The Iron Ghost (69 page)

‘Sebastian, we have to go!’

‘I can feel her, singing in my blood,’ he murmured. What he said next was lost in Y’Ruen’s roar. Wydrin shoved him, hard in the chest, and he looked down at her as though he didn’t know where he was.

‘All right, magic or no magic, I am not sticking around to get eaten by that bitch. We have to run, do you understand?’

She turned to go, dragging Frith with her. Sebastian seemed to come back to himself, and he was catching them up when Nuava’s voice spoke in their heads again.

Get to a safe distance. We have this one in hand.

The Destroyer rumbled into life, reaching down with its great shovel hands for the dragon’s head. Y’Ruen surged out of the hole, pulling herself through with sudden alarming strength; the great winding length of her neck, the shoulders bunched with muscle. The Destroyer took hold of the dragon, great slab-like hands pushing at her throat. Wydrin, Sebastian and Frith threw themselves out of the way to avoid getting crushed.

‘What is she bloody well doing?’

There was an ear-splitting roar – Wydrin felt one of her eardrums pop with the force of it – and Y’Ruen sent forth a blast of flame, curling around the Destroyer like a burning shroud. The werken stumbled onto its knees, its head lost in flames too bright to look at.

‘Nuava!’ Wydrin made to run back, but Frith had his arms around her again, holding her in place. ‘No!’

But the werken dug its enormous flat feet into the ground and began to push, carving huge grooves into the rubble and then it heaved itself forward, pushing it and the dragon back through the churning hole. Y’Ruen fought it, belching flame and raking her crystalline claws across the werken’s stony flesh, but the Destroyer was implacable, immovable.

Wydrin had one last glance of Y’Ruen’s terrible blind eye, rolling madly in its socket, and then the Destroyer gave a final enormous push, and they were both gone, falling back into the darkness behind the universe.

Wydrin curled her hands into fists. ‘Nuava!’

But the hole had already closed.

‘Wydrin, are you sure about this?’

Sebastian showed her the dagger, as if that would help. She poured another shot of strong rum and gulped it back.

‘Of course I am. I have more than enough reminders of that place.’

She laid her hand out on top of the table, palm facing up. On the table next to it were rolls of clean bandages and two tubs of healing salve. They were holed up in an inn in the riverlands; for a few coppers and a promise to purchase a great deal of food and hot water – which they certainly had done, Wydrin alone being on her third bath now – they had what they needed to deal with a varied list of injuries.

Sebastian took her hand in his, and after briefly squeezing her fingers, used the very tip of the dagger to cut round the piece of Heart-Stone wedged in her palm. It took no more than a handful of moments, but Wydrin had thought carefully about which curse words she would treat Sebastian to, so she made sure to use every single one.

When it was done and the wound had been washed clean, Sebastian applied the salve and bandaged it for her too. Wydrin flexed her hand carefully, wincing.

‘Well, that was easier to get rid of than that stupid tattoo of yours,’ said Sebastian.

Wydrin snorted and slapped her arm, ignoring the pain. It was much warmer in the riverlands, and she had gladly sold her furs and stripped back to her leather bodice. The black sinuous shapes of the Graces that sported around her elbow stood out in stark contrast to her pale skin.

‘I’ll have you know I don’t regret this tattoo for a single second. I am a daughter of the Graces.’

Sebastian laughed.

‘I’m not talking about
that
tattoo, as well you know.’

‘Ah, well,’ Wydrin poured another shot, ‘the less said about that one the better.’

Silence fell between them for a time. Wydrin still felt unutterably tired, and Sebastian, to her eyes, looked older. He had a bandage himself, a thick wad of fabric tied over the right side of his forehead, and his beard was growing thick again. He looked very little like the fresh-faced knight she’d met so many years ago.

Wydrin sighed, staring absently at the swirl of rum in the bottom of her glass.

‘We lost so many, this time,’ she said quietly. ‘Bors, Tamlyn. Nuava. Xinian. There are barely any Skalds left at all. We should never have come here.’ When they had left Skaldshollow, the last survivors of the broken city had been doing their best to rebuild. It would take longer now that they were without their werkens – Mendrick, or the mountain spirit, was truly gone – but Wydrin hoped they could salvage something from the shattered settlement they’d been left with.

‘Bezcavar meant for it to be a mess,’ said Sebastian firmly. ‘It was a trap, all along. It would only ever have ended badly.’

‘To lost friends,’ she said, and offered up her glass. After a moment, Sebastian picked up his own, clinked it against hers, and together they gulped down the rum.

‘It would be good to go somewhere sunny for a while,’ she said. ‘Somewhere sandy, maybe. The rum is always better in places like that.’

There was a knock at the door, and Lord Frith stepped inside. His hood was thrown back, and he looked as tense as Wydrin had ever seen him.

Sebastian stood up. ‘Speaking of things that are a mess,’ he murmured to Wydrin as he passed her, and then to them both at the door, ‘I will be scouting out the harbour, looking for the fastest ships home. Don’t expect me back until late.’

With that he left. Frith went and stood by the fire, staring down into its flames. Outside a strong wind was blowing, rattling the roof and the rafters. Wydrin took a slow, deep breath.

‘So do you want to talk about it?’

He looked up at her. His shirt was loose, and his hair dishevelled. Since they had walked away from Skaldshollow he had been distracted, absent almost.
The loss of all that magic
, thought Wydrin.
All that power.

‘It was demon’s work, the device that I constructed. Did you know that? It was a terrible thing.’ He paused, his eyes searching the room for something she couldn’t see. ‘I had to do terrible things, to make it work.’

‘You did what you had to do,’ said Wydrin, knowing he wouldn’t listen. ‘Joah would have done much worse if he’d had his way. He’d already done much worse.’

‘I did it because I thought I had lost all hope,’ said Frith. ‘When I saw you fall, part of me
knew
you were dead, and I accepted it as a way of avoiding a choice that was nearly impossible.’

He stopped. Wydrin saw that his hands were shaking.

‘I felt relief, Wydrin.’ His eyes were bright with anger and tears. ‘Part of me was relieved that all my choices were gone. That there could be only one path for me now.’

‘Frith—’

‘I can never forgive myself for that, Wydrin. For the relief I felt. I am a coward.’

He said the last word with force. Wydrin stood up, ignoring the throbbing pain in the palm of her hand.

‘You? A coward? Never.’ She went to him and pressed her uninjured hand to his face. ‘I would kill anyone who even suggested it.’ She reached up and pressed her lips to his cheek, kissing away the tears that were falling there. ‘Arrogant, reckless, obstinate, perhaps. But certainly not a coward.’ She pushed his hair back from his face, and looked into his eyes. The sorrow there was dimming, quickly to be replaced with something else. She bit her lip. It was still difficult to say, even now. ‘The Copper Cat does not love a coward.’

‘Wydrin—’

She smiled lopsidedly. ‘We’ve been playing this game long enough, don’t you think?’

They fell together against the wall with the violence of the kiss, and Wydrin half laughed as they kicked over the pile of firewood, sending one log rolling to the furthest wall. Firth murmured against her neck, some small plea, and all humour was left behind in place of a hunger long since denied. Wydrin pulled at his shirt, dislodging several buttons, and slid one hand over the taut muscles of his chest, and then kissed the trail her fingers left. Frith groaned at this, and pulled her towards the far door, where a bed awaited them.

‘Oho,’ she said, pushing him instead towards the table. The bottle of rum was quickly overturned. ‘You are optimistic indeed if you think we will even get that far.’

‘Whatever my lady desires,’ said Frith, his eyes as dark as an oncoming storm, and for some time after there was very little talking at all.

‘You truly intend to stay?’

The riverlands port was busy, and men and women and children moved all around them – bidding farewell, loading goods onto boats, buying fish fresh from the river or herbs from the far swamp lands – but they stood in the dark mouth of an alley, and Ephemeral wore a deeply hooded cloak. No one paid them any mind. Sebastian could see a narrow slice of her face in the shadows, and her eyes were solemn.

‘Not all of us. Some have decided to return to Ynnsmouth, and they are making their own way. But I think this is the end of our time together, Father.’

Sebastian looked down at his feet. He knew that he should feel relief, but instead he felt fear – not for them, but for himself.

‘I know you will hold your own against the Narhl,’ he said. He forced himself to smile. ‘I think they are about to learn an awful lot in a very short amount of time.’

‘You taught us so much.’ Ephemeral reached out and took his hand. She wore gloves, despite the warmth of the riverlands.

‘Not enough,’ he said, and then shook his head. ‘I didn’t learn enough from you. I didn’t pay enough attention. I have been a fool.’

She smiled, her golden eyes shining. ‘We must make our own way now, Father. But we will never truly leave you.’

There was a shout, and Sebastian turned to see Frith and Wydrin approaching. When he turned back to the alleyway, Ephemeral had already gone, vanished back into the shadows.

‘You ready to go?’ Wydrin was carrying a crate full of bottles of mead. When she saw him looking at it, she shrugged. ‘It’s a long bloody journey back to Litvania.’

‘That is where you’re going?’

‘That’s where we’re
all
going.’ Wydrin gave Sebastian a withering look. ‘You look peaky. I’m not letting you out of my sight for a while yet, Seb.’

‘I need to retrieve something from my family’s vault,’ said Frith. ‘It may make a difference to our future plans.’

Sebastian looked at the pair of them. Frith had been quiet since Skaldshollow, haunted by the fate of Joah – there was much he would not speak of, and Sebastian imagined that the loss of the Edenier had not been easy for the young lord to take. And yet there was a peace between the two of them now, an acceptance that only a fool could not spot. Or anyone who did not sleep in the room next to theirs, at least.

‘Then let’s get out of this place.’ Sebastian took a slow, deep breath, trying not to think about what he was leaving behind. ‘Let’s go somewhere where the rocks stay on the ground like they’re supposed to.’

They took the first longboat south, making themselves as comfortable as they could amongst the sacks of grain and barrels of beer. Sebastian looked back as the boat drew away, meaning to take one last look at the mountains, and instead found his eyes drawn to a lone figure on the jetty. He had long brown hair, and a face mottled grey and white and brown, like a pebble. After a moment the figure raised his hand in farewell, before turning away and walking back into the shadow of the mountain.

If
The Copper Promise
was an unexpected journey, then
The Iron Ghost
was a Quest of Great Significance, and as such a cast of mighty heroes were on hand to help me through it, often with Unfeasible Weapons of Great Size (or so they told me to say).

Thanks firstly to everyone who supported the first book: bought it, read it, said good things, sent me photos of it, allowed me to draw dragons inside. It has been the busiest and craziest year of my life, and I remain staggered by the loveliness of readers and the book community in general.

Enormous gratitude to my wonderful editor Claire Baldwin, whose enthusiasm and wisdom were invaluable at every stage, and to the marvellous Caitlin Raynor, who kept me calm and supplied with cake on launch day. Thanks also to the whole team at Headline, particularly the design team who have given me two stonking covers in a row.

Thanks as ever to my agent, Juliet Mushens, who remains not only the best agent in the known ’verse, but terrifyingly good at karaoke and an absolute joy to work with. Big love must also go to Team Mushens itself: a unique support group if ever there was one.

Adam Christopher was there at the beginning (before I even knew it was a beginning), and remains an irreplaceable source of advice, support, and withering cynicism. Dude, when are we having that ginger beer?

Thanks to Den Patrick, who has been my debut buddy, my agent bro, my SRFC partner in crime and even, gods help him, my cat sitter. Big love to Liz de Jager, whose caps-lock-littered emails kept me going through hard times, and to Andrew Reid: beta reader, conspirator, top bloke. Thank you once again to Roy Butlin for top notch beta reading duties, and to the lovely John Wordsworth, who set me off on this particular journey. Huge gratitude to everyone who has attended Super Relaxed Fantasy Club in the last year. You rock!

Big thanks and love to my mum and to Jenni, who have been keeping me sane longer than anyone else. And finally, the biggest thanks of all to Marty – for ten years of laughing at silly things and having the best time ever.