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  Song of the Ice Lord

  Part of the Parallels series

  J.A. CLEMENT

  Published by Weasel Green Press

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  SONG OF THE ICE LORD

  Copyright © J A Clement 2014

  Cover design by Kari Ayasha of Cover to Cover Designs

  Western Emerald photo - Copyright Joseph C. Boone 

  Background cover photo - Copyright Bigstock photo

  Editors: Julia Lee Dean and Mike Rose-Steel

  Interior Text Design by Tricia Kristufek

  ISBN- 978-1-908212-32-0

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Requests for permission should be addressed to [email protected]

  First Edition:

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Song of the Ice Lord

  Other Books

  By Green Weasel Press

  Before You Go

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the memory of David “Rusty” Steel, at whose funeral I first heard the moving text which ultimately inspired the shipspirits,

  and

  to my good friend and fellow mischief-maker Dr. Tamsyn Rose-Steel, opera singer, mediaevalist, and general genius. I can still ace you with a laggy band though.

  JAC

  Song of the Ice Lord

  Nearly three thousand years ago....

  Lodden lay in the sickbed, numb amid the stench and semi-darkness of the hall. Although he knew full well that his arm was gone, lopped off just below the elbow in the great attack on the Lyrian court, it still itched and stung, and he had no way of scratching the ghost of his limb.

  Some Great Maker he was! Lost were the days when the Lyrian Court admired every new device he constructed, and wise men asked for his help. The contrast was bitter. These days he could neither scratch his itch nor construct a device for scratching it. A mere child could do better. He turned awkwardly onto his back. It gave him no relief from the itching, but on the other hand, there was something new to watch.

  A man had come in, obviously a Skral and healthy, his face lit with the brightness of youth. Lodden watched uncaring for a while. The Skral wandered round talking to people and paying attention to everything he saw, a sharp contrast to the way other Skrals behaved in the presence of the sick. Normally they burst in, declared with great heartiness that the patients would be up and swinging an axe again in no time, and then left. A Skral visit was something of a trial to anyone not in full health, but this young man was quietly cheerful in a way that did seem to lift the spirits of those with whom he spoke.

  Intrigued, eventually, Lodden called over one of the Skral women who cared for them. “Alaera, who is that?”

  The worn-looking woman came over. “That’s Maran. He’s our youngest bard, a great pride to his clan. He has completed his learning at the Halls of Lore.”

  “Halls of Lore?”

  “Yes. Students who wish to be bards go and live in the Halls of Lore for seven years, where they learn all the wisdom of a thousand years of Skraldom, from the Old Kings when the Skrallands were one country ruled by one man, to the songs made about the wars of the last few years. Many attempt the training but only the best get through. It’s like a battle of the mind, Maran says.”

  “Oh.” Lodden looked at the young man with new respect, mildly embarrassed that he had thought the Skral had no education at all. “When he has finished what he is doing, would you ask him to come over here? I would like to meet this young man, and to know more about the Halls, and your country and customs.”

  “You’re not up to long discussions yet.”

  “Perhaps not, but it would be a kindness to give me something to take my mind off this benighted itching.”

  “Very well – but tell him not to keep you talking too long.”

  Alaera bustled over to Maran. From the smoke hole high above, a solitary ray of sunshine lanced through the obscurity of the hall. Motes of dust danced in the light. As Alaera spoke to him, the young man brushed back a lock of the unruly blond hair which curled to his collar – actually, that was unusual for a Skral male, Lodden realized, but this man was a bard and he had heard the Skral refer to the long tails of hair most of them wore as ‘the warrior’s braid’.

  Maran was made of a less rugged mould. He was slender where the warriors were bulky and muscular, and his face was thoughtful and fine of feature. He reminded Lodden of the beautiful statues of Lyria. Even in the dimness of the sickroom, Lodden warmed to him on sight.

  Maran walked over to the craftsman’s sickbed. “Let’s see... From the look of you, you’re Lyrian, I’d guess,” he said in the harsh Skral language.

  “Yes. I am Lodden.”

  “Welcome to the Skrallands,” Maran continued in flawless Lyrian, to Lodden’s utter bemusement. “I am sorry that you come in such unhappy circumstances, but I wish you joy of the visit.”

  “Joy is born in the company of friends.” Lodden finished the politeness. “My preconceptions of your country may be sadly awry. I had not expected to find such learning amongst swords and axes.”

  Maran laughed, taking a seat on the stool next to Lodden’s bed. “Your preconceptions may be arrow-true, alas. My countrymen do not share my interest in the unSkral. They consider it slightly unhealthy, for the most part.” He grew serious. “But you wished to speak to me? Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Yes, if you would.” Lodden shifted in his bed. “Alaera tells me you have much learning. I would love to hear about it. Tell me a little of your people, or your culture, or anything, I don’t really care what. I have been lying in this place forever, and my mind is mired in darkness. Give me something else to think about, I beg, or I will go mad. I cannot free my mind from the murder of my city. It whirs round and round in my head until I cannot think of anything else.”

  “Have you spoken of it to anyone?”

  “Who would I tell? All of us here are burdened enough with our own stories, never mind anyone else’s.”

  Maran nodded sadly. “Then tell your story to me, my friend. It may be that when you have put it into words, it will not buzz so in your head and there will be room for better things. Today, tell me your tale, and tomorrow I will tell you stories of far-off places where the Ice Lord has never been dreamt of. Is it a deal?”

  “There is no pleasure to be had from this tale.” Lodden was reluctant to talk of his flight, but he desperately wanted to hear Maran’s stories and songs.

  “In Lyria they write things down, do they not?” Lodden nodded, and the bard continued. “Here parchment is scarce and rarely used. We do not write, we remember. We bards are not just here to entertain, though we enjoy doing so. We are the repositories of knowledge for our people. You have libraries; we have bards. Please, tell me your story. Add to the knowledge of the Skrals. It is not an unworthy cause.”

  “Very well.” Reluctantly, Lodden lay back in his bed and closed his eyes, trying to visualise where to start.

  In the hall the sick of many countries and tribes lay intermingled. He was surrounded by rows and rows of beds, each with its occupant, and each occupant with their own horrors. He shrank from the idea of reliving his own, but if his story could help or something coul
d be learnt from it, he decided, then it was worth the telling.

  He took a deep breath and began. “This injury of mine is painful, but I have suffered less than many here. The Ice Lord’s armies swept from one country to the next, as quick and destructive as wildfire. They destroyed everything in their path and in front of them the scraps and remnants of peoples fled from the death they brought. Those who fled inland were slaughtered, either quickly in the constant skirmishes or slowly in the hands of the Ice Lord’s officers, sadistic brutes known as the Ice Guard. Those monsters took pride in inventing ever more creative ways to get rid of prisoners, and anyone they didn’t kill was forced to serve in the Ice Lord’s armies, always in the first ranks to be sent into the fray. Starved, they survived by foraging for whatever they could find on the battlefields. Few survived long. They were barely armed and had no shields or armour. They were fodder for the enemy’s swords, and intended as such. The sole survivor I have met said that after the army had passed through all that was left was ashes and bones – gnawed bones.”

  Lodden hugged his arm to himself in a vain attempt to stop the itching, which had flared up unbearably as he spoke. As he did so the memory seized him and he was back there, standing two-handed in his workshop, going about the business of the day as he ever had done.

  That day, Lodden had just got back from a meeting of the Lyrian General Council. As he unlocked the door to his workshop he considered what he had just heard.

  Nobody knew who the Ice Lord was or where he had come from. They had only gradually become aware that something had changed. The constant little skirmishes between the tribes on the plains had been going on since time immemorial but instead of flaring and fading, they had been growing steadily worse. Those who investigated reported that the battles were more than usually ferocious. Great swathes of the plains were burnt down to the soil, absolutely desolate and devoid of life.

  The tribes coalesced into an army and attacked their neighbouring country. After a brief and bloody war, they moved onto the next country and the next. Refugees arrived, fleeing either the devastation or the press-gangs who brutally coerced people into the Ice Lord’s army, and were as vicious in keeping them there.

  Rumour spoke of a leader of chilling ruthlessness, a King who had taken control of the tribes. It was said he could not be killed and had many faces. The Council discounted this as pure myth, but by all accounts he struck fear into the most hardened fighters. They called him the Ice Lord. It was said that this was because his heart was as hard and unforgiving as ice; but nobody was quite sure where the name had come from, and none dared to ask.

  Over the past year, the wars had escalated to the extent that the Council was meeting on a regular basis to watch events unfold.

  And so to today’s meeting. They gathered in the usual chamber and sat at the long table with the detailed model of the city at the far end.

  The Chief of Intelligence stood. “Councillors all, I will be brief. My spies report that the Ice Lord’s armies have reached the other side of the mountains. Clearly he is coming here – there is no other city on his path. We must accept that it is time for us to leave.” The Council erupted into a storm of questions, but he held up a hand and waited until they fell silent. “We have scouts on the peaks with rockets ready to be set off when the Ice Lord’s army is sighted, but it should take him at least another week. We have a little time to prepare, and it is important that we organise our departure in some detail. Our priority is to get the people to safety with the minimum of panic, so we must make sure that everyone knows what they should do, where they should go and how best to get out of the city when the time comes.” He walked along the room to the model of the city. “This is how it will work...”

  They were each given their tasks – with the exception of Lodden. He was puzzled by this until the end of the meeting, when the King’s aide stopped him on the way out. “The King would like to see you, Maker. He asks that you wait in the Aviary Courtyard at the third bell.”

  Now alone in the quiet workshop, Lodden surveyed the device he was working on, flicking the delicate extending arm up and down with a fingertip as he watched the tiny, intricate gears turn. There was no point speculating. Evidently they had something more specific in mind for him than manning the gates or acting as guide to a party of refugees. In the meantime, it was pointless to work on the irrigation pump, given that the Ice Lord would burn all the fields – but he’d nearly got it working and it was far more interesting than attempting to pack his belongings. Besides which, his housekeeper had probably already done that for him.

  At the second bell, Lodden changed back into his Court finery ready for his interview with the King. They had met before from time to time, so he was not as nervous as he was intrigued.

  As he walked along the wide, shady pathways of the Court, he was accosted by an older man clothed in flamboyant colours. The older man greeted him with a kiss on both cheeks. “Lodden, my friend! Do you have time to stop and talk?”

  “Sorry, Kuhrin. I’m due at the Aviary at three bells. Will you walk with me?”

  “But certainly, my dear.” Kuhrin fell into step beside the craftsman, linking arms with him. “So what do you make of our esteemed Chief of Intelligence’s news this morning?”

  Lodden sighed. “I don’t know. It’s hard to believe that the Ice Lord has finally got this near. We’ve been living with the threat of it for more than a year now, and to be told that we have to leave the Court seems a bit extreme.”

  “I cannot disagree, but war is such a dirty pastime. This city will go downhill drastically when it’s flooded with a ragtag of warriors from whichever countries their leader has decided to add to his empire today.” Kuhrin flicked a mischievous glance at his companion. “The level of conversation has already been polluted, you know, even in the literary salons where one might hope to discuss higher things. Palfit has just brought out a new thesis on the effect of love on the complexion. He claims it is the natural equivalent of rouge, which I was sure should ruffle feathers all over the city, and I can’t get a soul here to give me their opinion of it! When I suggested that ladies went in pursuit of love not to reach an exaltation of emotion but to improve their fading looks – well, you have never seen anything like it.”

  “Really? What happened?”

  “Nothing. A tremendous lack of reaction.”

  Lodden laughed out loud at his friend’s outraged face.

  “Three professors, a philosopher and my Lady Literature, and all of them looked at me for three heartbeats, and then went on discussing the war.” Kuhrin shook his head, disgusted. “And Palfit an old lover of hers, as well. I was sure that would get her.”

  “Poor Kuhrin! How will you cope when there are more incendiary things than you in the social sphere?” Lodden teased.

  “Ach! Life will be a bore! There is nothing for it but to go elsewhere in search of more interesting conversation. So where will you head for?”

  “I don’t know. How can I leave this?” Lodden gestured across the wide, shady square and the sparkling fountains. “I’ve worked long and hard to make our city beautiful. These towers might be slender but they will stand through any storm. We’re guarded on one side by cliffs with dashing waves below, and on the other by the precipitous slopes of the mountains. It’s very late in the year to climb so high, and the weather will make the mountains almost impassable. I have made plans of escape, but I cannot really think that we need to do so. It’s illogical, I know, but I just don’t see how all this can disappear.”

  “It is illogical, my dear, and I am absolutely with you on that score.” Kuhrin walked on for a few paces, meditatively. “But on the other hand, look at the wreck old age has made of me. Once upon a time I was the most dashing young fellow in four counties. The lovers I had, when I first got here! Men and women swooned over me, vying for my favours – not that any of them had to work that hard.”

  “None of us had to work very hard at all.” Lodden teased. ??
?In fact, as I recall you found it difficult to decide whether we should get in line, or just all turn up in your bed at the same time.”

  “Yes, and then you threw me over for that brown-eyed girl.”

  “It was a youthful fling. As were you for that matter. I was still working out what appealed to me in those days.”

  “And to what conclusion did your scholarly undertakings bring you?”

  Lodden considered this. “Gentleness. I am attracted to a gentle heart.”

  “Ha, well I don’t think I’ve ever been in that category! And now, in my dotage, I am reduced to making mischief in the literary salons to amuse myself.” Kuhrin adopted a despairing look though the twinkle did not fade from his eye. “What a fall from grace! Highly mortifying. The corollary to this little plaint is that nothing lasts forever. Me, I have my exit planned, and I’m heading off as soon as the rockets go up.”

  “I suppose you’re right, but it will be such a wrench. Anyway...” Lodden stopped and embraced his friend as they reached the wide, intricately carved arches of the palace. “Come and find me this evening, and we will take a goblet of wine together.”

  “I suppose wine will have to do,” Kuhrin sniffed, dabbing at his aquiline nose with a lace-edged handkerchief. “You are such a disappointment to me though. Of all the Great Makers, I was sure you would be the one to discover the Elixir of Youth, and here I am, grey of hair and wrinkled of mien, still waiting.”

  “Wine works wonders for you in that respect, though.” Lodden kept his face serious. “A bottle or two, and you act like a child.”

  “The cheek!” Kuhrin flapped his handkerchief at the craftsman in pretended offense and flounced off, calling over his shoulder “And make sure it’s a decent vintage this time!”

  Lodden smiled as he mounted the marble stairs into the Palace.

  “Great Maker,” the guard acknowledged.

  “Casim. How’s that daughter of yours?”

  “Pretty as the dawn and mischievous as a monkey.” The guard shook his head. “Still not sleeping through the night yet, though. See these bags under my eyes? The last time I had a full night’s sleep was midwinter, and that was only because I was drunk!”

  Lodden laughed. “Come to me when it’s her birthday and I’ll make her a toy.”

  “That would be a great honour! Thank you, Maker!”

  The guard saluted smartly and Lodden went on through the cool of the high arched walkways. He admired the beautiful gardens on either side. The Palace Gardener was a man of no small talent, and Lodden was proud to have worked with him on the irrigation system that kept the gardens lush even under the blazing Lyrian sun. As always, he was bewitched by the fragrances that wafted through the walkways on the breaths of warm air from the garden.

  Nearer to the Aviary courtyard, he had to pass through several more sets of guards and eventually was ushered through finely-wrought gates, almost filigree in the complexity of their design. These were the work of the fourteenth Maker, and a great treasure, depicting the wedding of the beautiful Queen Laerzi to her co-ruler, King Haradian. The doorman let him through and then opened the inner gates, these of glass and simple gilded mesh, and he walked into the Aviary Courtyard itself.

  Lodden took a seat on the bench under the great date palm that shaded the corner and admired his surroundings. High above him arched a graceful glass dome with linen shades which could be pulled across when the sun was too fierce. Nearby, an artfully constructed stream trickled from a hillock and chattered its way over multicoloured pebbles down to a pool. The laughter of the stream was overlaid by birdsong, melodious and serene. In the wooded area nearby, colours flashed as birds swooped between branches, alighted, called, and flew again. Down by the pool, tall water plants raised spears to the sky, amongst which flowers flared like bright butterflies. A cloud of tiny hummingbirds darted and weaved in and out of them. Reflected in the silver water, the flickering dance of colour was incredible. Lodden stored the image in his mind. If he could make a device to replicate that, what a gift it would be!

  The gates slid open again, and Lodden stood respectfully to greet his King. “Sire.” He laid one hand on his heart and bowed deeply.

  “Maker.” It was a sign of the King’s respect for the craftsman that he merited an inclination of the head in return. “Walk with me.”

  The King was still a young man, though the worries of these last few years had streaked his temples with early grey. He had a gentle, intelligent face and as the two of them paced the beautiful walk that threaded its way through the courtyard, he paused among the trees, and whistled. At first nothing happened, but he did it again and the third time, a dainty little bird swooped out of the trees and landed on his outstretched finger. It was a tiny little thing with delicate shades of emerald on its feathers, and black eyes that glinted as it cocked its head at them one way and another.

  “This is Tiris. I raised him from an egg, you know. Many are the hours of delight he has given me, with his quaint antics and the sweetness of his song.” The King ran a gentle finger over its head. “As you have heard in council, the Ice Lord has finally come to us. He means to attack the city. We must accept that. I do not know what can survive. All the beauty and learning we have worked for so long to build about us will be destroyed, but I am determined to save what I can. I have sent our greatest treasures on ahead to the city of Laerzinan for safety. My people are readying themselves to travel onto Laerzinan and from the safety of the Laerzinane walls we will decide whether it is best to stay and risk a siege, or to go down into the caves and flee through the darkness under the mountains.” The little bird chirped, and pecked lightly at the king’s hand, where the sparkling jewel on his ring had caught its attention. “Anything that we leave here will be lost, including my little friend here and his brethren. I have asked you to come here today because we must leave all this behind, and I need your help to free my birds.”

  Tiris swooped off the King’s hand and circled to land on his shoulder.

  It was a moment before Lodden could reply. “But Sire – all your work...”

  “Counts for naught now.” The King walked on a few steps to look over the pool. “We are running out of time, Lodden. If the Ice Lord’s army comes, who will have time to think of mere birds when the fate of my people hangs in the balance? Now is a time for sad farewells. Later we too will attempt to fly. We are not warriors, Maker. We are lovers, philosophers, poets. We watch the stars and study the earth. We have amassed a library of knowledge that is unequalled anywhere in the world, but we are not an army, and this is not a fortress. It was built to be beautiful, not defensible.” He gestured to Lodden to walk with him, the movement earning him a scolding chirp from Tiris. “We cannot fight the fury of the Ice Lord. We can only flee, but it is my hope that with the talents of my courtiers and the time we have left, it may not be a terrified scramble but an organised departure. The people pack their bags now, and those on the outer wards of the city have already been called to set off along the plain. I have not heard that the Ice Lord has yet reached Gai Ren, so perhaps the Potentate will give us sanctuary but to get the people there safely, we must start now. And so the birds.”

  “Yes, Majesty. What do you wish?”

  “Open the skylights,” the King replied softly. “Not a little bit, but as far as they go. Then we will take down the trees and the bushes, and make sure there is not one of the little souls left in this trap when death comes to the city.”

  “Yes Sire.” Lodden bowed again and then, greatly daring, suggested “Would it please you to help?”

  The King raised an eyebrow, almost affronted, but then his face softened. “Yes, it is well thought of.” He followed the craftsman to the centre of the courtyard.

  Lodden set his hands to a great wheel. At first it would not move, but with some difficulty he started to turn it, and as it screwed shut the fountain slowed to a trickle and stopped, while the water in the bowl flowed away. When the bowl was dry, Lodden climbed up
the little hillock at its centre. At the top was a structure of metal, overgrown with the winding tendrils of a vine dotted with tiny white flowers.

  Lodden pulled it aside, exposing the parabola of slender metal rods. “First the pins.” He gestured at an ornate tracery of metal halfway up, where knots of metal flowers graced the rods. Beside him, the King took hold of the cluster of flowers. With a sweet metallic sound, the silver pin drew from its home. Lodden extracted pins from the ones nearer to him, and the King took the rest.

  “Now we can open the skylights.” Lodden took one of the rods and raised it carefully. There was a grating sound, and one of the glass panes of the roof raised itself. When it was fully perpendicular, he put the pin back in and the rod stayed upright. The King followed suit. After a few moments the windows were all open, or nearly all. The last rod refused to move. Even when both men took hold, the rod was stubborn and when they yanked at it, it snapped.

  “Shoddy workmanship, that.” Lodden tucked the broken end of the pole under his arm. “I never could abide the twelfth Maker’s work.”

  The King looked up at the wide windows above them in the rapidly cooling square. “I don’t suppose it matters. All the others are open.” He put the silver pin in his robes, jumped down and clapped his hands. A body of men marched in. “You know what to do,” the King told them. “Raze it to the ground, and get rid of the detritus – but mind you do it carefully. I want every last bird to fly out of here unharmed. And now, Lodden, come with me. I have a further task for you.”

  “Well?” Kuhrin demanded, later that evening. “What do they have in mind for you? Is the Great Maker too good to be herding peasants down the sewers like the rest of us, shepherding them along with all the other turds?”

  “Kuhrin, you know that that is not the way of it!” Lodden could not help rising to the bait.

  “Is it not, my dear?” the other teased. “So what is it that you’re doing, anyhow?”

  “After we had let the birds out, the King took me to the Dowager Palace and introduced me to his mother.”

  “That old boot!”

  “Don’t be discourteous! She wasn’t gracious, I grant you, but the King explained that I was to help her escape, and when she discovered that it was I who had invented that clockwork palanquin of hers, she abruptly became a lot less querulous.”

  “If just as rude, I suspect.”

  “She is a crotchety, demanding old lady in poor health. What do you expect?”

  “I expect she asked why you and not a legion of soldiers.”

  “Well, there was something of the sort. The King took it very seriously, but I got the feeling she was making him work for it more out of mischief than anything else. We are to have a guard of four men, though.”

  “Four?” Kuhrin snorted. “What use is that? So they can carry her chamber pot?”

  “Four is enough to defend us from small groups, but not enough to make anyone think we are important. That’s why four.”

  “Enough to delay the enemy while you run, you mean.”

  Lodden looked a bit sheepish. “There is the Dowager Queen to think about. She is old and unwell.”

  Kuhrin drained the last of his wine and held the goblet out for more. “Yes, and there is that palanquin of hers to look after. They need you to keep it moving. When she gets to Laerzinan, she’s not going to want to go into the city on a litter as if she was already dead. She needs to ride in in triumph on her clockwork cart. That sort of thing makes an enormous difference to the way people think about things. They’re no fools, the Royal Family – they know how to play the cards they’re dealt.”

  “Ah.” Lodden sat back on his chair, considering. “Yes, that does make sense. I wondered why me, but that would explain it.”

  “Happy to help, m’boy. Now, how about another skin of wine for an old man?”

  “You are not old!”

  “Not as old as I intend to get, certainly.” Kuhrin’s mobile face was sad for a moment. “But listening to the reports coming back from the war, I find myself thinking that perhaps I have already lived too long.”

  The following days went past in a blur. There was a feel of organised tension about the city. When the members of the Council turned up for the meeting, there was no sign of the Chief of Intelligence. They took a goblet of wine and waited, and just as Lodden was wondering if he should go home and get on with his work, the door slammed open and the Chief strode in, dishevelled and harassed.

  “Apologies for my lateness.” He ran a hand through his hair, disordering it still further. “We have had terrible news from Laerzinan. The Ice Lord’s army attacked them at dawn yesterday and they are in need of help.” There was a moment’s stunned silence, and he sat down wearily, raising a hand to still the reactions as people got over their shock.

  “The Ice Lord is at Laerzinan? How can that be?”

  “But he’s on the other side of the mountains from here!”

  “The Ice Lord himself, yes. He is at the head of the force that menaces us here, but what we thought of as his army was merely a part of it. While our scouts watched the force approaching us, a secondary force branched out or landed from the sea or whatever – it doesn’t really matter now. All that matters is that Laerzinan is under attack.”

  There was a silence.

  “It will take us some days to get men organised and go to their aid.” The Chief of Staff hesitated. “But can we spare the men? The assault will fall upon our own walls soon enough. If half of my men are between here and Laerzinan, the Court will not survive. The main part of our army is based in Laerzinan. If they cannot hold the force that is attacking them, I fear that we will have difficulty holding our own walls.” He buried his head in his hands briefly. “I have family there... I cannot see how to go to their aid. If we abandoned the city it might be possible, but that will take days. You are sure they asked for help?” He looked up at the Chief of Intelligence. “Their walls are very strong and well-defended.”

  “They were breached, by fire and treachery. There was little warning. I don’t know if they even managed to get many people into the caves before the troops swept in.”

  The silence was heavy with shock.

  “We need to send men out.” The High Priest pulled at the neck of his gown to loosen it. “Not to save Laerzinan, but the refugees fleeing to take refuge there. They are journeying towards their own death.”

  “I will send my swiftest riders. It does not need a large force, and a handful of riders can be off within the hour.” The Chief of Staff shouted down the corridor for his aide, and gave him terse instructions. The aide left at a run, nearly knocking over a breathless, scruffy man stumbling down the corridor with a dead pigeon in one hand and a tiny scroll of paper in the other. Seeing him, the Chief of Intelligence called “Is it from Laerzinan? Is there news?”

  The man staggered into the room and handed over the tiny scroll, too breathless to speak. The Chief of Intelligence read it and exhaled as if he had been punched in the stomach. He read it again, aloud this time. “‘The gates have fallen. The walls are breached. Everyone is dead but me and the pigeons. Fire devours the city and the palace below me. I cannot get out. Do not come to Laerzinan, for you will find only the enemy and the dead’. It is signed off by the pigeon boy, the child who cleans the cages. His coding is as tiny and neat as any message I have ever seen.” He held up the tiny scroll of parchment. “We should start evacuating the city now. You know what needs to be done. I must go and advise the King that Laerzinan has fallen, and we must find a way to retrieve that which has been sent there.”

  Lodden left the Council chamber, deep in thought. There was not much he could to do but advise the Dowager Queen to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. He went to her apartments but the lady-in-waiting told him that she was asleep and not to be disturbed, so he explained what had happened and asked her to pass the message on.

  Leaving the palace, he hesitated and then, rather than turning towards his own workro
oms, hurried to the tavern where Kuhrin was usually to be found.

  “My boy, what are you doing here at this time of day?” Kuhrin toasted him drunkenly. “This is out of your usual habits. Has gadget-building finally driven you to drink?” Lodden’s lack of reaction drew Kuhrin’s attention at once, and he gestured away the comely youth who was sitting next to him. “Rasal, my dear, may we have a moment?”

  The young man stood, jealousy in his beautiful brown eyes, but Lodden held up a hand. “No, this affects all of us. You should hear what I have to say.” The tavern fell quiet, people crowding round to hear the news, and Lodden explained as best he could. “Start packing now. Tell your neighbours and friends, and if you were going to Laerzinan, do not head in that direction. We do not know how far the army have got, and there will already be hundreds fleeing back. Do not head for the mountains, either, for the rest of the army will be coming that way.”

  “Where does that leave?” the boy demanded. “The coast? And when they follow us there, do we throw ourselves into the sea?”

  “I don’t know. You will be advised by whoever is guiding your neighbourhood just as they planned, but we need to make sure that everyone knows not to go to Laerzinan.”

  “Thank you, Lodden.” Kuhrin rose. “People, you have heard what he has to say. Now go and make your preparations.” With much worried chatter the tavern emptied.

  “Where will you go, Kuhrin?” Lodden asked. “Your family were from Laerzinan, weren’t they?”

  Kuhrin sat down again. “Yes. My home will be gone by now, ashes lost to the four winds. Fortunately there were not many of my family left last time I visited; an elderly aunt, a second cousin.” He sighed. “At least it sounds to have been quick. I should hate to think of them being thrown to the mercies of the Ice Guard. Still, with not much left to take, I shall be travelling light, at the very least.” He smiled crookedly. “But you should be off. You have your duties, remember?” He embraced his friend and kissed him on both cheeks. “It is time for me to go, too. Be well, Lodden. Journey safely. I do not think we shall meet again this side of the veil, but when you get to the Gardens of Paradise, look for me – I shall be waiting at a shady table with a skin of wine.”

  “Be well, my friend.” He embraced Kuhrin. “And make sure it’s the good stuff, not that vinegar you drink here!”

  Lodden turned to leave. He hated goodbyes. Suddenly there was a bang, and another. More followed. “The Ice Lord. They must have seen him on the mountains.”

  Exchanging a look, the friends went outside to investigate.

  “Gods!” Lodden gasped. The warning fireworks were not those high on the mountainside, but the secondary warning, set at the river crossing. Behind them the mountainside was black with the Ice Lord’s army, swarming down the mountain like a poisonous flood. They were nearly upon the city.

  Kuhrin gripped his friend’s arm as if for support. “The scouts on the mountains must have been taken.”

  “We were supposed to have plenty of warning!”

  For a moment neither of them could speak. Then Kuhrin reached into the pockets of his gown and took out a small phial. He unstoppered it, but instead of the acrid smelling salts he sometimes carried, it smelt pleasantly of almonds. “Time for me to go, I think.” He swallowed the liquid in one gulp.

  Almonds? Too late, Lodden realised what that meant. “No!”

  Kuhrin’s face contorted in pain, and his legs went weak. “Apologies, my dear. I decided not to wait.”

  “Kuhrin...” Lodden supported Kuhrin, guiding him back into the now-deserted tavern.

  “I’m going on ahead,” the older man gasped, clutching at his stomach as Lodden lowered him back into his chair. “Cowardly, perhaps, but I never was one to love the warmongers. Now go. You have a job to do, remember?”

  Lodden kissed him on the brow and ran. There was no time to get his pack from the workshop now. He had to get the Dowager Queen to safety, and he was not at all sure that her clockwork palanquin would get her to the stables in time. Faced with this imminent threat, he did not trust the stable-boys to wait. They would take the horses and flee. He cursed as he ran. Too soon, too soon! They had planned to move her cart and horses into the palace the very next morning.

  As he ran a bell began to toll, and another and another until the emergency peal was ringing all across the city. Lodden pushed his way through the throng. All was chaos – people running, children screaming, horses rearing in panic as their owners tried to ride through the crowded streets. At the palace gates he could not reach the entrance for the mob that beat upon the door and begged to be let in. Lodden caught the eye of the guard, Casim again, who nodded him over to a quiet corner of the courtyard. Lodden slipped through the crowd and round behind the ornate column there to a tiny, discreet door which was opened from inside by one of the guards and closed again as quickly behind him.

  “Gentlemen.” Lodden nodded his acknowledgments and set off again at a jog, holding his side where a stitch gnawed at it. He stopped first at the council chamber. The Council was gathered in an impromptu meeting, and he slipped in to join them.

  “The Ice Lord must have marched his armies night and day to get over the peaks, despite the deaths it will have cost him” the Chief of Intelligence was saying. “With the armies so near, our plans for an orderly exit are in tatters. All we can do is try to control the panic. The Chief of Staff and the King have ridden out with the Guard to delay the main onslaught on the city. It is unlikely that they will return.” He looked round the room. “You all know what to do. Do what you can, and save as many as possible. My friends, it has been my honour to work with you all, and I bid you a grateful farewell. Those of us who survive will be scattered far and wide, and the chances of our meeting again in this world are small. Fortune go with you and the gods look over you as you travel.”

  Lodden hurried out into the passage ahead of the rest. There was no time for goodbyes. When he arrived at the Royal apartments, the door was snatched open at his knock. The Dowager Queen’s lady-in-waiting was there, a young girl named Isthil.

  “Is she ready to go?”

  “She won’t leave until she sees what happens to her son.” The girl had tears in her eyes as she gestured behind her.

  The Dowager Queen Estrella sat at her window. Her rooms were high in the palace, looking over the plain with a clear view of the army pooling before the city. The enemy were spreading out, wider and wider over the landscape. Between them and the city were the bright strand of the King’s Guard.

  “Your Majesty.” Lodden bowed.

  “Maker.” She did not look at him.

  “Your Highness, we must leave. The army is so close that we will have difficulty getting away if we delay.”

  “I am not going.”

  “Please, your Highness. I gave my word to your son that I would take you to safety. To betray my King in his direst need would be a vile treason.”

  “Do you not see him there?”Queen Estrella demanded. “I am his mother! What kind of woman do you think could leave her son in danger, and not want to know his fate?”

  “Perhaps one who knows that it will give strength to her son to know that she is safe?”

  There was a long silence.

  The Dowager Queen gripped the arms of her seat until her knuckles went white. “You cannot ask this of me.”

  “Then I will beg you, on his behalf.” Lodden knelt before her. “Your Majesty, your son told me that he had spent much of his life looking for a Queen, and for the first time that he was glad he had not found one. He was consumed by the thought that you might fall into the hands of the Ice Lord. He knows how brutally they treat their prisoners. My Queen, your son is proud to ride out on that plain to save his people, even at the cost of his own life. He knows he can only delay the carnage, but if he saves one child by his actions, he will go to the Gardens of Paradise confident that he was the best King that he could have been. He cannot last long but he will fight until he gets the signa
l that we have left the Palace, and he will not retreat until he can be confident that when he falls, he is not leaving you to the tender mercies of the Ice Lord’s officers. Please, Queen Estrella, let him do this for you.”

  The old woman stared at him, torn between grief and anger. “He is my son!”

  “Your Highness, he is your King, and he has commanded it.”

  There was a long pause, and then she sagged in her seat as if she had aged a thousand years in those brief seconds. “Where are your men, Maker? Where are your horses?”

  “They are awaiting us, your Highness.”

  “Then call your men and have them bring the horses to the courtyard down here. When the horses are here, I will come down, and leave my son to die on the field. I am too old and slow to be dragged through stables and armouries. The horses can come to me, and then I shall leave.”

  Lodden met her gaze uneasily. It was not the plan he had discussed with the King, but the circumstances were not as the King had expected, and it was clear that the Dowager Queen would take no other course.

  “Very well, your Highness, but I pray you, in the meantime, put on poorer garb. The army is getting closer with every breath and if they know who you are it will not go well for you. There will be a servant or maid whose garments will fit you, and these will be a better protection than any armour.”

  “Very well. Isthil, you have heard what the Maker said. Can you find me something of the sort?”

  “Yes, your Highness. My own maid is of your height and build. I believe her dresses would fit you.”

  “Very well, child.” The Dowager Queen laid a hand on the girl’s cheek. “Change into something of the sort yourself, and hurry.”

  “Yes, your Highness.”

  “Your Highness, I shall be back presently.” And Lodden left Queen Estrella sitting alone at the gracious arch of the window, watching the black-cloaked troops march against the thin ribbon of her son’s men.

  Lodden dashed down through the palace in search of the men who were supposed to accompany him and cursed to find the guardroom empty. Struck by a thought, he ran along to the palace entrance where Casim and his men were barring the gates. The street was mostly empty, scattered with discarded belongings, and further off there was shouting and screaming. A woman hurried past, dragging her squealing child by the hand.

  “The crowd is mostly gone to their escape routes, sir,” Casim reported. “The way is clear if you need to get through.”

  “Not this way, Casim. Are you finished here?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Your family?”

  “Safely at my wife’s mother’s house in the country, thank the Gods!”

  “Then I need you – all four of you – to help me get the Dowager Queen to safety. Are you willing to come with me?”

  “Us sir? But we’re only the doormen! Us, see Queen Estrella and all? It wouldn’t be right! You need guards for that, sir, proper armed guards!”

  “The guards have run away. I need loyal men who won’t desert her. It will be dangerous though.”

  “Sir, everywhere in this city is dangerous right now. I’m in – are you up for it lads?” Casim glanced at his men, who all stepped forward. “Yours to command, sir.”

  “Thank you Casim, from the bottom of my heart.” Lodden thought for a moment. “The horses will be long gone now. We’ll need a cart for the Dowager Queen. Go find something of the sort. Casim and I will get the clockwork palanquin as far as the Aviary Courtyard. Meet us there. Quick as you can, mind!”

  They scattered, and Lodden and Casim jogged back along the arched walk through the gardens to the Royal apartments. The fragrance of the jasmine was piercingly sweet, belying the destruction that waited so close to the walls.

  He led the way back up to the Dowager Queen’s door. Isthil opened it, now dressed in an ill-fitting black gown.

  “Rub your face with a little soot,” Lodden told her. “You are far too pretty to be a scullery-maid.”

  “Isthil, is that the Maker?” The Dowager Queen’s voice echoed in the marble antechamber.

  “Yes, your Highness. He’s back.”

  “Very well. Draw the curtains, my dear, and then go to your family while you still can.”

  Isthil drew back the curtains of the Queen’s chamber. The old woman was now wearing a sack-like garment and a white head-dress similar to those Lodden had seen his housekeeper wear.

  “You have been a good girl to stay with me, but you will be better off with your family. Pass on to them my regrets at our parting, and my best wishes for their journey.”

  Isthil threw her arms round the old lady and kissed her on the cheek.

  Queen Estrella was startled but pleased. She took a ring from her finger. “Here, child. This was given to me by my late husband, the King’s father. If any of Lyria remains after the Ice Lord, give this to the Royal family and they will help you. If there are none of us left, sell it and use the money with my blessing.”

  “Thank you, Queen Estrella.” The girl curtsied again, wiping tears from her cheeks, and ran to find her family.

  Lodden brought the clockwork palanquin out into the corridor and with Casim’s help, the Dowager Queen clambered into it. Lodden waited as she settled herself comfortably in the seat, which was cunningly sprung so that every time it bounced, it wound the clockwork as well as absorbing the lesser bumps and jolts of the journey. She reached forward to take the lever which steered it to left or right, and flicked the catch which held it immobile. There was a clicking, and slowly the palanquin lifted one of its four legs, then another, and after a slightly creaky start it was scuttling along at a slow walking pace, ticking and whirring to itself.

  “This was your own invention?” Queen Estrella asked after a moment.

  Hoisting her pack upon his back, Lodden nodded. “It was, your Highness.”

  “There is no point Highnessing me now, Maker. If I am dressed like a housekeeper, you should address me like a housekeeper.” Her tone was acerbic.

  “Your Highness, I -”

  “How would you address your housekeeper?”

  “My Lady.” Actually, Lodden called his housekeeper by her first name, but he did not suppose that the Dowager Queen would know that.

  She glared at him with all the scepticism of a mother. “You call your housekeeper ‘My Lady’?”

  “Yes, your Highness.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You should call me Estrella, I suspect, but that will do.” They passed along the corridor and she turned the palanquin towards the stairs. “As I was saying, this is a very useful contraption, but it does make one a little seasick on the stairs.”

  “Does it?” Lodden was immediately interested. “There may be something I could do about that – an adjustment to the gait perhaps...”

  “Now is not the time, Maker.”

  “Oh! And I have left all my tools in the workshop!”

  Queen Estrella gave him a look that was half sadness and half amusement. “You are a Maker to the core, Lodden. I suspect that in the middle of a battle you’d be inventing ways to make a shield work better.”

  Lodden flicked her a sheepish glance. “It is the way my mind works.”

  “And fortunate for some of us that that is the case.” The palanquin reached the bottom of the stairs, its roughened wood and leather paws echoing on the marble of the walkways. For perhaps half the length of the corridor, its regular clacking was the only sound. Then, as they neared the open windows of the Aviary Courtyard, the noises of chaos began to filter through. “Have you been outside the Palace? Is it bad out there?”

  “The people are afraid, my Lady, and understandably so, but there are plans in place to get them all away.”

  A rumble of drums; Lodden and Casim paused. Queen Estrella pulled convulsively at the lever of the palanquin, stopping it mid-stride. The drums rumbled on and were answered by the bright brave call of trumpets.

  “They are sending forward a champion...” Casim breathed.
/>
  “A champion?” The Dowager Queen looked up at him with burgeoning hope. “Our swordsmen are the best in the world. If they put up a foreigner against one of the Guards we might yet win!”

  “Yes...”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  Casim fell silent.

  Lodden answered instead. “My Lady, if there is a combat between champions, we will surely win. But what then? I cannot believe that of all the other cities the Ice Lord has attacked, none have called a challenge between champions. If nowhere else, I am certain that they would have tried it at Laerzinan.”

  She twisted to look at him. “He has taken Laerzinan?”

  “Yes, my Lady. I am sorry, I assumed you knew.”

  “I suspected as much, from the way they were whispering.” She sighed. “I grew up in Laerzinan, you know. I have a lot of fond memories of that city. But more pressingly, that was to be our refuge. Have you an alternative destination in mind?”

  Lodden shook his head in frustration. “It has all happened so quickly. We must flee the city before it is surrounded. Once free, we can discuss what to do next.”

  “Ha, you are thinking of giving me choice in the matter then?” she demanded bitterly. “You know what my choice is now and have ignored it.”

  “I am sorry, my Lady. My King commanded that it be so. We will wait here for the moment though. The others are to meet us with whatever transport they can find.”

  “They are leaving it rather a long time, don’t you think?”

  “They were to come back when the drums sounded,” Casim said thoughtfully. “It has only been a few minutes. Would you like me to climb up and see what I can see from the top?”

  “From the top of where?”

  “The top of the Aviary dome. As kids, we used to have races to see who could get up there first.”

  Lodden stared up at the skeletal frame. “Will it take your weight?”

  “The glass won’t, but the structure is quite sturdy.” Without more ado Casim hurried into the Aviary, followed by the other two, and crossed to the far side where handholds were set into the wall. Queen Estrella stopped her palanquin at the open gates and took in the devastation around her. Lodden looked around in dismay. Where the stream and pool had been was only bare earth, the water stopped and the banks levelled. All the trees and shrubs were gone, and the path was lost in the loose earth. Only the skeleton of the fountain remained, stripped of its greenery, its singing stilled.

  “And so all beauty passes,” Estrella muttered.

  The trumpets blared again, triumphantly, and a yell was heard from the battlefield. Edging along the slender path around the rim of the dome, Casim clambered onto the brick wall, holding onto the open skylights for balance.

  “What can you see, Casim?” Lodden called. “What were the trumpets?”

  “The champion! I think it was the King!” Casim nearly fell in his excitement. “The other man is on the floor. He is not getting up. The King is bowing over him – others are coming to look. The King has stood straight – his arms are in the air!” The trumpets sounded again, a real fanfare this time. “It looks – it looks like they are celebrating! The King has won! The Ice Lord’s champion is defeated!”

  There was a long, grumbling rumble of drums, and then a few yells sounded clear on the still air, before a dead silence fell.

  “No...!” Casim clutched at the wall. Lodden could not bear to ask what had happened. He did not want to look down at the Dowager’s Queen, whose face was alight with hope and pride.

  The drums rumbled again.

  “Tell me, Casim,” Queen Estrella ordered.

  “They killed him. He won, and they killed him.” Casim leant back against the wall, high above them. “It must have been an arrow. The Ice Lord’s champion was down, not moving. The King turned away, then stumbled and fell. They are lifting him onto their shoulders. They have set him down behind the lines. He is dead. They shot him in the back when he had won.” The drums rumbled again. “They have a new champion. They are playing with us like cats with a mouse.”

  “They have made their intentions clear.” Tears were streaming down the Dowager Queen’s face and suddenly she looked very old. “There is no reason for us to stay now. There is still less for us to go, except that he wished it.”

  Lodden looked back up to the guard. “Casim, can you see the others? They should be making their way back to us by now – are they in sight?”

  Casim twisted around on his perch and strained to see over the wall. “Gods!” he exclaimed, and with a huge effort scrabbled up to teeter on the top.

  “What is it, man?”

  He stared the other way. “Time to go, and fast!” Balancing precariously on the wall, he felt around for the first foothold. “They have come behind us. Fires are burning in the city. The wind is blowing from the battlefield, so all that noise and show there is keeping us distracted while the smoke and screams from the western quarter are blowing away behind us!”

  “No sign of the others?”

  “None.”

  Queen Estrella knew quite well what he was trying not to say. She wiped the tears from her face and sat straighter in her palanquin. “No matter. We shall see how far my clockwork steed can take me. There will no doubt be some cart or a pony or something of the sort on the way.” All of them knew how slender the chances of this were.

  “No doubt you are right, my Lady.”

  Casim jumped down from the steps as the Dowager Queen flicked her palanquin into action and began to steer it round to leave. At that moment there was a flutter of colour above them as something dipped and fell through the open windows. There was a clink, and Lodden lunged forward to catch the flash of green as it dropped towards them.

  “What is it?” Casim bent to pick up a silver pin with a knot of flowers, now stained scarlet.

  Lodden straightened carefully. “Look – it is Tiris.”

  Wordlessly Estrella held out her hands to take the little creature as it gasped.

  Lodden took the pin from Casim. It was that which the King had kept when they opened the aviary. He wondered if the King had sent it, or whether the bird had an eye for a shiny thing and had just returned to its home, forgetting that it no longer existed. Either way, the pin was suddenly more precious to him than he could say. He clenched his fist around it until it hurt. “Come. They are close.”

  At first they made reasonable speed. The palanquin could keep up a fast walking pace, and on the smooth marble, it clacked along without undue stress.

  Casim led the way down from the gardens to a tiny back gate from the palace. He checked to see that the street outside was free of soldiers. “The Ice Lord’s men have breached the city gates to south and west, but as far as I could see, the east of the city is relatively untouched.”

  Lodden glanced behind them as Casim pulled the gate shut. “If we can get to the river there may still be boats.”

  “If we are not too late.” There was a chirp from Queen Estrella’s lap as the bird sat up. “Ah, little one, my son would be glad to see that you have recovered.” It hopped about her lap, and then settled against her, apparently unfazed by the clomping of the palanquin.

  They headed off through the maze of backstreets. The palanquin began to labour, and a couple of times Lodden and Casim had to grab the sides as it caught its leathern paws on the uneven stones of the road. They exchanged worried glances, but said nothing.

  “This way.” Casim peered round the corner.

  Lodden leaned near to mutter, “Can you smell the smoke?”

  “They must have swept round faster than we anticipated.”

  “I surmise from your whispering that we are getting near the conflict?” the Dowager Queen snapped.

  Abruptly the palanquin caught its foot again and the Dowager Queen was nearly tipped out. Tiris, flung from her lap, soared up, scolding, and swooped onto a nearby rooftop.

  “That was close! Are you all right?” As she nodded, Lo
dden set the cart straight again, but it would not settle. He looked underneath. One of the feet was broken. “Casim, can you hold it? This might jolt a little, my Lady.” He ducked underneath and after a bit of tugging, managed to pull away the broken pad. He pocketed it, just in case there was time to fix it, and wiped his muddy hands on his robe. “Try that.”

  Queen Estrella let it off the latch, and the palanquin lurched forward. Casim grabbed at it again, and she nodded at him. “It might not be a smooth ride, but if you two will support it on this side as we go, we can manage.”

  The palanquin marched on, jolting every second step, but they managed to get a few streets further. The smell of smoke was getting stronger, overlaid with the stench of burning flesh. Distant screams and shouting echoed between the buildings, and the two men exchanged glances over the Queen’s head, trying to hurry the palanquin as best as they could.

  “We’re not far now,” Casim muttered. “After the end of this street there is a fountain, a tall one. Next to it is the trapdoor that will lead us down into the sewers, where the river will take us to the sea.”

  The Dowager Queen looked up at him sharply. “How can we get down the trapdoor with the palanquin?”

  “I’m sorry, my Lady. We may have to leave it behind.” Lodden patted the palanquin a little sadly.

  “And then I shall be just another old woman who cannot walk.”

  “No, my Lady. You will be a Queen who has her Great Maker to make another just as good, maybe better, when we get to our destination.”

  “Always the Maker. You really can’t help inventing things, can you, or altering them? Promise me one thing, though.”

  “What is that, my Lady?” Lodden watched Casim coming back from the end of the street, signalling that it was clear.

  “Promise me that you will not make anything that will make this war worse.” The Dowager Queen laid a hand on his arm. “War is bad enough when men hit each other with blades. I am afraid of the lethal traps you could add. Promise me that you will not do so.”

  “As you wish, my Lady. I promise.”

  Suddenly the palanquin stalled. It froze with one paw upraised, and there was a whirring sound as of something unwinding, faster and faster.

  Queen Estrella exhaled slowly. “What was that?”

  “The spring has broken,” Lodden answered. “And now we are in trouble.”

  “Can it be fixed?”

  “No, only replaced. I could make another if I had the use of my workshop and plenty of time, but as it is I we need to leave it and get to the trapdoor.”

  “We’re not far short of it anyway,” Casim encouraged. “I will-” Shouts sounded from the other end of the street. Lodden grabbed at the palanquin as Casim fell to the ground, blood pumping from the dart in his throat.

  “They’re here!” the Queen hissed. “Go! Save yourself! I am lost in any case!”

  “No! I gave my word!”

  Ragged figures were advancing down the street, shouting in a hoarse language. Helmets shaped like sharp-jawed reptilians covered their faces, smeared with blood.

  “Go, I tell you! My son is dead! You no longer owe him anything.”

  “I cannot.” As he said it the words were true. “They are behind us as well.”

  “Then help me out of this contraption of yours, onto my own two feet.”

  Lodden helped the Dowager Queen to the side of the street then darted back to Casim. The guard was dead. Quickly, he closed Casim’s eyes. “If the Gardens exist, I shall see you there, my friend.”

  Lodden straightened. They were nearly upon him and he had to defend the Queen. Turning to the palanquin, he wrenched off its steering bar. The soldiers were shouting and all around him the air was thick with smoke and panic. He backed towards the Dowager Queen, hoping to defend her. The soldiers laughed among themselves, shouting what were obviously taunts as they neared him. Lodden was no fighter, and they knew it, from his fumbling lunges with the iron bar.

  There were so many of them. He tried to watch all of them at once, react to every flicker of movement as they came forward, now some, now others. They backed him into a corner, and with the wall at his back there was nowhere to go. He waved the bar in front of him, trying to imitate some of the moves he had seen the sword-dancers use.

  The soldiers jeered. One drew his weapon. It was long and curved with a wide, mirror-like blade, darkly stained. He jabbed it at Lodden. The blade clanged against his metal bar, jarring his arms, and the soldiers cheered.

  The swordsman swung again, slowly, and Lodden tried to parry. The clang nearly knocked the bar out of his grip and the soldiers roared with laughter. They were playing with him, but there was no way of escape and he was all that stood between them and Queen Estrella, so he swung time and again with all the strength of despair. It did no good though.

  Eventually the soldiers bored of their game. The swordsman barked an order, and the others closed in. Desperately trying to keep them away, Lodden caught one of them a resounding blow to the helmet. The soldier staggered away, clutching at his head.

  The swordsman raised that blade again, sharp as death.

  It severed Lodden’s arm between wrist and elbow.

  For a moment he stared at the obscene stump. Scarlet sprayed from it in great warm spurts. It was only as he dropped to his knees that he understood that it was his own life-blood, ebbing fast.

  Somewhere far away, there were shouts. The ragged figures left him with a kick or two and ran. He lay marvelling at the pink perfection of the severed hand that twitched feebly in the mud.

  Pain clutched at him and he fell into the mist and knew no more.

  Later, what brought him round was constriction. There was noise and a feeling of being smothered. His body jerked and convulsed and there was a smell of meat burning and the most excruciating pain. A wiry hand clamped his head in place, rocking him and crooning to him. He could not understand it at all.

  Words; there were words. They floated over his head like clouds in the sky. Once he had understood words like these but the agony in his arm filled his brain with fire and he could do nothing but weep.

  “It was well done to tourniquet his arm, lady. You saved his life.”

  “He saved mine. He is all that is left to me. My duty is lost to all, save this one weary soul.”

  “I don’t begin to understand what you mean, lady, but he will live. We have cauterised the stump. We will bind it with whatever we can find in this house.”

  He recognised one of the voices. He should know who that was. There was something he had to do... But it was all so difficult. Much easier to slide back into the darkness, and let the words float away without him.

  He did not know how much later it was that he awoke fully. His arm was a burning agony that he did not want to think about. It was bound up in front of him, strapped to the opposite shoulder so that it could not move. Wherever he was, it was dark and cold. There were others around him, he realised slowly, and whatever it was that he was lying on, it was uncomfortable. It was moving, too, a slow rocking like a baby’s cradle. There was a horrible smell, and sounds were coming from all around him. He was surrounded by a trickle and swish, a constant sibilance coinciding with the swaying of the surface on which he lay. There were sounds which he slowly identified as sobs, gasps, whimpers. At first he thought there were hundreds, but gradually realised some were echoes.

  He made as if to sit up, and was restrained. “Where am I?” The words were high and panicky, but Lodden did not care. “The Ice Lord-”

  “Is not down here.”

  He sat still, and the restraining arm eased off him. He should know that voice. “My Queen?”

  There was a bitter little chuckle. “The very same, though Queen of what is a different question.”

  “My Lady, you are alive!” Relief flooded him. “They did not misuse you?”

  “They did not have time, Maker. They were busy misusing you.” A deep sigh. “My son, I am so sorry ab
out what they did to you.”

  “My arm?”

  “Gone.”

  Gone? Lodden could not understand it. How could it be gone? But that scarlet-stained blade cut through the darkness in his mind, and he suddenly saw the pink fingers, the pinkness of the hand as it fell. He turned and threw up violently, retching till there was no more in him.

  “The lady here saved your life, lad,” another voice told him when he was quiet again.

  “Who’s there?” Lodden asked nervous.

  “Gamran. Keeper of the Locks as was; now just another refugee, same as you.”

  There was a world of sympathy in that voice, and it was almost more than Lodden could bear. He sat up again, and the whole surface on which he sat rocked. “Where are we? What is this place?”

  “Careful, lad, you’ll have us all overboard! Sit still and I’ll tell you.” There was a clicking of flint and the sudden flare of a lantern, revealing an old, bearded face in the darkness. “This is the undercity, lad. We are on the sewers and being carried along the river. You see?” Briefly he held up the lantern, revealing an arched roof not far above their heads, moving slowly away. Down towards the waterline unwholesome green moss clung to the pale bricks, and here and there there was a plop and splash as rats jumped from their perches on the little ledge into the foul water. As Lodden glanced back into the distance, a light flicked on, and one after that, and in front another flicked on, and a second. Then Gamran extinguished the lantern and they were plunged back into darkness. “We dare not light the way in case the Ice Lord’s men are following, but behind and in front of us, all the other sewer workers and lock keepers in their boats, the gong farmers with their rafts, and even the street urchins are guiding people along the pathways. Sooner or later the Ice Lord will find this escape, so we are keeping the lights covered, but with luck we should have got away before then.”

  “Where to?”

  “First to the coast. If the Ice Lord is already at the coast there is nowhere else to go but the sea, and we are lost. But in any case it is better to drown than to be herded up into the Ice Lord’s prisoner wagons.”

  There was silence for a long time while they were carried along on the noisome waters.

  Lodden shifted, trying to get comfortable on the hard wooden floor of the boat. “How did I get here? I don’t remember anything after the alleyway. How long ago was that?”

  “Not long,” Queen Estrella replied. “It is difficult to tell in this darkness though.”

  “What happened?”

  “They did not tarry much longer after they had hurt you. Why should they waste their time on a poor old lady, crawling in the mud?” She sounded tired, and her voice held the remnants of anger. He guessed that the humiliation had been hard for her to bear. “They were called away from us, and went back to the main street. One of them paused to urinate over me – they did not have time to do more – and they left. Shortly afterwards help arrived in the form of our friend the lock-keeper here. The rest of the story I shall leave him to tell, for I am too tired to chatter, but I am glad that they did not manage to kill you, Maker. The old should not have to watch the young die, nor any beauty wither but their own. At least I know that wherever you are, there is a chance for beauty to return.”

  “My Queen -”

  She interrupted him. “Queen, am I? Queen of what? We are now people of no land, with no belongings but those we carry and no family but those about us. That is why I call you son. It is not the blathering of a tired old woman, but the truth of our situation.”

  “Lady, I am honoured...”

  “Yes, Maker, you are – but deservedly so.” She was too tired to be waspish, but in the darkness, a withered old hand patted his arm. “Now I need to rest. Gamran, the tale is yours to tell.” The boat rocked as she shifted into a more comfortable position, and fell silent.

  “There is not much more to add.” Gamran kept his voice low so as not to disturb the Queen. “The King’s Counsel set those of us familiar with the sewers to hide down here while the city was ravaged and come out in the darkness to find survivors. A few of us were hiding in the tunnels beneath the square and as the streets grew quieter, we ventured out.

  “A couple of times soldiers looked down the street but, covered in blood as you were, they saw only corpses. The lady here had daubed herself with blood. She made a tourniquet for your arm with strips torn from her headdress, and when anyone came near, she lay as one dead. As for me, I was making my way along the street and thought the pair of you were dead too.”

  “But you stopped?”

  “Yes. A little green bird swooped and dived at me. It was oddly persistent. It would not let me pass.”

  “Tiris?” Lodden was interrupted by a chirp. “Is he here?”

  “In the fold of my shawl.” Estrella’s voice slurred with drowsiness. “Our other remaining companion. Take care of him, Lodden.”

  “I will, Lady.”

  She sighed deeply in the darkness, and was quiet.

  “I was afraid that the bird would call attention to me,” Gamran went on, “so I turned back. All at once he was not diving at me but flying in front. He went across the street and flew down to the lady. I saw her eyes open as it landed on her, and realised she was alive, and so were you. Some of the others helped me to bring you away.”

  “Thank you.” Lodden shivered. He suddenly felt cold, and pulled the heavy blanket more closely around him, but the movement jerked at his injured arm, and the pain made his head swim. Slumping on the uncomfortable boards, Lodden gave himself to the darkness and the river’s rocking, a slow wash and hush as he was carried away from the death of his city, and out to the unknown stretches of the sea.

  He woke later, chilled to the bone. The movement of the boat had changed, now running on long waves rather than the regular sway of the cavern’s swells and eddies. Gradually he became aware that he was no longer in pitch blackness.

  Huddled under the blanket, Lodden watched the sky pale to charcoal grey, and then to white and the most beautiful delicate blue. The little mackerel clouds were touched with rose, which spread until they were pink and red, strengthening to flaming orange. As the river carried him on, he was blinded by the first burning sliver of the sun as it crept over the horizon and swelled to a fiery arc. After the darkness, the colours were dazzling, and the sun on the water was painful to his eyes. Lodden looked away and saw Gamran, a small, wiry man with a jutting grey beard and kindly eyes.

  “We came out of the caverns and onto the river a while back.” Gamran stretched briefly, his movements betraying his weariness. “The current is too strong for us to stop. The Ice Lord must have opened the reservoirs under the city to have the water rushing through this strongly. Still, if he means to empty the river for his troops to march down, that might take a while.” He chuckled.

  “We cannot stop?” Lodden’s head was still muzzy with sleep.

  “We will be washed out to sea on the tide. If it is rough we might sink, or be overturned in the breakers, but if it is calm, there is a chance that we might be washed into calmer waters.”

  Lodden considered this. “We can die as easily in any of those places, and if there is little left to live for, it does not concern me. But the lady?”

  “Is still asleep.” Gamran shrugged. “Leave her be, I reckon. No point waking her just so she can worry.”

  There was an indignant cheep, and after some struggle Tiris wriggled out from under the Queen’s shawl.

  “Hello, little friend.” Lodden held his remaining hand out to the little bird as he had seen the King do. He did not dare try the whistle in case he woke Queen Estrella, but the little bird considered him and then hopped onto his hand, cocking its head to one side to regard him gravely. “How things have changed since last I saw you! But you are a welcome sight.”

  Tiris chirped again. He pecked at Lodden’s palm lightly once or twice, then spread his wings and preened. In the sunlight, the iridescent sheen of his emerald feat
hers and the delicate scales of his feet were as vivid as love. Suddenly he launched himself, winging high into the blue. Lodden cried out in dismay, but Tiris did not leave them. He looped around, swooping and diving in the sheer delight of flight, and after a while, dropped lightly back down into the boat and perched cheekily on the bow.

  “You have a friend there.” Gamran smiled. “I was sure he’d be off into the wide blue yonder.”

  “You and me both! Though perhaps it would be better for him if he did. If we are drifting further and further out to sea, there is little chance for him to fly back. I wish I had thought of that when we were still within sight of land.” After a thoughtful pause, Lodden roused himself to look round. There were no more than a couple of boats in sight, widely scattered. “Are those all that got away?”

  “We were among the first.” Gamran shaded his eyes from the brightness of the sun, trying to look at those behind them as the coracle was pulled this way and that by the capricious waves. “I have no way of knowing how many remain in the tunnels. There were more around us when we left, but once out of the tunnels we became widely spread. Those nearer the riverbanks may have found their way to a landing. Others may not have made it this far. As for us, we have little choice. This coracle was made for riding the cavern-river down to the locks. Normally they are pulled back upstream by the horses that bring down the provisions, so it does not have oars or paddles or a rudder, only a pole for fending off obstructions in the river. Out at sea, we are at the mercy of the wind and waves.”

  Lodden lay back again. He should be able to devise something, but he was so tired. It was difficult to care about anything but the tight chain of agony gripping his arm.

  The sea grew wilder and the little boat began to dance. Tiris hopped nearer, and settled on Lodden’s shoulder. It was all very well for Tiris, Lodden mused. He had wings. What the boat needed now was a set of wings, so that it could fly back to the shore. Wings.... “You have the pole still?” he asked at length.

  “Yes, though it is little good now.”

  Lodden lay awhile longer, looking at the scudding clouds which fled across the sky. “The Queen has a shawl. Could we steer if we had a sail?”

  Gamran ran a hand through his beard. “The wind is blowing inland. We could certainly use it to get nearer the shore.”

  “Her shawl is a triangle shape, with tassels. I think it is silk. The tassels could tie it to the pole.”

  “I can break the pole to make a boom, though if I’m not canny about it we’ll overturn the boat.” Gamran was catching on now. “We can lash it to the seat with the mooring rope. Do you think the lady will mind if we wake her?”

  “I’ll do it.” Tiris protested as Lodden heaved himself upright to wake Queen Estrella. She had been sleeping for a long while, he thought. “Your Majesty?” He put a hand on her shoulder. She did not respond. “Lady? My Lady?” Lodden shook her, but she slumped forward.

  Gamran leaned over and held his hand in front of her nose and mouth. “She’s not breathing. It’s too late, lad.”

  “It can’t be! We got out of there. She saved me. She was alive. We got away!”

  Gamran grabbed Lodden as his voice scaled upwards, and the jolt of pain in his arm made Lodden fall back in the boat, white stars dancing in front of him as he hit his head.

  Gamran was faint and far away. “She’s gone, lad. Leave her be. She was old, and the flight from the city was a terrible effort for her. But she saved your life and she was proud of that.”

  “But I was to keep her safe...”

  “She said that you had done just that.”

  But the words meant nothing to him. They whirled away into the maelstrom of fever and pain, and so did Lodden.

  Back in his bed in the Skral sick hall, Lodden surfaced from the telling of his tale, and was surprised to see that the hall was dark, lit by the fatty candles and dim oil lamps that the Skral used. He turned his head, a little disoriented, but the young man Maran still sat beside him, his face sad.

  “And then?” Maran prompted.

  “I was unconscious when Gamran erected the sail. They tell me that a tender from a Skral ship stole into the coast, and rescued everyone they could find. Gamran climbed aboard the tender to look after me, and they laid out Queen Estrella in her coracle with the shawl over her, and left the coracle to sail to the World’s End. They tried to rouse me, but I was raving with fever by then.” Lodden fell quiet for a moment and turned his face away. “I regret not having said goodbye to her. She was a lady of some character. When circumstances turned against her, her strength and determination could not be quenched. I was honoured to share her journey, and I would have liked to have made the new palanquin, so that she could have travelled anywhere she wished.

  “Of our little party, I alone am left. When Gamran had seen me safe, he took one of the tenders and went back up the river to help those who had arrived too late for the boats and were trying to make their way down the sewers on foot. It was honourable, but foolish. The ship waited for some days but he did not return. I hope and pray that he landed somewhere that the Ice Lord’s soldiers will not find him, but I do not think that there will be many such places left.”

  Maran nodded sadly. “With the fall of so many other countries, Skralland is the last refuge we know of.”

  “As for me, I am weak and useless. Gamran and his friends cauterized my arm while I was insensible. It was a brutal but effective means of saving my life; though I did not realise it, part of the sewers’ fetor was from my own arm, which had become infected. I was fading in and out of consciousness on the Skral ship, but I remember when they took the dressing off. It was not pleasant. The smell... I don’t know that I shall ever forget the smell of my own flesh, cold and burnt, and the stench of rotting from the infection.”

  He swallowed a few times before continuing.

  “I lie day after day listening to the cries of the sick and wounded of many countries. With my hand I have lost my craft and my passion. If I can no longer work metal and craft the devices that were my world, what shall I do? I cannot farm or paint. I can write in Lyrian but I have no skills with words, and there are few Lyrians left alive to read the beautiful windings of our script. I have some facility with languages but have never left Lyria before, and the primitive barbarism of the Skrals bewilders and appals me.” Lodden suddenly recalled his audience. “I’m sorry, that’s terribly rude.”

  “I know a little about Lyria.” Maran smiled. “And if what I have heard is true, then my people must seem almost without culture, education or art. In fact we have all three, but none of the subtlety your people delight in.”

  Lodden pulled at his cover irritably. “The other thing I find difficult is the Skral obsession with war. In Skral war is everything, and peace is just for soft foreigners. In my country we abhor the waste and bloodshed of war. Conflicts do occur, but we believe that they should be resolved by champions in single combat. It is a very ceremonial occasion, not peasants hacking and chopping away but artists with needle-like blades who have very regimented rules of combat. I am not sure there is anything we can contribute to a society which does not even believe in love, the central axis of Lyrian culture. Marooned here, I can only be a burden on your resources, which must be already stretched thinly with so many refugees to feed. What is the point? Surely it would be better for everyone if I just went to sleep and never woke up, like Queen Estrella did? And yet every morning I wake, unwilling, to another unwelcome day.”

  “My friend, I am truly sorry to hear of your troubles,” Maran replied slowly. “There are many differences between your country and my own and you have lost much, but there is more to this land than you realise. Although we do not have your subtlety, we have a history that spans thousands of years, many tales for the telling and many songs. First get well, and then help us.”

  “Help you? How can I help?”

  “You have knowledge and craft that we have yet to discover, or have forgotten. You have skills
that would be valuable to any people. We are the remnants of a shattered world gathered here in the last refuge left to us. Your skills and knowledge will be vital. You can show us how to make stronger weapons, harder armour, more accurate arrows.”

  “I cannot.” Lodden turned his face away from the younger man’s impassioned plea. “I made a vow to Queen Estrella, and to help in the war effort would be to break that vow. I cannot reconcile it with myself to do so.”

  “Ah.” Maran leant back on his stool. “To Skral ears, that is a very odd vow indeed, but I can understand why you would make it.”

  “Even if I had not made the vow, how could I help? You forget this.” He waved his stump at the man, and then stopped. “Wait!”

  “What is it? Are you in pain?”

  “No, but my arm is not itching. It has been itching and burning for days, and now it has stopped!”

  “A sign perhaps?” Maran cocked an eyebrow.

  Lodden could not tell whether he was serious or in jest. “More likely that I was distracted from it – but still, it has stopped.”

  Alaera, who had been hovering for some time, approached. “Maran, you promised me that you would not tire my patient out.”

  “I’m not tired!” Lodden protested, but the young man was rising.

  “Alaera is right, my friend. We have talked much and you are not yet well. I will take my leave of you for today, and tomorrow I will introduce you to the culture of the Skrals. But there is one mystery which I believe you may have solved for me.”

  “A mystery?”

  “I will not say more until I know the answer is the right one – but I will leave you to exercise your mind upon that, perhaps. Alaera, you are looking radiant as always!” And the bard departed, leaving the motherly Skral primping her hair.

  Given that Lodden would not help in the manufacture of anything to do with the war, he did not expect the bard to return, but the next day Maran reappeared shortly after they had broken their fast. He waved at Lodden from the door and strode across the stuffy hall. “Alaera! I need to borrow your patient.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Alaera hurried over.

  “Lodden, my friend, are you up to a brief visit to one of the other clan-halls?”

  “But he hasn’t left this hall in weeks! It’s only a few days since he started sitting up!”

  Maran paid no attention, but perched on a stool nearby, a sparkle of mischief in his eyes. “How are you this morning?”

  “Alive.” Lodden smiled cautiously. “And puzzled over your mystery, if you must know.”

  “Just as I thought! Would you like to help me solve it? It will mean a trip over to the next hall – about as far as the fireplace and back. Are you up to that?”

  “I don’t know...” The words quavered out of Lodden’s mouth as if an old man was speaking, and suddenly he was exasperated at himself. “What am I saying? There is nothing wrong with my legs. I would like to come to the other hall, but I am a little weak from staying in bed. I might stagger like an ancient, but if you will help me, I will go.”

  “Good man! I don’t think you’ll regret it. Apart from anything else, if you’ve been cooped up in here for weeks on end, to get out in the fresh air will do you a world of good. It is quite breezy outside, though, so we’d better wrap you up warmly.”

  Lodden looked at the floor, keenly embarrassed. “Even in autumn, Lyria is a hot country. I don’t have any clothes but those I am now wearing, and they were given to me.”

  “Then take one more item.” Maran took off his own thick-furred cloak and laid it on the chair. “I have another, and your need is greater than mine. Besides, I am impatient to have you come across the way.”

  They helped Lodden to stand. Though weak, he was not so weak that the idea of leaving the hall appalled him. He wrapped the cloak around him, revelling in the softness of the fur against his cheek. “Your cloak is wonderfully heavy.”

  “I like to be warm. Alaera?”

  “Oh yes, I’m coming. All this mystery has me intrigued, too!” Alaera hurried off to find her own cloak. She came back with two, and passed one to Maran. “Maskal says you’ve to borrow hers.”

  “How they look after me!” Maran winked at Lodden.

  “And me...”

  They pulled back the curtain in front of the doorway. It was noticeably cooler than the hall, and when Maran opened the door, the light seemed so bright that Lodden threw his arm up to shield his eyes. He was a bit disconcerted to find that he had to move it across – there was no hand there to shade his face. It was a very odd feeling, but was quickly lost in the freshness of the wind that whipped his hair across his face. He took a stumbling step out onto the path outside, and another and another. Then he threw back his head and just breathed, glorying in the wild air. It felt as if he had been holding his breath for a month, and this breeze was blowing away the shadows and darknesses with which his brain had been filled.

  “Lodden? Are you all right?”

  He beamed at Alaera. “Yes, I am – or I will be. And this is the first moment that I have known it.”

  Maran took his uninjured arm companionably. “This way.”

  As they walked slowly along the path, Lodden’s eyes became more used to the bright sunshine. Coming from the dark hall, filled with the stench of illness, the day was unutterably beautiful. He paused to look at the hall behind him. It was very similar to the others dotted around the plain, a long building with a high thatched roof sloping down to just above the ground. There was one large chimney at each end, each carrying smoke from three or four of the hearths set into the walls, and the gable ends were made of wood, heavily carved and painted to resemble beasts of some sort.

  “What are the animals?”

  Maran followed his gaze. “The carvings? Those are the clan-spirits. Each clan is guarded and guided by a spirit which appears to them in the shape of an animal. The hall that we now use for the sick was once the home to the clan of the Snow Eagle. There were not many of them, so the oldsters and the children sailed with the adults, in order to keep the clan ship adequately crewed. Few of them were warriors. We found their ship in the bay, barely afloat. The Ice Lord’s ships had tried to burn it but it valiantly made its way home, with the remains of its clan. We saw them on their way according to tradition.” Maran fell silent for a moment. “When we realised that this war was taking over the whole world, the clans agreed that refugees should be brought to the island, and that the empty clan halls could be given over for their use. It is a momentous decision for the Skral to agree to such a thing, but this is no ordinary time of peril.”

  Lodden looked around him. “Your people are skilled workers of wood. The carvings are beautiful.”

  “Aye – we are not all barbarians, you know!”

  Lodden blushed, realising that he was being teased. “Yes, well that remains to be seen. If your idea of a puzzle is the one about how to get the farmer and the sheep and the lion all across the river, your barbarian status will be assured.”

  Maran laughed. “No, that is not the nature of our puzzle today.”

  “What’s a lion?” Alaera asked.

  Lodden was tiring fast now, but they were nearly at the other hall. “I may have to sit down for a while when we get there, but I’m glad we came out. These days even walking across the way feels like a real achievement.”

  “For anyone who has been as ill as you have, it is an achievement.” Alaera was entirely in earnest. “It was a terrible injury. Your arm was badly infected. We didn’t think you would live.”

  They guided him up the stairs to the other hall, and once through the curtained atrium he was taken to a low comfortable chair by the fire. He sat gratefully.

  “Catch your breath for a few moments, friend. I must go and see if I can chase up the mystery for you!”

  Sitting in the warmth, Lodden relaxed back against the cushions they had put behind him. He stared into the fire, and watched the flames jump and smoulder.

  A su
dden ruckus startled him out of his thoughts. Children were shouting and laughing in excitement.

  Alaera, excited, called “Is it here?”

  “Yes. Look out!”

  Alaera shrieked, but not in alarm. A crowd erupted out of the middle of the hall following Maran, who came over to Lodden at a half-run, his face alive with laughter. “Can you stand while I turn your chair around?”

  Lodden stood as his seat was turned to face into the main body of the hall.

  Maran gestured at him to sit down again. “I may have found your mystery but it might take a moment to show up. While we are waiting, would you tell the children about the Aviary Courtyard, please? They have never seen such a wondrous place, and they would love to hear of it.”

  The children clustered round, chanting “Please! Please!” There was clearly more to it than this, as they were all excited and laughing, but he could not guess what was going on, so he held up his hand for silence. With much shushing and whispering, the children shoved and hustled until they were all sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him.

  Lodden began to speak, and this time he tailored his words to young ones. The children all fell quiet in wonder, at first giggling, but as he spoke, they became lost in the story. There amid the smoke and furs and dimness of the Skral hall, he spoke of the trees, the flowers, the delicate tracery of glass panes and the song of the fountain. He spoke of the tiny humming birds, like little living jewels, dipping into the great scarlet flowers which hovered amongst the lush greenery.

  But when it was time to speak of the King, Lodden fell silent. That grief was too recent in his mind.

  A tugging on his cloak made him look down. A little girl sat there, and she tugged at his cloak again until she was sure she had his attention. “Was there a bird?” She shot an accusing look at Maran. “He said you had a pet bird.”

  Lodden smiled down at her. “Yes, I had a pet bird.” It was not the literal truth but he was glad that Maran had told them so. This way he could tell of the wonders they wished to hear without touching on his grief for the King’s death, and that of the rest of his city.

  “What was it like? Was it a gull?” one of the older children asked.

  “No! Gulls are big and vicious!” Lodden smiled a little, remembering the delicate colours, the swooping flight. “My bird – Tiris was his name – he was not big and vicious. He was tiny. He could sit in your hand.”

  The children considered this, and the boy asked “And did he? Sit in your hand, I mean?”

  “He did. He would even come to the whistle – not always, you know, but when it suited him.”

  “What does that mean, come to the whistle? Did you have a whistle that you used? Was it like mine?” A third child waved a wooden instrument with evident pride.

  “Not a whistle like yours, though that is a very fine one. I used to just whistle, like this.” He whistled the notes that the King had shown him.

  The children nearly bubbled over with excitement. “How did it go again?”

  Lodden could not work out why this was amusing them so much, but he dutifully whistled again, this time more clearly, and suddenly there was a glad little chirp amongst the rafters and something dive-bombed him. The children shrieked and laughed and shrieked, and Lodden shielded his face from the creature as it swooped down at him again, but this time, it slowed to a flutter and two sets of delicate little claws clutched at his raised hand.

  Lodden froze. There was another little chirp, and slowly he lowered his hand.

  “Tiris!” He could not believe it. “Tiris!” The little bird was thin and his feathers were draggled, but as he lowered his hand it leapt cheekily onto his chest and settled there. The children oohed and aahed.

  “That, my friend, is the mystery of which I spoke,” Maran said quietly. “He stayed with you, in the ship or around the rigging, all the way from Lyria. You were moved here first from the ship, but he must have lost you when they took you into the sick hall. He has been lurking in the rafters since. Pickings outside are pretty scarce, but he seems to have survived on leftovers. The children have been looking out for him though, so he has not starved.”

  “Thank you, children! Thank you with all my heart.” Lodden’s eyes stung. “You have saved for me something of the beauty of Lyria, which I had thought long lost. You have saved my friend.”

  “You’re welcome,” the little girl said solemnly, and others joined in.

  “Now, children, let’s go get a boiled egg, and see if we can’t get Tiris fine and plump again. Go on! Whoever brings one back first can choose the story in their hall tonight.” Maran ushered them away and, laughing, they scattered. “Shall I leave you there for a while, my friend? That was more tiring than I intended.”

  “Yes, if you would, just for five minutes.” Lodden sat back in the chair. The bird was a little bundle of warmth on his chest, and he felt knots there loosening in more ways than one. It felt as if a little piece of the Gardens of Paradise had fallen from the afterlife into this stinking, primitive place, and his heart soared. It was stupid, he told himself. Tiris was only a bird – but that did not matter in the slightest. A friend had survived the journey, someone glad to see him, and if that someone wore feathers, that did not make him any less dear to the lonely craftsman. It felt as if an eternity had passed since the last time he had given thanks to the Eternal All, but this time his thanks were heartfelt and sincere.

  A few minutes later, a little girl came back with an egg, boiled and mashed into a paste, and by then, Lodden could smile and let her hold the plate for Tiris, agreeing when she exclaimed in wonder at the sun-shimmer on those startling emerald feathers.

  Eventually, Alaera decided that Lodden had had quite enough excitement for one day, and with Maran, she helped him back to his feet. Lodden held the little bird close, but the minute they left the clan-hall Tiris took off, a flashing green dart against the blue sky. While they walked back, he hovered on the wind, landed on the roofs and took off again, twittering all the time in sheer exhilaration of the wild, windy morning. When they reached the door of the sick hall, Lodden whistled, and the bird landed on his shoulder, scolding and chattering while the craftsman stumbled, exhausted, back to his bed.

  Alaera took the cloak from Lodden and pulled the cover over him. He was very tired now, and relaxed back onto his pillows thankfully. His eyes were closing despite his best efforts, but there was something else he had to do... Ah yes. “Maran?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you. That was a happy mystery.”

  “You are welcome, my friend. Now rest, and I will see you tomorrow.”

  Maran was as good as his word. The next day he returned as he had promised, and this time he brought others with him, the oldsters who had little to do but sit tending the fire. They chatted to the sick, taking their minds off their situation, and made them feel welcome with brightly coloured blankets and cushions to make the room cheerful and the beds more comfortable. Maran brought his harp and sang merry songs, and the mood lifted in the hall.

  “How did you know what to do?” Alaera marvelled.

  Maran shrugged. “I could see the despair, the hopelessness whispering in their ears. The loss and horror that they fled has come with them, haunting their dreams. How can a man get well when all he wants to do is die?”

  “We do our best with the hurts of the body, but we do not know how to help with the hurts of the mind.” Alaera shook her head. “For all our work, your medicine seems to have the stronger effect.”

  Maran nudged her. “It only works on the living, Alaera, and without you and the others many of these people would not be alive now.”

  Alaera blushed. “Get on with you, my lad! You’d charm the stars out of the sky if you wanted to!”

  Maran bowed grandly, making her snort with laughter, and went on his way.

  Gradually the wounded began to heal. The oldsters revelled in the grateful friendship of the refugees, and much was learnt from the intermingl
ing of the various nationalities. The children liked to come and hear the stories of many nations, and they brought with them little handfuls of grasses and flowers from the plain to put in beakers around the room for those who were too weak to go out there themselves. As the autumn progressed, the flowers were fewer, but the graceful tassels of the grasses brought a little of the outside world into the hall. The hall emptied as the sick felt better than they had been, if not back to a normal state. The past faded from their eyes as they engaged with the present, and begin to think about how to make a future for themselves.

  As for Lodden, though his mood was still dark at times, his arm was healing. With the presence of Tiris, suddenly there was something else to occupy him. The little bird was thin and bedraggled, so he set himself to bring it back to full health. Tiris spent a certain amount of time lurking in the warmth of the rafters. He became a great favourite amongst the children, and the other inhabitants of the sick hall were cheered by his gleaming feathers and mischievous spirit. As he became stronger, Lodden would sit outside, or go for short walks with the bird, who dived and soared in the brisk winds that blew from the plains.

  Time passed but no more refugees arrived. Some thought it was a good thing, that perhaps the war had ended, but Lodden saw how grim Alaera looked when it was discussed. More probably the Ice Lord had destroyed everywhere but the Skrallands, he thought, but he did not voice this opinion even to Maran. He hoped that thought would prove to be just a feverish night terror; but hoped rather than expected.

  One day Maran came in looking unusually sombre. “My friends, I come to say farewell for the moment. I have been sent on a journey of finding, and it may take a while. I do not know how long at the moment, but I leave very shortly.”

  “Where are you going?” Lodden asked, and a chorus of others chimed in.

  He raised a hand to still the questions. “I cannot tell you without dispensation from the Elders. It is the custom of the Skral. This is something of which we do not speak to strangers. I shall be away for some time but I rely on you all to stay hopeful and heal as fast as you can. We may need your strength in the near future.” He paused. “Wish me a pleasant journey, friends! I have cold and uncomfortable days ahead of me.”

  “Good fortune!”

  “Safe journey!”

  “Luck in your travelling!”

  A chorus of good wishes followed him out into the cold of the evening, and Lodden watched him go in dismay. The young bard’s visits brightened up the days and it was such a pleasure to talk and banter with him. The others were pleasant enough, but none had Maran’s sly wit. He would miss spending time with him.

  “Hello, Lodden.” One of the children approached.

  “Hello, Saskia. And how are you this morning?”

  She considered this, chewing the end of one flaxen braid. “I’m a little bit sad. Maran’s going away, and no-one tells stories quite like he does.”

  “That is true. But don’t you have a bard in your own clan-hall?”

  “Well, there is old Ranulf, but he always tells the same stories. I already know the story about the widow’s son, and the story about the King’s feast, and the story about the boy who killed the giant and – oh, all the other ones. I want to hear a new story!” She petted Tiris, who leapt onto her shoulder and pecked at the beads of her necklet.

  Lodden smiled. “Do you know the story about the princess and the marmoset?”

  She turned curious blue eyes on him. “What’s a marmoset?”

  “A marmoset is a little monkey.” She looked blank. “Hmm. It’s a little creature about so big, with very soft fur and great big eyes.”

  “Is it like a dog?”

  He laughed. “It isn’t like a dog, no. But if you want to hear the tale, I have promised to tell it this evening after we have eaten.”

  “I will come and hear it. Thank you for letting me talk to Tiris.” She nodded gravely and went on her way, leaving Lodden thoughtful. Perhaps there was something he could do for the Skral, after all. Being Lyrian, he had a good stock of tales to tell.

  The days were getting shorter. Lodden’s health improved enough that he could not bear to be in the sick hall, still stale-smelling despite all the fresh reeds they put down and the scented herbs they burnt to lighten the atmosphere. He moved his sleeping quarters to one of the other halls, and Tiris went with him, though both went to visit those still in the sick hall often. Sometimes Tiris would appear there on his own, darting through the door to find whoever had food. He was plump and shining now, not least because they had discovered that he had a terrible fondness for the dried berries that the Gai Renese had brought.

  As for Lodden, in the course of his walks he caught sight of something that intrigued him, a league or so over the plain. From the clan-halls he could see the top of some kind of structure. It was far too regular to be natural but it reminded him of something familiar, something he should recognise. He could not work out what, though. Until the war he had never left Lyria, and Lyrian architecture was more inclined to be delicate than this blocky stone. At first it was too far away, but as he gained strength it began to nag at him. He became restless and eventually set out across the plain to investigate.

  It was longer than most of the walks he had attempted of late, but the grasses of the plain were soft beneath his feet and the way was easy. Before long before he found himself standing among a circle of standing stones and much to his confusion, he knew it as intimately as he knew his own workshop, from the strange recurring dreams that had plagued his sleep since his childhood. For a long moment he stood and stared. This was the place. There could be no doubt about it. There should be a small pictogram of an axe scratched into the corner of that stone... He walked round the monolith, and was awed to find the pictogram there, just as he had known it would be. But what kind of place was it?

  He backed out a short way so that he could see the whole structure. Great slabs of blue-grey stone, the uprights capped with a running circle of lintels, exactly as he had dreamed. The more he looked, the more baffling it became, though. How had it been made? This level of engineering was unknown to the Skral, and it had clearly towered over the plain since time immemorial. There was no other stone of that kind anywhere near. Why were the stones here? From where had they been brought, and when? What was it? A meeting place? A burial? A statement of power? Most intriguing of all, never having been there before in his life, how was it that he knew every nook and cranny of it in such detail? He had to know more.

  Returning, he went to find Alaera. She was in the sick hall, cleaning the bleeding gash in a young Shantar’s arm. With them was a small, hawk-nosed woman with grey running through her hair.

  She was scolding him heartily. “You’re a fool, Edan! You know what the Skral are like – they start playing with swords as soon as they can stand upright. What were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking that it would be good to learn how to use such a weapon.” He glanced at her. “A bow is good from a distance, but once they get too near for arrows, I have nothing to defend us but my dagger.”

  “And what will you be doing defending us, my lad? You are all of sixteen – in the homelands you would be barely old enough to join the adults at meal!”

  “I know,” he replied softly. “But this past year I have not lived the life of a child, and if there is a year to come, it will not be filled with wrestling or vying for the attention of girls. I need to learn how to defend myself – and you. Father is not here to help us. If the Ice Lord comes here, I will not stand with the children, boxed in by the elderly and infirm.”

  “You will if I say it shall be so!”

  “I love and respect you, Mother, but even if you say so, I will not be there. I have defended you once, and it was not enough. I will not run that risk again.”

  His mother dropped her eyes. “My son, I am still alive and I still have you. If I could see well enough to fight, if your sister had not run the wrong way, if the soldiers had got to us
a few moments later, then perhaps we would have got away, but all these ifs and maybes do not change the past. We are alive and we have each other, and that is what matters. As for the sword, perhaps you are right. But be careful, Edan. I do not relish the thought of war. I cannot bear the idea of sitting useless and sightless while my people fight, but what I fear is losing you. I have suffered the loss of my husband and my daughter already. You are all that is left to me and you are more precious than anything else in this world.”

  “And you to me.” Edan fidgeted on his seat. “But the war has made a man of me, and you must let me be a man.”

  There was a silence.

  Alaera tied off the ends of the bandage. “All finished!”

  The Shantara smiled a little crookedly. “Go then. Learn to be a man. But try to do it without losing anything important, will you?”

  The boy rose. “Shall I take you back to the hall?”

  “No, don’t worry. Someone will help me.”

  “I will.” Lodden saw the boy’s eyes fall to the stump of his arm. “That bit about not losing anything important? Sound advice, boy.”

  The boy did not know how to respond to this. He settled for nodding politely and dashed out of the sick hall.

  Alaera stood. “Was that a joke, Lodden?”

  “Actually, I think it was.” Lodden was a little surprised at himself.

  “Lodden? The Maker?” The Shantara peered in his direction. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t making a personal comment. My sight is not good and I didn’t know you were there. I hope I have not caused offence.”

  “Not at all, madam.”

  “Asri. I am Shantar, of the clan of Raelith.”

  “Well met, Asri of the clan of Raelith. I am Lodden, originally of the dead city of Laerzinan, and latterly of the Lyrian Court and the Skrallands.” He did a courtly little bow, forgetting that she could not see it.

  “And how are you today?” Alaera bustled about, getting a stool for him. “Is your arm hurting? Do you need poppy juice?”

  “No, I’m fine, thank you. I had a question for you though.”

  “Oh, here we go!” Alaera nudged Asri. “Ever the Maker, this one! He never turns up but he has another question to ask.”

  Asri cocked her head on one side. “How else should he learn? Edan was the same when he was six.”

  Alaera laughed out loud. “That’s put you in your place, Maker! What was your question?”

  “The standing stones – there’s a huge circle of them on the plain. What are they? What are they for?” He leant forward, eager for answers.

  “What are they for?” Alaera was puzzled. “They aren’t for anything, I don’t think. They just... are.”

  “Where did they come from? Who made them?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not something I’ve ever wondered. Just goes to show the difference between a Maker and a healer, I suppose.” Alaera thought about it. “You might ask some of the oldsters. Ranulf in particular knows a fair bit of history. Failing that, Maran will tell you a bit more when he gets back.”

  “Ranulf, of the Tusken Seal?” Asri asked.

  “Yes, that’s him.”

  “I know Ranulf well.” Asri stood, feeling for her cane. “If you wouldn’t mind taking me across to the clan-hall, Lodden, I’ll send one of the children to fetch him for you.”

  They entered the hall of the Tusken Seal Clan, and Lodden set Asri in a comfortable seat by the fire.

  Edan trotted over. “Thank you for bringing my mother across, sir. Mother, I’ll be in the training ring with Eldred and Ranfrith. If you need me, the children know where it is.”

  “Edan, before you go, could you ask Ranulf to come and speak with the Maker?”

  “The Maker?” Edan looked more searchingly at Lodden. “Are you Lodden, sir? I’m honoured to meet you.”

  “Joy lies in the meeting of friends.” The boy hesitated and Lodden explained. “It’s a Lyrian greeting. It sounds better in Lyrian.”

  “Joy lies in the meeting of friends. I like that.” Edan nodded. “I’ll get Ranulf for you, sir.”

  “Thank you.” As the boy made his way across the hall, Lodden turned to Asri. “He’s a thoughtful boy, and very polite. You must be proud of him.”

  “I am, the more so as he’s all the family left to me.” Her face was sad.

  “I’m sorry. The war?”

  “My story is just like everyone else’s. My husband and I were traders. We travelled through Maravel and Gai Ren, along the Sarag to the plains where the horsemen ride. We heard there was trouble on the plains.”

  “They got that far?”

  “Aye, before we did. There always is trouble there, of course, but it was worse than normal. The homelands of the Nan-Turi had become a place of the most terrible desolation. There was little sign of the Nan-Turi. Their tents, even their horses had gone, and the grassland was burnt black. My husband went to the well – you would always find someone there – but he returned pale and shaking. The Nan-Turi were there, sure enough, but they had been staked out on the earth for the ants and the animals. We packed up our camp and left then and there, but the smell of smoke followed us, and death stalked the plains. By nightfall the horse was weary. We made camp in the foothills. In the early hours we were woken by the sound of many men and horses. My husband said their torches covered the plain like ants boiling out of a nest.”

  She sat back in her seat. “We could not outdistance them in the wagon, so we left it, let the horse go, and searched for a hiding place. We heard the shout when they found the wagon, and a short while later the horse screaming. My poor pony.” There was a tear in her eye as she stared, unseeing, into the distance.

  Lodden sat down quietly. He did not think she had meant to tell her story, but he knew well that,speaking about those dark events, it was difficult to avoid being caught up in them.

  “Then there was shouting and cheering. My husband said we had to hide. There was no time to argue. I kissed my husband and Edara, my daughter. She climbed into a tree while Edan guided me into the cavity under the tree roots, and my husband made a screen over us of branches and earth. And that was the last time I spoke to him.

  “Edan told me they were hidden just in time. There was shouting and a lot of crashing and stamping as the men came in endless waves through the wood. After a while I thought that perhaps we had a chance but then Edara fell out of the tree. She panicked and bolted. My husband shouted us to stay hidden, and ran after her. They must have run right into the soldiers. We heard their shouts and screams in the darkness.”

  “I am sorry.” Lodden’s heart went out to her. All the refugees told the same tales, differing only in details; always the smoke, always the screaming, and always the guilt.

  “Edan wanted to help them but he could not leave me, and I? I could not see well enough to notch an arrow. In my youth, I could have done something. As it was, I sat in a hole in the ground, sightless as a mole, listening to the death of those I loved.” Her voice dripped with bitterness. “Eventually all was quiet. When dusk came there had been no sound for many hours. We came out of our hiding place. There was blood, so much blood that you could smell it, but no bodies. There was a terrible smell of smoke and burning. It made my eyes sting. Even with the poor sight left to me I could see that there was a great line of light cutting across the plain. They had set it alight to ensure that there would be no survivors. We were cut off. There was nowhere to go.”

  “How did you escape?” Lodden asked.

  “The river. It was Edan’s idea.” She turned her face to him. “The river was deep and it ran swiftly through the plains. There was a dead tree on the bank, very rotten. We tied ourselves to it and pushed it in. We did not know whether it would sink or float, but by then we did not much care. We tumbled and crashed down the river, but we passed through the flames safely. The river slowed when it levelled out on the plains, and eventually we were washed ashore in a marshy valley, too wet to burn. Cold and battered and lost
as we were, it was a long while before we could do more than lie there, but eventually Edan roused me. The knots were difficult to untie and Edan drew his dagger to saw at the cloth. When he had cut himself free, he started to cut at my bonds. Then there was a shout – a shape loomed and Edan spun away with a cry. I was left tied to the log, struggling to untie myself. The river sounds around me were too loud to hear what was happening, and I did not know whether he was alive or dead, or if his attacker stood watching me and laughing at my feeble attempts to get free. After what seemed like an eternity, Edan returned. He told me he had killed the man with his dagger. I felt the wetness of blood on his face, but he said it was only a scratch.”

  “It has not left a visible scar,” Lodden told her.

  “That is good. He was a bonny child. I wish that I could see his face again. We walked along the river for days until we got to the sea. There was a group of villagers making their way along the shore. They told us that the Ice Lord was coming, killing and burning. We travelled with them until the Skral found us, and we were brought here.”

  She was silent for a time. “I was glad to see that others of my people had reached the Skrallands, but also afraid, for if the Ice Lord’s men have reached Shantar, many of my friends and relatives must have perished. And so here I am, blind and helpless, and a burden on my only son.”

  Lodden looked at the stump of his arm. “We have all lost friends and family, and yet sharing that anguish does not make it any less. It is more frightening to think that this is happening in so many places. Can we really be the only ones left?”

  “I pray not.” She shook her head. “But we have had no word of any others, and the Mother has not been given Sight of any other survivors. I fear that we are the last. Even the Skrals from the other islands are beginning to gather here.”

  “Because of the Ice Lord?”

  “Aye. He will come, sooner or later.”

  Lodden traced the carvings on the arm of the chair with a finger. “You are very sure.”

  “I have heard the stories of many refugees. He does not take slaves. He takes prisoners to put in the front line of his army, but they are allowed to survive only as long as they fight for him, and they rarely survive the first encounter. He does not attempt to keep what he has conquered, but burns it to the ground and moves on. He leaves nothing and spares nothing and, worst of all, when they take a place, first they kill the children.”

  Lodden swallowed. “There are not many children here...”

  “And most of them are Skral. There are only a few Shantar and some from Gai Ren.”

  Lodden felt lost and helpless. “The whole world is being swallowed up and there is nothing we can do.”

  “We are alive!” Asri snapped. “While we live, there is always something we can do. And if all we can do is survive, then that is what we will do, and I will tell you why – because if we give up, if we lay down and die, then we have given the victory to the Ice Lord. We owe it to our loved and lost ones to at least make him fight for it!” Her face was fierce, tears running down her cheeks as she stared towards him.

  Lodden shook his head. “Where do you find your strength, Asri? You are right – but the thought of a long fight to a slow death fills me with dismay.”

  Asri wiped her tears away wearily. “I have no strength. I have despair. Grief and rage eat at my heart so that there is no room for fear. I sat by while those I loved died, Lodden... If I had the sight I was born with, I should have put an arrow in the hearts of anyone who tried to touch them; but my sight is lost, and I could not help them. If the Ice Lord comes again, I cannot keep my son safe. He will not escape if he thinks I cannot come too, but I will not be the reason for his loss. I will not sit, helplessly listening to the screams.” Her face hardened. “I will go out into the battle and throw myself on the sword of some warrior, and if it slows one of the Ice Lord’s soldiers for long enough that someone can kill him, I will consider it a deed well done.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Asri?” An older Skral hurried across the hall. “Is all well?”

  “All is well, Ranulf.” She smoothed her skirt. “I wondered if you could help – the Maker here has questions about the standing stones on the plain, and Alaera thought you might know something about it.”

  “I can look in the manuscripts, certainly.” He was called from across the hall and rolled his eyes. “The Gods know it would be more interesting than what I’m doing now, but Anfrith and her sister have come to blows because their father promised a golden torc to whoever had their child first. They both gave birth on the same day, at the same hour, but their father does not have two torcs. Let me settle the case for them and I will set my mind to the question of the Stones.” He hurried off again.

  Asri put her head in her hands. “The end of the world is coming and they are fighting over a necklet!”

  “We never change, do we?” Lodden began to laugh. “A thousand miles I’ve come, through fear and fire and pain, and the people are just the same! In a way, it’s quite comforting. Whatever the world may throw at us, humans will still be humans, for good or bad.”

  “I suppose so. We all cling on to that which is important to us.” Asri sighed. “And what about you, Lodden? What are you holding onto?”

  “Me? There is nothing left for me to hold onto, even if I had the hands to do it.”

  “Really? You surprise me.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You are the Maker, renowned across the world. Even in Shantar, we know about the Makers of Lyria. I cannot believe that you gain that sort of title and that sort of reputation without the talent and the passion to back it up. Are you not the skilled craftsman that we have heard of?”

  “I was. I am not any more.”

  Asri leaned forward. “Make your mind up, man. Either you are or you are not.”

  Stung, Lodden snapped back. “I was when I had both of my hands. Now I cannot hold a tool, and so my talent is wasted.”

  “Who on earth told you that?”

  “Isn’t it evident?” He was getting angry now.

  “No, it is not!” Asri steepled her hands in front of her. “Where is your skill, Maker? Where does it reside?”

  “What do you mean?” Understanding that she was not taunting him, Lodden calmed down.

  Asri paused in thought. “Let’s see. Tell me of something that you invented that was clever, or made you proud.”

  Lodden gazed up into the beams of the ceiling. His eye was caught by a movement; Tiris had developed a habit of stealing berries from the plates of the Gai-Renese, and he was evidently at it again. “When I became Maker, the gardens in the Palace were sparse and a little scrubby. Lyria is very hot. To keep them green, the gardeners had to bring bucket after bucket of water and even then, some plants would not survive. The King asked me to devise a way of watering them. I went to the farms on the edge of the desert, and to those on the high mountains, and I spoke to those who lived there to see what they did and what they had tried. Then I devised a system of channels fed by the river, and diverted water into little streamlets that ran through the gardens, into the bathhouse to fill the tanks there, and then helped to wash the waste into the sewers. The Palace Gardener and I worked to make sure that all the garden was watered. We built tiny bridges and little chattering waterfalls into the streams so that they were beautiful as well as useful. The Gardener was able to set outside many plants he had gathered from other countries. It took some years but when I left, the gardens were lush and green, scented with many exotic flowers. The bath attendants did not have to go to the river for water and in addition, because the waste was washed away quickly, the palace sewers were much less noisome.” He smiled sadly. “I doubt the gardens are still so beautiful now.”

  Asri nodded to herself. “Why was it that you had to do this?”

  “Why? The King commanded.”

  “That’s not what I mean. If the Gardens were dry, why did no-one invent this befor
e?”

  Lodden frowned. “They did not think of a way to make it happen.”

  “And how is it that they did not and you did?”

  “The twelfth Maker tried to. He developed a kind of fountain that made it rain on the grass.”

  “So why did you not merely mend the fountain? What made you do a completely new thing?”

  Lodden stopped to consider this. “The fountain did its job when it worked, but it was not the best solution. No-one could walk in the gardens while the fountain was on and so the garden could only be watered at night but Lyria is too hot and dry for that to suffice. Besides, it broke within a few years. It was too complicated, doing a job that should be simple. They say the twelfth Maker was an arrogant man. Certainly he made a lot of things too complex, I think to show how clever he was. I thought there must be a better way – a simpler way.”

  “If it was simpler, what made you able to find it when no-one else had?”

  “I don’t know. I spoke to those who had developed small irrigation systems. I took their ideas and put them together. I found a place where the river had a small offshoot that ran near that side of the Palace. It just fitted itself together in my head.”

  “Right.” This answer clearly pleased Asri. “And how was your hand involved in this process?”

  “My hand? It wasn’t involved in that part of the process. That bit was later, when I was making the model to see if it worked, and the gates to let the water through.”

  “So without your hand you still would have had the idea?”

  “Yes....”

  Asri smiled. “Maker, your skill is not in your hand. Your skill is in your head, in the way you look at the world and see the things other men miss. It is in the ideas you have, and the passion that means you have to get things just right. It is in the curiosity that makes you ask as many questions as a child. Your hand is just the tool you use to assemble things.”

  “But what good are ideas if I cannot make them real?” Lodden gestured helplessly with his handless arm. “I cannot carve or hold something in place to hammer it. I cannot build a model or make a toy. The ideas are nothing until they are made into a reality, and I cannot make anything!”

  “The ideas are everything,” Asri told him sternly. “You left Lyria with nothing. Even if you had both your hands, how could you make anything without tools? You have not even a hammer!”

  “A hammer I can borrow!” Lodden was getting angry again.

  “And if there are no hammers in Skralland?”

  “Then I could make one. There is wood. There is metal. And before you suggest it, if there was no wood I would fell a tree and if there was no metal, I could make a little smelting stove and go up into the mountains to find some ore and melt it down.”

  “So you would not lose your craft for want of a hammer, or any other tool?”

  The woman was talking nonsense. “That would be ridiculous! I would make a new one, even if I had to make it from raw materials.”

  Asri smiled to herself. “Maker, your hand is just another tool. Perhaps you cannot make another hand, but you are the Maker. Invent another tool that works in its place.”

  “Invent...” Lodden exhaled. “Another tool! Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “You were so busy telling yourself you were no longer the Maker that you made it true. Now it is time to stop feeling sorry for yourself and start doing something about it.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Your sight is keener than you realise, Asri. My thanks to you.”

  The Shantara’s face softened. “You would have sorted yourself out sooner or later.”

  “I’m not sure I would – and think of all the time I would have wasted!” He hesitated. “May I ask about your sight, Asri? You were not always blind?”

  “No, not when I was younger. Once upon a time I was the best archer in my clan. I could shoot the tail feathers off a quickling at a hundred paces.”

  “A quickllng?”

  “A bird, a tiny one. I was a very accurate shot. At first I started to miss things that were far away. I found it difficult to focus on them. After that – well, far away got nearer and nearer over time.”

  “So you can see a little?” Lodden leaned forward.

  “I am not blind, but I might as well be. I can see shapes and colours, but no detail. I could see Edan’s face when he was born, but I have never seen his face as a boy – or as I must now learn to think of him, as a man. I see people before me but I cannot make out their faces. Though my hands retain their skill, I cannot tell out the weights and measures of my spices, for instance, and I must identify one from the next by smell and touch alone. Sadly, there is no tool that you can make to return my skills to me, Maker.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “These things happen. And you need to concentrate on yourself for the moment, not some silly old Shantara who is no use to anyone.”

  “You should not say such things of yourself. You have done me a real service.”

  “Then I am glad of it. At least today I have not been a burden.” She cocked her head. “I hear Ranulf calling. Has he finished with his dispute?”

  “It would seem so. He is waving a scroll.”

  “Then go find your answers, Maker. I am glad to have made your acquaintance. And if you feel so inclined, come and let me know how you are getting on.”

  “Thank you, Asri, I will.” Lodden patted her on the arm, and went to see what Ranulf had found.

  Some time later, Lodden was setting off to walk to the circle of stones with Tiris. It was the sort of day when the plains were at their best, fresh and sunny but not particularly warm due to the blustery wind which delighted Tiris so much. As he passed the Clan-hall of the Tusken Seal, Edan and his mother were just coming out.

  “Good day, Maker!” Edan called cheerfully. “Your bird is brave, to fly in this weather. If he’s not careful he will be blown right across the plain!”

  “Edan; Asri.” Lodden changed direction to walk with them for a while. “Are you going anywhere specific?”

  “Not really.” Asri turned her face to him. “I wanted to feel the sunlight on my face.”

  “Edan, are you coming to do some training?” A Skral boy erupted out of the door behind him, a sword in one hand and an axe in the other.

  “Not just yet. I’ll be back later though.” Edan plainly wanted to go but did not let it show in his voice.

  Lodden winked at him. “Asri, I was wondering if you’d like to see the circle of standing stones? It’s a little way out over the plain but they’re so huge...”

  “...that even with my mole-sight I might see them? I would enjoy that. Edan, do you mind?”

  Edan winked back at Lodden. “On this occasion, Mother, I shall forgive you.”

  “You cheeky young whelp!” She elbowed him in the side, amused. “Get on with you! And remember, if anyone gets maimed or blinded, there will be trouble!”

  “I’ll remember! Enjoy your walk, both of you!” Edan ran back to the hall for his weapons, the Skral boy with him.

  “Thank you,” Asri said. “He’s a good boy and doesn’t begrudge me his time, but it must be terribly dull for a sixteen-year-old boy to be stuck with his mother all day.”

  “From the way you two talk, it’s clear that he enjoys your company.” Lodden took her arm and they walked on. Tiris came swooping down to land on Lodden’s shoulder. “Oh, there you are. Have you met Tiris, Asri?”

  “This is your bird, isn’t it?”

  Lodden let go of her to hold out his arm so that she could see Tiris properly. Tiris was happy enough to jump down and be admired.

  “What a wonderful colour he is! They said he was green, but I never imagined he would be such a bright green. There are green birds in my country, but they are all a muddy colour to blend in with the sparse grass of the mountains. He is like a little emerald, shimmering in the sun.”

  “If you hold out your hand, he might come to you – he??
?s very friendly.”

  Tiris considered her outstretched hand briefly before hopping onto her fingers.

  “How light he, is, and how delicate his feet are!” she marvelled. “He must be very beautiful.”

  Lodden was curious. “What can you see of him?”

  “Naught but a shining green blotch, vaguely bird-shaped. But such a patch of colour is doubly welcome after the darkness of the halls. They tell me that it is not wholly dark there, but in half-light there is not enough definition for me to see even shapes, and I am truly blind. Talking of the halls, did Ranulf have much to tell you?”

  “Not an immense amount, but it was interesting.” Lodden changed their path slightly to avoid a wet place amongst the harsh grass. “Can you make out much of the Circle?”

  “Not from here, no.” She peered forward.

  “It is immense. There is a ring of stones, great blue-grey slabs towering higher than the clan-halls. They are many different shapes and widths, but always even in height. There is a layer of slabs laid over the top. These are immense, flat pieces stretching across four or five stones. They do not entirely roof the circle over – there is an open part in the centre, but they make a wide shelter all round the outside part of it. At this end, facing the clan-halls two of the uprights are much wider apart than elsewhere and there is a very definite lintel across the two. It is clearly the entrance – but to what?”

  “What did Ranulf say it was?” The wind was whipping Asri’s hair across her face and she combed it back with her fingers, pulling her scarf up as a hood to keep it in place.

  “He didn’t know what it was for, or who had built it, but he did find word of it in a manuscript copied from one in the Great Halls of Lore, which is apparently the Skral repository of knowledge.”

  “What did it say?”

  “It was a folk-tale.” Lodden guided her round to the front of the Circle. “Strange how much knowledge thought to have been lost is actually just disguised as story and told round the hearth by the old ones.” He stopped again. “Can you see it more clearly now?”

  “I see a gray shadow, with a darker part in front of me.”

  “That darker part is the entrance. I’ll take you inside.” He led her into the Circle.

  “Is it damp? It is very cold.” She pulled her shawl more closely about her, and looked up. “That bright circle, that is the sky, is it? How big is the gap?”

  “You could ride a cart through it, but it is very high.”

  She shuddered. “It is waiting, this place. Let us go back outside. It is wild in the wind, but the sunlight is beautiful, and out there I can see that the plain is pale-coloured and the sky is blue.”

  “It is beautiful.” He led the way back out. “The plain is covered in long silver-gold grasses with tasselled ends. As the wind blows, they undulate like waves on a great rushing sea. There are bursts of colour here and there where the little shrubby trees are turning orange and red, and amongst that the clan-halls bask in the sun, under a high blue sky. It will not last, this bright autumn, and they tell me winter here is frozen in snow and ice, but for now the colours of this day make my heart ache. Shall we sit?”

  Asri felt in front of her with the cane she carried, and sat on the boulder next to him. “Is this fallen from the Circle, do you think?”

  “No; it is a completely different kind of stone.”

  They sat in companionable silence for a while. Asri turned her face to the sun, her scarf falling back as she did so. Tiris hopped about in the grass, pecking busily at the turf.

  Lodden picked a stalk of grass, twiddling it idly between finger and thumb. “Ranulf told me the name of this place, you know.”

  “I thought it was called the Circle of Stone.”

  “It is often called that now, but that is not its name. According to him, in the olden times they called it the Dragon’s Teeth.”

  “A strong name.” Asri nodded to herself. “Will you tell me the tale?”

  “Certainly. Here is something I can do well, and with no special equipment!”

  She laughed, and he composed himself, and began. “It is the usual widow’s son type of tale. A King has a daughter of great beauty, whose hand is sought by all sorts of suitors. The boy is of a small and insignificant clan. They have no ship – they were decimated in a war some years previously, when his father was killed and the clan ship was sunk. One day a great dragon flies down and takes up residence on the plain. He makes a lair there, but every day he flies out among the islands, roaring and burning ships and clan-halls. At the Skraelmoot the King declares that he shall wed his daughter to whoever can stop the dragon. The young men of the clans are very excited at this chance to impress the King and make their fortune. One by one they go out and attack it, and one by one the dragon eats them. Nothing can stop him. Axes bounce off his armour, swords cannot pierce it, and there are hardly any young warriors left. The King is thrown into despair.

  Then one day the widow’s son comes into the hall. “May I have your permission to deal with the dragon, Sire?” he asks.

  “No-one can deal with the dragon, boy,” the King snaps. “It has killed my finest men. It will kill you.”

  The boy shrugs. “I will go and speak with it, at least. If I am not killed, what will you give me?”

  Well there is little enough chance of that, the King thinks, so he can afford to be generous. “I will give you your own weight in gold.”

  The boy bows. He trots off towards the plume of smoke where the dragon has taken up residence, and the King thinks no more of it – but much to the King’s surprise, not only does the dragon remain in his lair that day, but also the boy returns, carrying with him a massive, glassy scale. It is like nothing the King has ever seen.

  The boy bows low and presents the scale to the King saying, “Sire, I have talked with the dragon and I have taken from him this scale. It will be a fine shield, light and proof against sword and axe. May I have my gold?”

  The King is amazed, but he is not necessarily inclined to part with that much of his treasure, so he stalls for time. “Boy, I have only your word that you have spent the day with the dragon. The scale might have dropped off him as he walked. Why should I give you so much gold?”

  The boy cocks an eyebrow at him, impertinent. “Because you promised, and it would not be honourable to refuse.”

  “Do you charge your King with dishonour?” roars the King. “Have I not said that I will give you the gold? I wish merely to make sure you are as good as you say. Go back to the dragon, and if you spend all day with him tomorrow I will give you your gold.”

  “And?” says the boy. “I earned the gold today. What will you give me for spending two days in the dragon’s den?”

  Well, surviving today must have been some kind of accident, the King thinks, and if he himself watches the boy stride into the lair, it would be inconceivable for him to have that sort of luck twice. He assumes a benevolent mien. “For two days in the dragon’s den, you will earn your weight in gold and my own second-best axe.”

  “Your second best axe?” The boy whistles. Customarily this would be given to the heir, usually the oldest son. It is quite a prize. “For that I will go back.”

  So the next day the King rides out with the boy and watches him disappear into the dragon’s lair. There is a deal of roaring and the ground trembles. The King flees for his life, gloating that he has just saved himself a lot of gold. All the same, he watches the skies, and the second day passes without the dragon flying out of his lair.

  Towards the evening the King is a bit twitchy, and never more so than when the doors to his hall burst open, and the boy walks in carrying an enormous fang, very thin and light but clearly from the dragon. “Sire, I bring you the makings of a sword that will never break nor become dulled. In return, however, I think you owe me your second-best axe, not to mention the gold.”

  The King is flabbergasted, but still he doesn’t want to part with his gold, and he definitely doesn’t
want to give the boy his second best axe. Fortunately he has a cunning thought. “You may have it on the third day. Spend one more day in the dragon’s lair, and you may have the gold, the axe and my daughter’s hand in marriage – but only if you can guarantee that the dragon will never again come out to burn the islands.”

  The boy considers this. “Some might think that the King of the Skral was trying to avoid paying his debts.” But just as he speaks, the curtains beside the throne twitch aside and the King’s daughter looks through. She sees the widow’s son and smiles at him shyly. Her smile warms his heart as if the sun had bloomed inside him. For such a smile, the widow’s son would do almost anything, and he will definitely brave the lair of the dragon again. He looks back at the King. “Will you swear to give me your daughter’s hand, your second best axe and the gold if I spend a third day in the Dragon’s lair?”

  The King beams magnanimously. “I swear it on my crown.”

  It is not a very satisfactory oath but as it’s likely to be all he’ll get, the boy has to be satisfied with that, and off he goes. Once outside, however, there is a tap on his shoulder.

  The King’s daughter draws him to one side where nobody can see . “He has given his guards orders to hide by the entrance and block the doorway when you are in the lair so that the Dragon will kill you in there. Please be careful.”

  “I will... and thank you.”

  She smiles and kisses him full on the lips, then runs away blushing scarlet. The widow’s son returns to his home, happy as a bird in springtime, but he takes her warning seriously. He leaves early the next morning, and goes into the lair where the dragon is curled on his bed of gold.

  “You’re early today,” the dragon snorts. “What are you after now?”

  “I’m not after anything,” the boy replies. “When have I ever asked you for anything? Two days ago I extracted the sharp branch that was stuck under your tail scale. Yesterday I helped you knock out the tooth that was causing you so much pain. And today I’m here to warn you that the King’s men are planning to block you in your lair, seeing as they can’t kill you.”

  “They are, are they?” the dragon hissed. “I’ll soon see about that!” He pokes his muzzle out of the door and breathes flames out in a great jet, setting fire to the trousers of the King’s soldiers who all run away to the river yelping, and dive in.

  The King draws up in a sled just at that moment with his daughter. Confronted by a live, snapping dragon, he throws his daughter off his sled to sprawl in front of the beast. He shouts “Take her! Leave me!” and takes off across the snow, whipping his dogs as if his life depended on it.

  The dragon is not impressed. “Coward!” he roars, and taking off, flies across the plain and circles back, dropping down in the snow with the mouth open. The King can’t stop in time – the dogs swerve away but the King is thrown right into the dragon’s mouth and disappears down his gullet without even touching the sides. The dragon belches snootily as he flaps back to his cave. “What a thoroughly unpleasant little man.”

  “That was the King!” the boy says.

  “And I think he owed you some things.” The King’s daughter glances under her eyelashes at him, a little shy. “Some gold... And his second-best axe...”

  “Yes.” The boy smiles. “And your hand in marriage, if you’ll have me.”

  The two were married the next day and though some of the other Clans were a bit disgruntled, the King had never been very popular so they were quite soon resigned to it. And besides, who could stand up to a King who rode to battle on his own dragon?

  The dragon, for his part, never forgot how the boy had helped him when he had such terrible toothache. He was a source of much good advice to the King throughout his reign, and at the end of it, when the King died, the dragon laid down on the plain and faded back into the earth, as dragons do. All that is left of him now is his teeth, turned into a circle of stones.”

  Asri laughed, applauding. “An excellent tale, Maker! But I’ll wager that the original Skral version had more in the way of blood and glory.”

  “Well yes, but you can’t expect a Lyrian to tell a tale badly, and we don’t like the killing and the horrible bits.”

  Asri shook an admonitory finger at him. “You allow style to cloud the truth! What happens in the original?”

  “The boy hammered a stake though the dragon’s head, and that’s the hole in the top. I liked the dragon though.”

  “Yes, I liked the dragon, but that sounds a lot more Skral.” She snorted. “Little boys, the lot of them, standing round playing ‘My axe is bigger than your axe!’”

  “You don’t approve of them?”

  “Skrals think of women as toys to be used, at worst, and at best, bedfellows to be rolled and then left to look after the children.”

  “And the Shantar? What do they think?”

  “We’re probably just as bad, only the other way round,” she admitted wryly. “We’re happy for men to do the hard physical labour, but anything requiring brain and subtlety is considered a task for a woman. It is only when you meet other nations that you realise that there might be more than one way of thinking. I remember my shock the first time we went trading, and I discovered that everywhere worked differently to everywhere else! What about Lyria?”

  Lodden’s eyes were far away as he remembered. “In Lyria we loved beauty and hated violence, and in the pursuit of love and the ideal, everyone did whatever they were good at. There was more of a divide between skill and ungainliness than there was between man and woman. Whether you were born a King or a cottager, if you had a skill to use, people appreciated the skill. Even those who lived by the sword were artists in their own way. We called them sword dancers. They were few, but greatly respected. They would duel to decide feuds and the like, but even one who is skilled can be defeated when attempting to fight too many at once. When the Ice Lord’s armies came, that is exactly what happened.”

  “Much has been lost.” Asri reached back to pull her scarf over her hair again. “But we are alive at this moment, and we cannot tell what tomorrow will bring. Until we know that there is no future for us we must act as if there is one, or lie down and die of despair.” She felt around for her cane and stood. “Shall we go back, Maker? There is that about these stones of yours which lies heavy on my mind. I cannot tell what, but they do.”

  “Do you think a bad thing has happened here? I used to know a woman who claimed she could sense these things.”

  “Perhaps it has. Or perhaps it will. I do not know but I cannot be easy here among them.” She shivered. “Besides, the wind is chill, for all that it feels like a beautiful day. Shall we go?”

  “Certainly.” Lodden offered her his arm, and they began to pace back through the silver waves of hushing grasses. “I thought about what you said, by the way. About my arm being a tool.”

  “And?”

  “There should definitely be something that I can do. It’s just knowing where to start. It would need to be able to do so many things.”

  “Or you could have one tool that is useful for many things and others that are more specific. You’re not making one tool, but many. What is the task that you most dread these days, the one made most difficult by being one-handed? Or is there one that happens all the time?”

  “There are so many!” Lodden stopped to think for a moment. “What I find really humiliating is trying to eat one-handed. Using a knife takes two hands – one to hold the meat in place, the other to cut it, so I have to ask someone else to help, and it makes me feel as helpless as a baby.” Anger and bitterness flared high just at the thought. “That’s directly as a result of losing my hand, and it makes me furious every time I have to ask.”

  “Then make something which will allow you to cut your meat.” Asri turned her face to him. “It will give you a place to start, at least. How will you attach it?”

  “I haven’t worked it out yet. You could use some sort of metal bracing with an attachment, but there is
only half of my forearm to wear it on so it would probably fall off. Either it needs to be jointed so that it can go up my arm past the elbow, or strapped on, maybe.”

  Discussing it, they returned to the Clan-hall to find Ranulf snoozing on the bench, a scroll fallen from his hand. Lodden picked up the scroll and put it on the bench.

  “Maker!” Ranulf sat up and blinked a few times. “I must have nodded off. They said you’d taken Asri to the Stones, so I thought I’d wait here. I have something for you.” He felt around for the scroll. “When I was looking for information about the Dragon’s Teeth in the old scrolls, I came across something you might find useful.” He opened the scroll to reveal a picture; a strange contraption of leather straps and metal loops. “We are a warrior race, and injuries such as yours are not unknown to us, alas. This is a scroll from the Halls of Lore, a copy of some writings by the Master of Healing. You will undoubtedly be able to come up with something closer to what you need, but in the meantime it will be better than nothing.”

  “What is it?” Asri was intrigued.

  Lodden looked closely at the diagram. “It is a false hand.”

  “Aye. Edric the Smith will make it up for you,” Ranulf went on, yawning, “but I thought you would probably want to make some alterations. The scroll says it will take a bit of time to get used to it, but you should be able to wear it constantly in the end.”

  “Thank you! Thank you, Ranulf, I cannot say how much.”

  “You’re welcome.” And with a bow, Ranulf wandered away through the hall.

  “What is it like?”

  “Rudimentary!” Lodden laughed, but there was glee in that laughter. “But my head is starting to fill with ideas and it will not be so crude when I have finished with it. It is a leather sleeve, a sort of half-jacket. It has straps that fasten around the chest and under the arm, and at the end of it a wooden hand, poised to hold an axe. The Skral are constant in their love of warring at least. But as a place to start it is further along than I had any right to expect.”

  “What will you do to it?”

  “In the first instance, I will make it so that I can change the hand.”

  “You are not intending to wield an axe, then?”

  “Probably best not. I would chop through the plate as well as the meat!” And as she laughed, Lodden tucked the precious scroll into his robe so that the wind would not snatch it away, and went to find a quiet place in which to invent his new hand.

  Over the days that followed, Lodden worked to perfect his prosthetic. He devised a fitting that would allow him to attach and detach different hands to the leather sleeve, and enlisted the leatherworker and Edric to put it together for him. The first attachment he designed was very basic indeed – a triangular piece of wood with a slot in it, and a knife that he had shaped for the task. Donning the sleeve, he took the knife and went to find Asri, who was sitting in her usual chair by the fire.

  “I have a puzzle for you, Asri. Can you tell what this is?” He lifted her hand and placed it on the leather of his sleeve.

  Her face lit up. She brought her other hand up and felt the straps over his shoulder, and down to the fitting at the end of his forearm. Her fingers found the slot at the end. “What goes here?”

  “Guess!” He passed her the knife. “Careful, it’s sharp.”

  She felt the knife. “The handle is very straight and smooth. May I?” Carefully she slid the knife into the slot, but it began to slide out again. “Does it stay in?”

  “Twist the wooden bit.” Lodden tried to keep his face straight, but he could not keep the excitement out of his voice.

  Asri rotated the whole of the wooden triangle through a quarter turn. There was a click, and the knife stayed firm.

  “What’s that, Maker?” Edan stopped on his way past, intrigued.

  “A new arm...” Asri breathed. “Edan, run and get us a piece of bread on a plate, please.”

  Catching their excitement, Edan dashed off, and when he returned, Ranulf and several others were with him. He handed the plate to Lodden. “Got it!”

  “Well?” Asri asked softly.

  Lodden set the plate on his knee. Holding the bread in place with his hand, he set the knife to it, at first gingerly but then with increasing force as the knife cut through the tough crust. When the bread was in halves, a cheer went up as he handed one of the halves to Asri.

  “You did it!” she exclaimed, feeling the edge of the piece. “Well done!”

  The gleeful onlookers clapped him on the back and filed away, chattering. Lodden turned the halved slice in his hand, and the tightness in his heart loosened. He had become so used to that tightness that he had forgotten that a man could feel any other way. “Thank you, Asri. You believed in me when I did not believe in myself.”

  “You lost your confidence; that is all.” She passed the bread back to him. “Even these mole eyes could see that. Now, haven’t you forgotten something?”

  “Have I?” He frowned.

  “Alaera? If you had already told her she would be here celebrating with you.”

  “Gods!” Lodden was smitten with guilt. “I was so excited I forgot to call on the way here! I’ll go straight across now!” He leapt up from the bench.

  “Do! And Lodden?”

  “Yes?” He paused.

  “It’s a wonderful start. Now go away and work out what the next one will be.”

   

  Some time later, coming out of the sick hall with Alaera’s good wishes ringing in his ears, Lodden found Edan outside, throwing the knucklebones with his friends and chatting.

  The boy stood. “You lot can finish without me. I’ll be back for the next game. May I walk with you, sir?”

  “Certainly.”

  They followed the path from the sick hall back to the plain. Lodden was itching to go back to the little bench in the corner of the smithy and get to work on another fitting for his arm, but the boy clearly wanted to speak to him.

  “Sir – your hand – the thing you made. It will make it like having a normal hand again, won’t it?”

  “When I’ve made a few more fittings, I think so. It won’t be as good as a real hand but I should be able to do a lot of things that I can’t do at the moment.”

  Edan thought about this. “You invent things, don’t you? Things that haven’t been done before, to solve problems.”

  “Yes, I do – or I did, and I hope to be able to do so again. What is the problem you’re thinking of?”

  “My mother.” Edan looked at the floor. “Her eyes. Can you help her?”

  “Ah. Of course, I should have guessed. I’m not sure what can be done to help her, Edan. Eyes are difficult. I would love to help her, but I don’t really know how.”

  “Will you think about it? Please, I mean.”

  “Yes, I will. For what it’s worth, if I can possibly find a way of helping her you may be assured that I will do so.” The boy opened his mouth, but shut it again awkwardly. “There’s more?”

  Edan blushed. “She likes you, you know. She likes that you treat her like everyone else. She says you don’t treat her like a blind person, just like a person who can’t see.”

  Lodden waited.

  “She loved my father very much. It’s only two years since... Since he died. It still hurts her, how it happened.”

  Lodden thought he knew where this was going. “It leaves scars, that sort of thing, scars that do not heal quickly. But give it time. At first the memories sting, even the good ones, but as time goes on the sting wears away and the memories remain.”

  “The sting has not worn away for her yet, though.”

  “Nor for you, I think?”

  “Nor for me. Sir... I do not mean to be impertinent, but you spend a lot of time with my mother.”

  So this was what he was asking. Lodden cocked an eyebrow. “Are you asking me what my intentions are?”

  “No!” Edan’s face flamed. “Well...” He took a deep breath. “Well yes, I suppose I
am asking just that. What are your intentions?”

  “I have none,” Lodden told him gently. “And unless I am mistaken, neither does your mother. She has told me a little about your father. She obviously loved him very much, and to me she does not sound ready to let go of him. I am not sure that she ever will, but that is not something that any of us can control or influence in any way. It happens or it does not. As for me, I enjoy spending time with her because she is an intelligent woman who has travelled to many places and seen many things, but if you are asking if I am romantically inclined towards her, then be reassured. I am not. For what it’s worth, I once had a sister. Your mother reminds me very much of her.”

  “She is not here, your sister?” Edan fiddled with a rip in his sleeve.

  “She died a long time ago, when I was about your age.” Lodden squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “I miss her though. She was good fun, and very quick. At first it hurt too much to think about her, but now remembering her makes me feel as if she is not entirely gone. It takes a bit of time, that’s all.”

  “Do we have time? The Skral boys don’t think so.”

  Lodden shrugged. “Who can tell? It was your mother who told me that we have to assume that there will be a tomorrow. I think she’s right. We know it will be a hard, desperate fight, but sometimes you have to believe that it will all come right in the end despite what you know.”

  They stood looking over the plain while Edan thought about this. Finally he turned to Lodden. “Thank you for talking to me, Maker. I was afraid you might laugh at me.”

  “But you asked anyway.”

  “My mother is all that I have left. I have to look after her.”

  Lodden nodded appreciatively. “Good man. I won’t forget about her eyes though. If I can think of anything I will let you know.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Lodden.”

  “Lodden.” The boy grinned suddenly. “And if you need anything, you know, for your new hand, come and find me. I know everyone here, and I can probably find you almost anything you need!”

  “I shall take you up on that.”

  “I should get back. They’ll be starting the next game....” Edan nodded to the craftsman and ran off to find his friends, and Lodden walked on to the Circle, where he could already see the bright flash that was Tiris, bobbing about in the grass before the entrance.

  Another few days passed. The wind was cold, and the sun seemed to carry less warmth. Autumn was nearly done, and winter beckoned. A slow trickle of arrivals had started – not refugees now, but the Skrals from the other islands coming together to defend their oldest clan-halls. The halls were crowded, but the numbers were not above two or three thousand Skral now, even including the women and oldsters.

  Lodden was looking forward to Maran’s return. Now that he had two or three useful fittings for his false arm, his curiosity about the Dragon’s Teeth had become sharper than ever. He had a thousand questions to ask and he suspected that if anyone had the answers, it would be the bard.

  Today he had come out to the Circle again with Tiris. The little bird fluttered down to the ground, investigating the clumps of grass and occasionally dashing off in chase of insects. Lodden watched his antics for a while but, as always, his attention was drawn to the towering stones.

  He loved the way the light and shadows danced over them during the course of the day, and the way they never looked the same, as sunshine or cloud threw different parts of each stone into relief. Now the autumn mildness was fading from the plain, and every morning frost edged the grass more thickly. Ice-crystals were beginning to form on the great monoliths. He wrapped his furs more closely to him as best he could. He had yet to invent a fitting that would make that easier.

  “Lodden?”

  The voice startled him.

  “Maran! It is good to see you, my friend.” Lodden threw his arms around the bard, clapping him on the back with his good hand. “How was your journey? You have been missed in the sick hall – no songs, no music, and none of your improbable tales!”

  “It doesn’t seem to have done you much harm though. I leave you all weak and apathetic and come back to find you dashing about the plain!” Maran smiled, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “But what is this they tell me? You have made yourself a new hand?”

  Lodden stepped back and pulled his cloak aside to show the leather sleeve. “Based on one devised by your own Master of Healing.”

  “And improved vastly, I see.” Maran scrutinised the fitting closely as Lodden took off the hand he was using and re-fitted it again. “May I copy the details onto a scroll to send back for the Masters?”

  “Certainly. There is more to do, though. I have only the most primitive fittings at the moment.”

  Maran nodded thoughtfully. “Well were you chosen Maker, my friend. It would seem that I have as much to ask you as to tell you! But what are you doing out here?”

  “There is only so long a man can lie in a sickroom before he begins to believe that there is something wrong with him,” Lodden said wryly. “I was beginning to think that it would be better for me to be up and doing anyway, and when I saw the Circle, I could not rest until I had had a closer look.”

  “Alaera says you are out here most days.”

  “Aye.” The craftsman turned back to the stones with a frown. “It is an odd thing. Since my childhood I have dreamt of these stones. I know every nook and cranny of every stone. I have seen them from near and from far. I have seen them from above, even, but I have never been to this country before now, nor can I think of any painting or map that would have shown them. Now, at the ending of the world, I run to the last place where free men stand, and here is the circle of stones from my dream. I feel that there is something to be done here, some task that is meant for me and only me. It is a very odd thing.”

  “It is a very true thing, friend, for that is why I am sent to you.”

  “True? I dreamt it! To say it is true would be nonsense!” Lodden snorted.

  “Nonsense or not, you dreamed of them and you are here. You dreamt of a task and here I am to give you just that. Let us go back to the warmth of the clan-hall, and I will tell you all about it. Apart from anything else, the sun is low in the sky and the day is cold enough to freeze the beard off a Clanfather.”

  Lodden shook his head. “What kind of Skral are you, Maran? There are not many of your tribe who will even admit to feeling the cold.”

  Maran gestured grandly. “Ha! Warriors! Their brains are dulled by all the dents in their helmets. They think it makes them more manly to stand around in the snow and ice without grumbling. Me, I am a bard, a wise man – and the wise man knows that when it’s cold the best place to be is by the fire with a mulled ale.”

  “I am no bard but to me your wisdom is obvious. So tell me about your journey. Where have you been the past couple of weeks?” Lodden fell into step beside the young man and they made their way back across the plain to the clan-halls where fire and ale awaited them.

  Maran led the way into the great eating hall. Nodding to the ancient in her alcove, he pulled a couple of stools to the hearth and gestured to Lodden to sit.

  As the bard went to fill a couple of tankards from the butt of ale, Lodden looked around the hall, long and low with a double row of tables and benches in between which fires burned in a long low pit. There were two great cooking hearths, one at either end, and it was in front of one of these that he now sat. The hearths were enormous, almost little rooms in their own right, and inset along the sides of them were the comfortable benches where the ancients sat. Too old to contribute in other ways, they sat and tended the fires, occasionally stirring the great bubbling cauldrons of stew or oatmeal that hung simmering over the heat.

  Around the fires were little groups of stools like the ones he now sat on, and in the corner on a long trestle table were the platters and tankards used communally. There was no communal cutlery. Every Skral was presented with his own set as a sign of becoming a
n adult, and a man’s eating knife was a deeply personal thing on several levels. It had caused a certain amount of consternation when the refugees had first started arriving and the Skral had discovered them to be knifeless, but after some consultation and a deal of negotiation, craftsmen among the outlanders had been given the materials with which to fashion the appropriate number of eating irons, and the whole thing had been resolved with more bafflement than fuss. It had been much more frustrating for him personally, because of his unhandedness, but now he had solved that problem, or at least had started to work on it.

  Maran returned and handed Lodden a tankard. In the alcove the ancient crooned wordlessly to herself, gazing mistily into the fire with age-clouded eyes.

  “Thank you,” Lodden said. “So you have heard all about Asri’s flash of genius – now it’s your turn. Tell me about your journey.”

  Maran took his seat by the fire, drank deeply, and began. “Seven days I travelled, at first on the plains and then over the snowfields to the Halls of Lore. The Clanfathers, the Mother of the Shantar and the Potentate of Gai Ren had consulted with each other. They decided we needed to know more about the Ice Lord, and I was chosen to find out what the wisdom of the Skral could tell us. With my brothers and the elder Bards, or such of them as are left, I pored over scrolls and tablets going back a thousand years, but nowhere was there mention of such a being as the one we now face. There were wars, I grant you, and kings and empires rose and fell as they always have and always will, but even the most rapacious invader usually tried to keep what he had fought for, or at least raided it and then moved on. We did not once find anything similar to the death-dealing practices of the man we call the Ice Lord – and we did not find any mention of the black smoke that possesses him.”

  “Black smoke? I have not heard of that.”

  “It is why he is said to have many faces. He – or rather it – seems to possess people, moving from one body to the next in the form of black smoke. We have heard that tale several times and it is the only thing that makes any sense. Certainly we were looking for references to it at the Halls, but we found nothing, and time was pressing so after a while I left them searching, and went on my way.” He sighed. “It was so good to be back among those old stone walls. In the entrance there is a great gnarled tree which, legend has it, was planted as an acorn on the day that the Founders laid the first stone. As the Halls have grown in wisdom and accumulated knowledge, so has the tree grown. I have spent many a day in the shade of its leaves, reading the old scrolls or composing songs and stories. I wish you could see it, Lodden – it is a place very dear to my heart – but I fear we have run out of time.”

  “What makes you think so?” Lodden set his tankard down. “Have you news of the Ice Lord?”

  “After a fashion, yes, and I fear greatly that the Hall is something that he will not be able to resist destroying. All our knowledge, our Lore – nearly everything that it means to be Skral is preserved or recorded in that one place. It will not last long after he arrives.”

  “He is coming, then? It is certain?”

  “It is.”

  Lodden gazed into the red of the embers, seeing in the darting flames the fire that had consumed his own city, his friends... “How could you possibly know that?”

  Maran took a long drink before continuing. “I will tell you, but that of which I speak is the most sacred of our ancestral places. In more normal times it is forbidden to speak of it to one who was not born of Skral ancestors, but these are strange times. Even we Skral have come to realise that our normal customs cannot continue as they have done for countless years. The Clanfathers have given me permission to tell of this to a few specific people but it does not come easily to speak of Skral secrets in the company of an outlander, even a friend such as you.”

  Lodden settled back in his seat. “Take your time. I can wait while you find the right words.”

  “I left the Halls of Lore and journeyed on for some days. It was not easy going and the dogs were tired. We had already travelled far and now our path led for another few days over the plain. When we hit the snowline, I fitted the runners to the sled and another day’s travel took us to the ships’ graveyard.”

  “A graveyard?”

  “Exactly what it sounds like. Our ships are home and shelter to our clan for generations. They protect us from wind and wave, and with their sails flared they fly us over the water, free as gulls in the sunshine. It is difficult to express it. They are not things like sleds are, but vital creatures that love us and are beloved. No, perhaps it is more fundamental than that. They are part of the clan, like a wise grandparent, strong and always there for us. They are so much a part of our identity that the idea of travelling on a ship belonging to some other clan is slightly shameful. They are made of the finest iron-oak that lasts for lives and lives of men, but after many decades the wood becomes weak and the ship too old to ride the wild seas safely. There is a ceremony when the keel of the new ship is laid, and the figurehead is made from the base of the mast from the old ship, to ensure continuity.”

  Maran shifted on his chair, staring deep into the embers of the fire. “For a year or two the old ship is only used for easy journeys while the new is being built, and eventually there is a great ceremony where the new ship is launched and the old is brought out of the water. As a sign of respect, the whole clan gathers. The old ship is mounted on a great frame with many wheels and many ropes, and we drag the ship across the plain to the graveyard. In the olden days this took a week or so as the ships were small and light, but as our shipbuilding has improved, our ships have become larger and heavier. Nowadays it is more likely to take us a month or more.”

  “You drag it there yourselves? That’s an immense undertaking. You don’t have horses, do you, or oxen – do the other clans help?”

  “They don’t pull the ropes, because it is not their ship,” Maran explained. “They do help by bringing food and helping set up camp and light fires, that sort of thing. The ship is pulled to the hill where it will be set to rest, and everyone helps to shift it off the frame and settle it in its place. Few words are said there, but when all have taken their leave of the ship, we come back to the clan-halls and rest for a week. You are right that it is a huge undertaking but in times of peace it only happened every couple of centuries so it was a great honour to be involved.”

  “In times of war though... You have lost ships?”

  “Yes.” Maran looked away. “We have lost six of our ships in the past two years.”

  “Six? To different clans?”

  “Yes, but still it is many. We cannot build new ones quickly enough to replace them. We have used all the keels which had been laid down to season and if we make new ships now it will have to be of new, untested wood. They would be weak, and would not last long but in any case, from what I saw, I do not think that we will have time to try it.”

  Lodden regarded his companion gravely, whilst in the alcove the ancient rocked and sang, her crooning an eerily tuneless counterpoint to the bard’s tale.

  “The Clanfather had sent me to the ships’ graveyard to ask the spirits of the ships to grant us wisdom and counsel in this time of death and destruction. Mostly they do not answer but this time they did. What I saw gave me much to consider. In the centre of the ships’ graveyard is a pool of water, salty as tears, and as I looked into it, I saw the beginnings of the creature they call the Ice Lord.” Maran leaned back in his seat, thoughtful. “What do you know of the Ice Lord, Lodden?”

  “Little enough that is certain, and much that is probably untrue.”

  Maran nodded. “Until now we have never known where he came from. It was quite sudden, some years ago, that we heard that a King who had once been a petty bully had started a war which took over the world. The ships have shown me more though, and that was not the beginning of it. It all started with a man who lived in a forest. His name is not remembered....”

  A bell rang, and Maran stood. “Time has flowed
faster than I realised. That is the bell to bid us to the council table. I have to report to the Elders now. It is a long tale, and one you should hear – come with me and you may all listen at once and save me a re-telling.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll wait till you’ve finished with the Elders.”

  “Not so, my friend. I was sent to fetch you along.” Maran pushed his stool back into the corner.

  Lodden was a bit taken aback, but he stumbled after the younger man as he led the way out of the warm, dark food hall and into the Great Hall, where the Clanfathers were assembled. There were twelve remaining Clanfathers, men of a variety of ages and heights. All wore their hair in the warrior’s braid and had the stocky shoulders of those who had spent many years hefting an axe in war and play. They were headed by a tall warrior in his later years, a man with a jutting nose which would have dominated his face if it were not for the grey bush of his beard, flowing down from a luxuriant moustache to separate into two braids over his belly. Shrewdness glinted in his eyes, but he had a ready laugh which boomed out across the hall as he made some joke to the other Clanfathers.

  With them were outlanders. There was an old woman dressed in shapeless black, with grey hair and a stare as hard as diamonds, and a short, graceful man dressed in silken robes of bright colours.

  “That is the Mother of the Shantar – they have a woman to lead them!” Maran whispered in wondering tones as they drew near the distinguished group. “And the little man is the Potentate of Gai Ren.”

  They were gathered around the table deep in conversation but as the bard approached, they looked up. “Maran, did you find him?”

  “This is he.”

  They introduced themselves to the baffled craftsman, and gestured him to a seat.

  “Go on then, lad, tell us the rest of it."

  Maran stood in thought for a moment and then began to describe what he had seen in the pool at the centre of the ships' graveyard, and as the young bard told his tale, Lodden saw it as vividly as if he had been given the vision as well...