The Copper Promise (42 page)

Long ago, when the world was young and Y’Ruen was already so old, there had been other gods. Brothers and sisters, creatures like her but not like her. There was the green woman, she remembered, who was forever telling her not to do this and not to do that. The green woman liked to see things grow and had encouraged the humans in their efforts, and so she and Y’Ruen had fought constantly. When the mages trapped them all within the Citadel – all save for one, although Y’Ruen barely remembered
him
– the green woman had seemed a lot smaller, and a lot less powerful. They all had.

It had taken a number of years – gods are not so easily consumed – but after centuries of being shredded between Y’Ruen’s teeth her siblings were finally nothing more than memories and ghosts in the rock.

Below the clouds the air was warmer, balmy almost. She flew down slowly, letting the heated air push comfortably against her membranous wings. She kept her eyes on her children, watching them as they marched. They had left the remains of the last village behind, and she could feel the eagerness of some of them for a new fight and fresh blood, matching her own hunger for destruction.

And some of them were talking again.

There wasn’t an awful lot that could make Y’Ruen uneasy. In fact, she had rarely experienced the sensation, save for the terrible moment when the doors of the Citadel had closed behind her and she’d felt the net of spells descend over them all. She didn’t expect her daughters to produce such worrying emotions. She had birthed them all in the dark of the Citadel, had she not? Clawed a nest in the raw rock and formed them from her own flesh and will? They were hers, and hers alone, and yet …

There was the other one. The man whose blood had woken them to life. And now some of her children were thinking in ways that were alien to her, keeping secrets from their mother and their sisters, treasuring words and names like they actually meant something. Like there was anything beyond the purity of fire and the joy of destruction.

Y’Ruen was displeased.

She put it from her mind. The green hills were coming and the blue mountains beyond, and soon it would all burn. Little else mattered.

The
Sea King’s Terror
limped past the islands like a wounded animal, still stinking of smoke and ashes. Wydrin paced the deck, peering out into the mists. In one hand she held a damp cloth, which she squeezed reflexively between her fingers; she’d been using it to moisten her brother’s brow, for all the good that had done him.

‘How close are we, Bill?’

The squat sailor pursed his lips, causing his beard to bristle up like a particularly ugly hedgehog. He shrugged at the fog enveloping the ship.

‘Not far now, uh, lady. It’s the weather, see, we have to go careful to avoid tearing out our arse on these rocks. The Nowhere Isles is always like this. Nasty, cursed place, if you ask me.’ He paused, as if considering the wisdom of saying more. ‘Waste of bloody time, if you ask
me
.’

Wydrin reached over and grabbed him by the front of his filthy tunic. She pushed her face close to his, ignoring the meaty stink of his breath.

‘So we should just let him die, is that what you are saying?’ She gave him a shake. ‘Because I would suggest you think very carefully before you say that to
me
.’

The small patch of Bill’s face that wasn’t bearded turned pink.

‘What good will it do? We’re chasing wisps and mermaids out ’ere! I’m mightily fond of the captain but it’s plain no one can help.’

Wydrin shook him again.

‘I know someone,’ she said. She looked down and noticed the bloody rag still clasped in her fingers; it smelled of fever-sweat and desperation. She let go of Bill and dropped the rag onto the floor, feeling faintly ill. ‘We just have to get to Whittenfarne.’

Of course, it was possible that Frith hadn’t gone there at all, or had been and left already. Knowing her luck, the awkward sod had been killed on his way to the islands, waylaid by thieves with an eye for his fancy sword and fat coin purse. But there was a chance, and as long as there was a chance she wasn’t letting go. She stalked away from Bill, tired of the weary sympathy in his eyes, and looked back into the mists.

An hour later, when eventually she saw the island, she thought her eyes were playing tricks on her. There was a faint blue glow coming from the blanket of white mist to the north-east of the ship, a soft light that seemed to shift and flicker. As they drew closer the patch of light grew larger, its movements more violent. There were shouts from the lookouts.

She grabbed the nearest crewman.

‘That’s where Whittenfarne is, isn’t it?’

The crewman nodded.

‘Does it usually look like that?’

He raised his eyebrows.

‘No, ma’am, islands don’t normally glow all blue like.’

Another shout from the rigging turned her back to the eerie sight. Whittenfarne finally came into view, and like most of the islands in this strange little archipelago it was all black rock and jagged hills, with patches of stunted trees and hardy vegetation. It was an unappealing place, but it wasn’t the geographical make-up that drew the eye. It was the storm.

Wydrin could think of no other name for it. The faint blue glow they’d seen through the mist had given no indication of the violence of light that now doused Whittenfarne. It was a shifting caul of indigo brilliance, riddled with crackling veins of lightning. There were dark clouds within the storm, swirling in a tight circle over the island, while everything beyond it was as still and calm as ever.

‘So this is Whittenfarne,’ she sighed. ‘Of course it bloody is.’

They sailed on, passing two gigantic black statues, the tops of both lost in the swirling clouds, before they finally came to a small, ramshackle dock built of greenish wood. There was a single bedraggled figure sitting there, and Wydrin recognised him instantly; it was difficult to mistake that white hair. Hope seized her heart, and something else too. With a start she realised she was glad to see the stupid princeling, despite everything.

‘I must really be desperate,’ she murmured.

Frith watched the small boat approach from where he sat on the rotting dock. Distantly he was aware he should be glad, that this was probably his only way back to civilisation, but it was difficult to muster the energy to care.
Let them come
, he thought.
Let them go. It is all the same to me
. There were two figures in the boat, a man and a woman, both rowing steadily. The woman turned and shouted something back to the ship, her voice flat against the fog. Frith blinked.

‘It cannot be,’ he said aloud.

He watched the small figure in the boat as it edged closer to the dock, taking in the mess of red hair, the way she sat slightly forward, tightly focussed on their destination, the ill-matched collection of leather armour … Yes, it
was
. Closer still and he could see the tattoo on her arm, the dagger at her waist. He struggled to his feet, ignoring the wave of lightheadedness that passed through him. He walked to the end of the dock, and now he was waving too, and as the boat came alongside and she clambered onto the steps, he realised an odd thing: he was smiling. It felt strange on his face, after everything that had happened.

She glanced up at him, green eyes flashing, and he was struck by how serious she looked.

‘The Copper Cat of Crosshaven,’ he called down to her. ‘I’m fairly certain your contract was at an end.’ He reached down an arm to help her up, and she took it. There was an awkward moment as they stood together on the dock, hands entwined, and then she pulled away, looking at the island beyond.

‘Oh, I thought you’d have some sort of trouble you’d need me to deal with.’ She waved at the silent storm, stopped as if she was going to say something, then waved her arms about some more. ‘What,’ she said eventually, ‘is all this?’

Frith sighed.

‘This,’ he said, ‘is the wrath of the gods.’

It took some time to explain, from all sides.

There was some initial confusion when finally Frith recognised the other occupant of the boat. He looked from Gallo to Wydrin, his hand hovering over the hilt of his sword.

‘A dead man walking around? You expect me to believe that?’

Wydrin shrugged.

‘You can come over here and smell him if you like. I may not believe him about a lot of things, but he’s definitely rotten. Listen, we need to talk.’

‘And where’s Sebastian?’

‘That is who I seek,’ said Gallo. Frith frowned. The man certainly looked dead; his skin was as white as parchment, save for those parts that were turning black and green. ‘We believe he’s in Relios, tracking the dragon you set free.’

‘I did nothing of the sort.’

‘What is all this, Frith?’ Wydrin nodded at the storm of lights.

They were perched on the small part of the beach untouched by the light. It was unnerving to be standing so close to it; the raw power seemed to push at Frith’s back, and he could feel his hair trying to stand on end.

‘I came here to learn how to control the mages’ powers. I met with a mystic called Jolnir.’ Frith cleared his throat. ‘He wore a mask, and underneath it he wasn’t human. And now he’s whipped up this magical storm. I believe that his assistants were once the other mystics of Whittenfarne, now under O’rin’s spell. The storm is impenetrable, and—’

‘What?’

‘Jolnir was a creature called O’rin, one of the old gods.’

Wydrin ran a hand over her face, squeezing her eyes shut.

‘I don’t have time for this.’ She took Frith by the arm. ‘Come on, I need you to come back to the ship with me.’

‘What?’

‘My brother is injured. We ran into the dragon while we were looking for Sebastian and apparently pirate ship versus dragon isn’t a well-matched fight. He’s dying, Frith, and I need your help.’

She began to drag him back to the dock, so he shook her off.

‘No, I can’t.’

‘Yes, you can.’ She took hold of him again, with both hands this time. Gallo stood off to one side, silent. ‘I need you to do what you did with me, remember? When you healed my arm? With the pink light?’

‘I said I can’t.’

‘I’ll pay you! I’ll do anything you want. Just come with me and help him. I’ll do anything.’ She looked up at him with desperation in her eyes and Frith felt a stab of annoyance.

‘I mean that I am incapable.’ He shrugged her off again, wincing at how much those words stung.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Jolnir took it from me.’ Frith took a deep breath. To be weak again.
Again
. It was almost more than he could take. ‘He took the magic from me. That’s what he’s using to generate this storm.’

There was silence. Wydrin stared at him, swaying slightly on her feet. Her face was ashen.

‘Took it from you?’

‘I didn’t know you had a brother,’ Frith said quietly, then wondered why he’d said it. ‘Yes, after he revealed what he was he drained the magic from me somehow. I passed out. I don’t remember much of what happened afterwards …’

‘And the blue light is a barrier?’ asked Wydrin. She sounded very tired.

‘Yes,’ said Frith. ‘Look.’ He picked up a piece of wood from the beach, washed smooth with seawater, and threw it at the storm-light. When it hit the light, it seemed to stop, held in place for a moment, and then it was consumed in writhing, searing light. It flew back at them with an audible pop, landing at Frith’s feet. It was smoking slightly. ‘He’s in there still, him and his birds.’ He pointed up at the dark, swirling cloud. Wydrin came a few steps closer, almost too close, so that Frith had to hold her back with one hand.

‘They’re black birds,’ she said after a moment. ‘The cloud is made up of thousands of birds. And there’s something larger flying with them?’

‘That’s O’rin himself,’ said Frith. ‘He isn’t exactly human.’

‘And he has your powers.’

‘I did try to go back in, but the barrier is dangerous.’ He held up his left hand, one side of which was red with blisters. ‘There is nothing we can do.’

They stood and looked up at the flickering blue barrier. The storm of birds flowed and surged and crackled silently above them.

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Gallo into the silence. ‘But I might have an idea.’

‘If you lie there like that all day you’ll get sunburnt.’

Sebastian opened his eyes. Ip was staring down at him, one bare foot resting on his arm. When she saw that he was awake she gave him another small kick. Her eyes, he noticed, were no longer blood-red; they were back to their icy blue. Beyond her the sky was almost too bright to look at.

‘I’ve been asleep long?’

‘All morning you’ve been dead to the world.’ Ip gestured behind her. ‘Just like everyone else, really.’

Sebastian struggled to his feet. He’d been lying in ashes and his hands were grey. Even the finely wrought armour, which he had yet to gather the energy to remove, was smeared thickly with ash and blood. The skin on his face felt tight and hot, although he wasn’t sure if that was a result of the dragon’s fire or the sun on his face while he was sleeping.

‘We should go somewhere else,’ said Ip. ‘I’ve eaten all the food in your pack and I’m starving.’

Sebastian peered at her through the thumping of his head.

‘Where is the other one?’

The small girl sighed extravagantly, as though Sebastian were possibly the most boring person in the world.

‘He’s not here.’ She tapped her head. ‘He’s not always here.’

‘But you know about him? It?’

She shrugged.

‘Can’t hardly miss a demon in my head, can I? He used to be a picture in my mind. Then a little while ago the picture started talking.’ She sighed and turned a slow circle with her arms held out to either side. ‘I’m
hungry
.’

Sebastian looked around. They were still in the middle of the scrubby patch of land where the Ynnsmouth knights’ final stand had taken place; it was now a warped and twisted field of ash and blackened corpses. Most had been burned right down to the bone, and jagged skeletons seemed to sprout all around.
We’ve sown the seeds,
thought Sebastian,
and now we have a field of the freshly harvested dead
. He was dimly aware that some time had passed since Y’Ruen’s attack, and that he’d been sleeping in this cursed place for – how many nights? He wasn’t sure. A charred body lay just next to where he’d been sleeping, the skull twisted into the dirt, as though the hapless soldier had pressed his face into the ground at the last minute in a desperate attempt to escape the flames.