The Iron Ghost (5 page)

‘When is the next attack? Where is our Heart-Stone?’

The Narhl looked up at her with little apparent interest. Barlow felt her breath catch in her throat at the sight of him; up close, the Narhls were a tall, well-built people with wide shoulders and narrow waists, and their skins were mottled white, black, grey and brown – the colour of a pebble-bottomed mountain stream. This man’s eyes were pale blue and his black hair was crusted here and there with what looked like green lichen.

‘There is little to say to mountain-killers,’ he said. His voice was soft. ‘Did you enjoy our brief visit?’

Tamlyn said nothing for a moment, and then reached down with her gloveless hand and touched his face. He hissed between his teeth and tried to pull away, but the two soldiers behind him stepped up to hold the Narhl soldier in place.

‘Uncomfortable, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘You are all so weak.’

The Narhl scowled. ‘We are part of the mountain, and part of the cold. It is our honour to live as—’

‘Shut up.’ Tamlyn gestured to her men. ‘Take him down to the Hollow and we will question him as much as we can before he dies.’

They dragged the man to his feet and towards a waiting werken, and at this he began to shout, features contorted with rage.

‘These creatures are the heart of the mountain!’ he screamed, looking around wildly at the men and women gathered there. His eyes caught Barlow’s briefly, and she shivered. ‘They are sacred, and you use them as carthorses! Animals!’

Tamlyn turned back to them as the man was dragged away. ‘They are laughing at us,’ she said, her voice as bitter as ashes. ‘They have the Heart-Stone and yet still they attack.’

Barlow shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable at being brought into Tamlyn’s confidence in this way. ‘What does the Prophet say?’ she asked, her voice sounding too young to her own ears. ‘Does she not have any advice?’

Tamlyn Nox sheathed her sword. ‘The Prophet advises,’ she agreed. ‘And I have listened. There is help on the way, and with any luck it will be the ruin of the Narhl. Their king will grovel at my feet, eventually.’ Tamlyn smiled, a cold tensing of flesh. ‘And we will have the Heart-Stone back.’

With that she left, mounting her war-werken and moving off down the Bone Road, following her prisoner. Barlow watched her go with a mixture of feelings; relief that she had been here when the Narhl attacked, and deep unease at her words. No one saw the Prophet but Nox, and there were those who whispered that it was all a fabrication, an extension of her growing madness. Such whispers were dangerous, of course.

‘What do you think of that, then?’ said Yun. Now that they were out of danger some colour had returned to his sallow cheeks. ‘The Prophet knows how to get the Heart-Stone back, it seems.’

‘She better had,’ snapped Barlow, glancing back down into the pit where her workers were tending to the dead and injured. ‘Or all this will be a bloody waste of time.’

Wydrin crouched low over the warm neck of her sturdy pony, trusting it to follow the others without her guidance. As they travelled out of the riverlands and on towards the mountains, the world grew colder, and now it was snowing, a soft, silent fall that covered her hood and crusted her gloves.

‘I didn’t bring enough mead,’ she muttered, watching as her breath turned into puffs of white vapour. ‘Although I doubt there is enough mead in the world for this arse-hole end of Ede.’

‘Look, there it is,’ called Sebastian. ‘That must be the southernmost wall.’

Reluctantly, Wydrin looked up into the snow. The foot of the mountain rose before them like an ominous storm cloud, and rising from its centre was a great wound filled with lights and stone and smoke – the city of Skaldshollow. In front of it was a huge stone wall, at least two hundred feet tall and carved from huge pieces of grey rock. There were fires along the top, spaced out like sentinels, although she could see no men. And that wasn’t all she couldn’t see.

‘If that’s the wall, where’s the bloody gate?’ There was no portcullis, no obvious entrance. ‘I don’t think my pony is up to climbing that.’

‘I can fly over on Gwiddion,’ suggested Frith, from the back of his own pony. His griffin, in its bird form, was perched on the top of his saddlebag. ‘Although I’m not sure he could take all three of us.’

Sebastian frowned. ‘It must be further along. We shall have to follow it around.’

There was a rumble and the snow in front of the gate suddenly rose up, revealing a shifting, mountainous mass of moving rock. Wydrin cried out, automatically unsheathing Glassheart, while Frith held up his bandaged hands, the soft yellow glow of the Edenier forming instantly between his palms.

‘By the Graces, what is that?’ Wydrin’s pony took a few hurried steps backwards and she patted it behind its ears in an attempt to reassure it. The stone creature shook itself fully out of the snow it had been hiding in and turned towards them, its great blocky head and snout almost bear-shaped. Its eyes glowed green, and it was covered all over in intricate carved patterns, dark against the paler stone, almost like tattoos. There was another rumble and the snow next to the creature fell away, revealing its twin. In front of her, Sebastian unsheathed his broadsword.

‘They are unlikely to respond to ice spells, no doubt being monsters native to this land, so I shall use my flames . . .’ Frith was raising his hands when a section of the stone wall rumbled away to reveal a previously hidden door, and a young man came running out, waving his arms over his head.

‘Sorry, sorry! Do not be afraid. These are just our gate guardians.’

Wydrin glanced back at the stone monsters. They were enormous, each over ten feet tall, but now that the young man had appeared they were still, apparently as attentive as dogs.

‘They’re your what?’ She waved a sword at them. ‘Can’t you just have a fat old man in leather armour like everyone else?’

The man laughed as he jogged over to them. He had black hair tied back into a small knot on the back of his head, and he had warm copper skin and narrow, dark eyes. He wore thick furs and moved easily in them, as though he wore them every day of his life. As he got closer he waved again, looking from face to face.

‘You are the Black Feather Three, yes?’ He stopped, and Wydrin saw that he wore special wide boots, the better for running on the snow. ‘Lord Frith, Sir Sebastian, and the Copper Cat of Crosshaven?’

‘That’s us all right,’ said Wydrin. She put Glassheart away, feeling faintly foolish. ‘But what are those?’

The young man turned back to the wall and waved, ignoring her question, and at once the thick granite walls split down the middle and began to draw away from each other, rumbling back to reveal the settlement beyond.

‘Please, follow me,’ he said, as the stone monsters settled back onto their haunches. ‘My aunt is very anxious to meet with you.’

Inside the walls, Skaldshollow was a bustling warren of stone and smoke. Buildings of black, white and grey granite crowded everywhere, and in the distance Frith could see dwellings that had been carved directly into the flesh of the mountain itself. The men and women of Skaldshollow wore thick furs, much like the man who had brought them inside, as well as jewellery carved from glittery quartz and animal bone. The stone creatures were here too; slightly smaller than the enormous guardians on the gate, moving along the crowded streets like fat beetles in a nest of ants. When they were still, they were utterly still, seeming to merge into the landscape, and then, at a word or a gesture from one of the locals, they would lumber suddenly into life, green eyes flashing in the washed-out daylight. Frith flexed his fingers, feeling the Edenier churning within. What was this place, where the stones walked?

‘You say they’re called werkens?’ asked Wydrin.

The young man who had greeted them at the gate had introduced himself as Bors Nox before arranging for their small mountain ponies to be stabled. Now he led them through winding streets, heading into the centre of the settlement.

‘These are earth-werkens,’ Bors replied, holding up a hand to halt their progress as a giant stone creature thundered past, dragging a cart full of hessian sacks behind it. ‘We make them from the rock in the heart of the mountain. As you can see, they make fine carthorses, guardians, even war mounts.’

‘Are they alive?’ asked Sebastian.

‘Oh no,’ Bors led them across the street. ‘They have a semblance of life, of course, because of the Edeian in the rock and their connection to us but they are no more alive than a fungus.’

‘You know about Edeian?’ Frith couldn’t quite keep the surprise from his voice.

Bors shrugged. ‘Of course. Our lands are riddled with the old magic.’

‘And we are here because you have experienced a theft?’ Frith prompted. There were too many mysteries in this place, too many questions.
We could be stuck here forever trying to unravel it
, thought Frith, and with that came an image of Blackwood Keep and its small graveyard, the earth damp and dark. His home would be full of people again by now, the floors scrubbed clean of blood. Just waiting for him to come back and take up his father’s empty throne.

‘Yes,’ agreed Bors. ‘Our means to waken the werkens has been taken from us. But my aunt will tell you more about that.’

‘How do you control them?’ asked Wydrin. She was watching as a huge, strangely lithe-looking werken pounded down the street opposite, a woman dressed in furs riding between its shoulders. It was as sleek as a cat. ‘I mean, how do they know what you want them to do?’

‘Werken riders are all joined.’ Bors took off his glove and turned his palm to face her. In the middle there was a chip of green stone about the size of a penny sunken directly into his flesh. ‘There is a corresponding piece of the Heart-Stone in my own werken.’ Catching her look, he grinned. ‘Don’t worry, it doesn’t hurt. Not too much, anyway.’

‘Do we have much further to travel?’ Frith broke in. ‘Our time is limited.’

‘And expensive,’ added Wydrin.

‘Not at all. We are here, in fact. Welcome to the Tower of Waking.’

The Tower of Waking, as Bors called it, rose from the centre of Skaldshollow like a giant splintered bone. It was clearly a part of the mountain they’d left intact, building their homes and streets around it, and what was left was a flinty, sharp-edged protrusion of grey and black rock. It was shaped a little like an arrow head, and here and there narrow windows like scars flickered with guttering flames. Two werkens stood by the entrance, strange winnowed creatures with long, jagged heads and what appeared to be huge iron swords by their sides. Two human guards stood next to them, nodding briefly to Bors as they passed.

Inside they were immediately met by a great sweeping staircase that led up to a cavernous hall. Shadowy chambers branched off to all sides, lit with smoking oil lamps. Frith found himself looking everywhere at once, very aware that numerous werkens could be hiding in this dark, stony place. On his shoulder Gwiddion squawked quietly into his ear.

‘Quite a place you have here,’ said Wydrin, and her voice sounded strange and small in the huge space. In the middle of the hall the floor rose up to form a great empty plinth, and in front of it stood a woman with red-brown skin and long black hair loose over her shoulders. She wore a mixture of leather and furs, a red-beaded necklace at her throat, and she watched them carefully as they approached. Her mouth was a thin slash below her nose and the corners turned down just before she greeted them.

‘Thank you, Bors,’ she said. Her voice was low and clipped at the edges. ‘You may go.’

Bors didn’t move immediately. He was looking around at the chambers above them. ‘Is my sister here?’

‘Nuava is assisting me.’ As if answering a summons, a young woman appeared from one of the shadowy tunnels to their left. She shared the same warm skin as her brother and aunt, but her hair was a mass of unruly dark curls, tamed beneath a pale blue scarf. She had an armful of heavy books and she eyed the newcomers warily.

‘She is shut up in here with you all the time,’ said Bors. He shifted from foot to foot, as though he wasn’t as sure of himself as his words suggested. ‘It’s not healthy. I want her to come out with me, just for a few hours. The snows are clearing and . . .’

‘Nuava is
assisting
me,’ repeated Tamlyn Nox.

‘Nuava is becoming you, you mean,’ Bors took a step forward, not looking at his sister. ‘Teaching her your witch-ways, keeping her in the dark until—’

‘I’m sorry, but can you have your family disagreements another time?’ said Frith. His voice rang out in the empty hall. ‘I believe you have a job for us?’

Tamlyn Nox shot Bors a look and the young man retreated, walking back down the steps without a single glance back. Nuava put the heavy books she was carrying down onto the plinth, the tops of her cheeks flushed faintly pink.

‘Indeed.’ Tamlyn nodded to them. ‘Lord Frith, your companions. I wish to employ you to retrieve an item that was stolen from us.’

‘That sounds straightforward enough,’ said Wydrin. She padded over to the plinth and ran a hand over the smooth top. ‘First, what is it? And second, do you know who took it?’ She cleared her throat. ‘And third, how much are we getting paid?’

Tamlyn Nox frowned. ‘The item that was stolen was the Heart-Stone, Skaldshollow’s most precious artefact. It was kept here, on that very plinth you are currently rubbing your greasy fingers over.’

‘Big plinth for a stone,’ said Wydrin, taking her hand away.

‘It was a big stone,’ said Nuava, speaking for the first time. She picked up one of the books and turned to a page that showed a drawing of the room they stood in. The illustration showed the plinth in great detail, and on it stood a huge green crystal, squarish and half as tall as a man. ‘The Heart-Stone is actually smaller than this drawing suggests.’ Her voice was quiet, scholarly. She did not meet their eyes as she spoke. ‘This illustration was made over fifty years ago, and since then the stone has dwindled.’

‘By the Graces, though, that’s still a big damn lump of rock,’ said Wydrin. ‘Your thieves just walked out of here with it stuffed up their jerkins?’