Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

All thought fled as the realisation dawned. He felt Dahrena move to his side, taking his hand which, he realised, had begun to shake.

“The one who will save us from a peril yet unseen,” Astorek said. “He called him the Ravenʼs Shadow.”

We put in at Marbellis on the thirty-fifth day of our voyage where the captain took ten crewmen ashore, each laden with an impressive pile of loot and weapons harvested from various unfortunate Volarians at the Teeth and Alltor. “A ship feeds on cargo,” he grunted at me before departing. He was slightly more inclined towards conversation these days, but still refused to share any words with Fornella. “Should fetch half a holdʼs worth of spice with this lot. Stay on board and keep an eye on that witch of yours.”

She joined me at the rail as I surveyed the docks and the city beyond. “I had heard this place described as the treasure of the northern empire,” she said. “I must say it seems somewhat tarnished.”

Marbellis had been in a continual state of reconstruction since the war, the various burnt and wasted districts slowly disappearing as the great port healed itself. But whilst a city could be repaired the hearts of its citizens were a different matter. The years since the war had seen many appeals to the Emperor for more direct and lasting retribution against the Northmen, the loudest and most numerous originating in Marbellis.

“‘We found a jewel in the desert,ʼ” I quoted. “‘And from it fashioned a charred cinder.ʼ”

“Pretty,” she said. “One of yours, I assume.”

“Actually, it was penned by a young poet I met in Varinshold. The son, in fact, of the general who commanded the army that nearly destroyed this city.”

“Couldnʼt get to the father, I assume?”

“No. He refused all requests for an interview. His son, however, was happy to talk as long as I paid his nightly wine bill.”

“Did he have any excuse for this? Any particular reason?”

I shook my head. “Just regret, and guilt though he took no part in the slaughter. He was keen to point out that his father had been quick to quell the excesses of his army, executing over a hundred men for various dreadful deeds in the process.”

“Tokrev would have executed them too. Dead slaves are of no value.”

I turned back from the rail and started for the cabin we shared. “We have work to do.”

Over the preceding weeks our researches had done much to expand my knowledge of ancient myth but as yet revealed scant evidence as to the Allyʼs origins or the whereabouts of the endless man he sought. There were a few references to the machinations of dark gods or malign spirits in the oldest, mostly fragmentary tales left by the denizens of what later became the Volarian Empire, but sorting fact from superstitious delusion was simply impossible. The endless man proved a more fruitful line of inquiry, unearthing no less than seven different versions of his story, mostly from Asrael and revolving around the unfortunate subjectʼs rejection of the Faith. However, there were other tales, one from Cumbrael which cast the fellow as a godless heretic who committed the ultimate crime of burning the Ten Books, finding himself cursed by the World Father to contemplate his sin for all eternity. Today, however, my research uncovered a Meldenean legend telling of a man washed up on the Isles after a shipwreck, a man who should have drowned but lived when all his crew-mates perished. He named himself Urlan, come in search of the Old Gods.

I looked up from the scroll as the tramp of many feet on the deck told of the captainʼs success in securing cargo. Fornella had fallen to slumber already, lying naked on the bunk as was her perennial wont. She seemed to sleep more as the days went by and ever more grey appeared in her hair. You grow old, mistress, I thought, surveying her nakedness and finding, for all the wrinkles that now etched her face, she was still beautiful. I tossed a blanket over her and went outside.

Night had fallen and the deck was brightly lit with torches, most clustered at the bow where a persistent chopping sound could be heard. I went forward to find the captain standing with crossed arms, stern visage fixed on the sight of a man suspended by ropes to hang over the bow. The man was old but spry, clearly Alpiran from his colouring, working a hammer and chisel over the jawless figurehead, wood chips flying as he erased the scars from its snout. I noted a fresh but as yet unshaped block of wood had been nailed into place to fashion a new jaw for the serpent.

“Crew donʼt like to sail without a god to calm the waves,” the captain grunted, watching the carpenter work. “Paid him triple to have it done by morning.”

“Which is he?” I asked, gesturing at the serpent. “An old god or a new one?”

The captain favoured me with a squint, faint amusement in his eyes. “Finding my people worthy of study now, scribbler?”

“It might help, with my mission.”

He shrugged, nodding at the figurehead. “Not a he, a she. Levansis, sister to the great serpent god Moesis. Though she despised her brother for his vicious ways, she wept when Margentis destroyed his body and her tears calmed the sea for ten full years. When the storms rise, sheʼs the one we pray to.”

My knowledge of Meldenean history was scant but I knew their pantheon dated back to their colonisation of the Isles some six hundred years ago, and from my survey of the ruins found there, they had clearly been occupied long before that. “A new god then,” I said. “What can you tell me of the old ones?”

He looked away and I noted how his crossed arms tightened further. “Them we do not pray to.”

“But what are they?”

The captain cast a wary eye at the nearest of his crew, two sailors, young but both bearing scars from the Battle of the Teeth, and glaring at me in naked outrage. “Ill luck to talk of the old gods on a shipʼs deck,” the captain said, moving to the gangplank. “Come, Iʼll let you buy me a drink, scribbler. Besides I have news to impart.”

He led me to a quiet tavern near the warehouse district, the patrons mostly stevedores indulging in a cup or two of wine at the end of the dayʼs labour. Even in light of the fatigue evident in the other customers, the mood was sombre to the point of oppression, most sitting in silent contemplation of their wine. We sat beside a window, the captain lighting his pipe, the bowl filled with the sweet-smelling five-leafed weed popular in the northern empire but frowned upon elsewhere for its soporific effect.

“Ah, thatʼs the stuff,” the captain said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Once took some seeds home for the wife to grow. Never did, soilʼs not right. Pity, couldʼve made a fortune.”

“The old gods,” I said, pen poised above my scroll. “What do you know of them?”

“Well, theyʼre old for a start.” He gave an uncharacteristic laugh, something I attributed to the contents of his pipe. The merriment also raised some heads at the surrounding tables, a few scowling in disapproval, making me wonder what grim tidings had heralded such a mood.