sailed over his head, to land in a flurry of snow. With a snarl of frustration it righted itself and Waylian watched from his numb arse, mesmerised with terror. If he didn’t do something this death would be messy. Those claws looked unforgiving, the beast’s fangs even more so.
Almost without thinking he grasped his pack; his only weapon. He was about to throw it when he recalled just why he was in this mess in the first place. It seemed insane, but as the creature stalked towards him he dipped a hand inside, fishing around for the sealed letter. Once he had it he began waving the pack in front of him.
‘Come on then!’ he screamed above the howling gale. ‘Want some food, do you?’
Of course it wants some fucking food, Grimmy, you moron!
For its part, the beast tipped its head to one side in confusion, before letting out an angry roar. Waylian flung the bag with all his might and the beast snatched it out of the air, clamping the pack in its huge jaws and then viciously mauling it.
That was all the distraction Waylian needed – he was off back up the slope, hoping against hope the creature would be happy with what was in his sack, but knowing full well bread and fruit would in no way satisfy its hunger.
The wind blew hard but Waylian ignored it now, it was the least of his worries. As he ran he found himself whimpering, blurting profanities over and over again as he ran, cursing his luck and his parentage and Magistra bloody Gelredida.
A quick glance over his shoulder told him the beast wasn’t close to him yet, but he kept running despite the aching in his arms and legs and the hollow cold in his lungs. On and on he went until he was exhausted.
He reached a wide shelf where he was able to regain his breath, hands on his knees, sucking in the thin air and blowing out cloud upon cloud of freezing mist. He allowed himself the briefest glimmer of hope that perhaps the creature had given up the chase, but when finally he looked up those baleful eyes were once again staring at him through the snow.
It leered at him, this mountain wolf, or was it a bear? Whatever in the hells it was there was no escaping it now.
Waylian stumbled back feebly, slipping onto his backside, and the creature’s howl of victory echoed up through the mountain. It was all Waylian could do not to piss himself with fright. He could only wish that some form of magick might well up within him, might blast this beast into oblivion, but he had not manifested any since that night at the Chapel of Ghouls, and it didn’t feel like there would be a repeat performance any time soon.
He waited. Waited for that last leap. Waited for those rending claws. Waited for those fangs to sink deep into his throat and tear out lumps of flesh.
The beast just stood there and stared.
From behind Waylian came the sound of clinking metal, and then a snort. Reluctant as he was to take his eyes from the monster barely ten feet away, Waylian turned his head slowly. There, through the billowing snow he could just make out a horse and rider. For a moment his heart leapt as he allowed himself to think that maybe, just maybe, he was saved. Help had arrived, and if not help then perhaps someone else for this beast to eat.
He could see the rider was bedecked in bronze, his horse in barding to match. The armour was crafted in a design he’d never seen before; each piece forged to resemble a dragon’s wing … or was it a wyvern’s?
Waylian sat for what felt like an age, his arse getting colder as the beast and the rider just stood there. He began to wish they’d get on with fighting or running, one thing or the other, just so he knew which way to flee himself.
As last, the beast roared. It was a challenge, even Waylian could tell that. In response the rider spurred his mount and it walked forward, undaunted by the noise of the creature, or its talons and its teeth.
The rider dismounted holding his shield and spear confidently.
Then they were about it.
With ease, the warrior hefted his spear, bringing it to shoulder level, poised to throw, w
hilst the beast shifted its weight on its paws to take a defensive crouch, ready to attack. Waylian scrabbled out of their way, wading into the deep snow to huddle against the mountainside.
The warrior’s throw was mighty, the spear cutting through air and snow, but the mountain beast was already leaping. The spear passed it by as it took to the air and Waylian felt any hope he had melt like snowflakes on a fire. It seemed obvious his saviour was about to be torn open and plucked from his armour like a whelk from its shell. But the knight had other ideas – moving impossibly fast, spinning beneath the beast as it leapt and pulling his sword from its sheath with a violent ring of metal.
The beast landed deftly, spinning around in the snow and the warrior faced off against it, crouched low, shield high. They both waited there in silence and all Waylian could hear above the wind was the chattering of his teeth. Then they both moved in unison, the beast scrabbling for purchase as it powered itself forward, the knight sprinting on through the snow. They leapt, leaving the ground together, but the knight jumped to the side, planting a foot against the hard rock of the mountainside and striking in as the beast shot past. It was a quick and nimble attack, the sword stabbing in and out in the briefest flash of steel. The knight landed on his feet, walking a couple of steps almost casually. Behind him, the bear or wolf or whatever in the hells it was, landed in a heap, the snow beneath it fast turning crimson.
Waylian almost laughed at the knight’s victory. Almost. It was all he could do to struggle to his feet, using the wall of rock for purchase. Endless words of thanks would have come rolling off his tongue could he have moved it, but instead all he managed was a grateful groan.
The knight sheathed his sword, kneeling beside the creature as though examining its worth. Waylian stumbled forward, but the warrior paid him no attention.