Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

“Weʼll speak in my brotherʼs tongue, old friend,” he said to Wise Bear. “Itʼs only polite, donʼt you think?”

Vaelin knew him then, the awful familiarity of his voice, the same mocking smile. Wise Bear raised a hand and he realised he had unconsciously taken hold of his sword and started forward, intent on this thingʼs immediate murder. The Witchʼs Bastard. How long has he been waiting?

He released his grip and stepped back as Wise Bear stood regarding the thing in silence.

“Nothing to say?” the thing enquired, hairless brows raised above its scar eyes. “No final curses or long-prepared speeches? Iʼve heard many over the years. Sadly, most are rather forgettable.”

Wise Bear kept silent, shifting his gaze to the bones littering the surrounding ice, using his staff to prod at a skull lying amidst a shattered rib cage. It was small, little larger than an apple, but clearly human.

“Last of the Cat People,” the thing said, hearing the sound of bone on bone. “They died happy, you know. Worshipping me, content to surrender their flesh in sustenance of my divine light.”

His grin widened, revealing blackened and half-rotted teeth, his eyeless face turning to Vaelin. “They were a remarkable people, brother. Centuries spent living apart from all vestige of what we term civilisation, yet they had laws, art and wisdom enough to survive in the harshest place on earth. But they had no notion of a god, until I taught it to them, and how quickly they succumbed to the idea. After all, what else would you call a man who comes back to life after a spear-hawk rips the eyes from his skull?”

The cracked lips lost their smile, the face turning to Wise Bear once more. “It could all have been avoided, old friend. If you had but opened your heart to my message, my great mission for the ice people. The southern lands would have fallen to us, and the great forest beyond. Now your people are a wasted remnant and mine nothing but bones.”

The sound of breaking ice heralded Iron Clawʼs arrival as he clambered over the surrounding wall, moving to Wise Bearʼs side, nostrils flaring at the scent of flesh. The eyeless man stiffened at the sound of the bearʼs approach but his voice remained free of fear. “You cannot threaten me, little man. Your beast holds no horrors for me. Ask my brother, he killed me once before and yet here I am. As I am elsewhere. I have waited here these long years for you to come. Pity my cats proved unequal to the task, but I am patient and I suspect you still have far to go.”

“So you wait,” Wise Bear said, moving forward in a rush, his hand flashing out to clamp onto the eyeless manʼs bald scalp. “Wait longer.”

The eyeless manʼs mouth gaped, foul air rushing forth as he voiced a soundless scream, jerking spasmodically on his bone chair. He tried to claw at Wise Bearʼs arm but his fingers lacked any strength, fluttering like feathers over his sleeve as he convulsed.

Finally the shaman released him, stepping back as the eyeless man sagged, his face a mask of confusion and pain. “What did you do?” he asked in a faint rasp, his hands flailing at his own chest and face, the nails leaving shallow scars on his flesh.

“You wait,” Wise Bear said again, turning his back. “Then you die. Forever.”

“This is…” The thing tried to rise from the bone chair, reaching out to Wise Bear as he began to walk away. “This is impossible.”

Wise Bear didnʼt turn, striding towards the crack in the ice wall with Iron Claw lumbering along behind.

“Brother!” It slid from the bone chair, reaching out to Vaelin as it crawled towards him, imploring. “Brother! Make him free me!”

Vaelin watched the thing crawl, seeing how little strength remained in its limbs, a twisted collection of skin and bone destined to perish when night brought a deadly chill. He gave no reply, turning to follow Wise Bear.

“You loved Barkus!” the thing called, voice cracking. “I am Barkus! I am your brother!”

Vaelin kept walking.

“I have knowledge! I know the Allyʼs design.”

Vaelin stopped.

“I know…” The thingʼs voice faltered as he dragged air into ruined lungs. “I know what he wants.”

“So do I,” Vaelin said, glancing over his shoulder, seeing a dying man flailing amidst rotting flesh. “He wants to make an end. And we will.”

“Did you kill all of it?”

Wise Bear gave a regretful smile and shook his head. They had encamped in the shadow of the great rock amidst the shelter offered by the jagged ice, the Lonak raising their shelters at an even greater remove than usual, disconcerted by the five war-cats that sat around the shaman in unnerving silence. Vaelin turned to watch as Cara cautiously held a morsel of seal meat out to one of the cats, the beast ignoring her until Wise Bear glanced in its direction whereupon it snapped the treat from her fingers in a lightning bob of its head.

“Only part,” he said turning back and extending his hand, splaying the stubby fingers. “Take one, can still use,” he went on, miming the amputation of his thumb and making a fist. “But weaker now.”

“If we find other parts of it,” Vaelin said, “can you do the same to them?”

Wise Bear nodded. “If we find.”

Vaelin looked at the looming rock spike wondering if the Witchʼs Bastard still somehow clung to life. I suspect you still have far to go, it had said. It knew we were coming, but not why. “Oh, Iʼve little doubt theyʼll find us.”

Tower Lord Al Beraʼs health had improved greatly since the liberation of Varinshold, his skin notably less pale and his hands free of any tremors. However, he still had difficulty standing for long periods and Lyrna had been quick to usher him into a chair. She had summoned him to her fatherʼs old rooms adjoining the council chamber. Once richly adorned with various treasures it was now, of course, stripped of all but a few paintings and tapestries, former possessions of the late Lord Darnel no doubt looted from murdered nobility. She had been scrupulous in cataloguing every item found in the palace, distributing the list so that their true owners could reclaim them, but no more than a handful of beggared lords and merchants had so far come forward.

“I recall my father naming you the Smugglerʼs Scourge, my lord,” she told Al Bera. “A hard-won title, no doubt.”

Al Bera gave a stiff nod. She had noted before his discomfort in her presence, a wariness presumably born of the low station from which he had been raised. “The smuggling gangs were greater in number in my youth, Highness,” he replied. “I was a captain in the Realm Guard before King Janus ordered me to take charge of his excisemen, a slovenly lot, given to graft and drunkenness. Forging them into an effective arm of the Crown took time, and more than a little blood.”

“And yet you did it, breaking the strangle-hold the smugglers had on the southern shore and doubling the port revenue in the process.”

Al Bera gave a cautious smile. “With a little help from the Sixth Order.”

“Nevertheless, the sword my father gave you was well earned.” She reached for the small wooden chest on the desk. “Sadly, I do not have another to give you. As you might expect, the Volarians stole the entire royal collection. But I did find an old trinket of mine in the ruin of what was once my own rooms.” She extracted the item from the box. The chain was new, fashioned from finely crafted silver but attached to an ancient amulet, a plain disc of bronze inlaid with a single bluestone.