The Copper Promise (32 page)

‘Men, I bring you the blessings of the Graces on this night.’ She lowered her head solemnly and held out the cask of wine.

They looked unsure for a few seconds, but the severe make-up and purple robes of a Graceful Lady was a reassuring sight. They took the cask with gratitude, and Wydrin retreated to a shadowy corner and watched as one by one they slumped to the floor. Strong stuff.

With that done she frisked their pockets for the keys, slipped the ring into her robes to stop them from clinking, and walked swiftly round to the front of the hall once more. Now she had performed her tasks she was eager for this to be over with.

For a few seconds everything was quiet, just as though the world were waiting for her to make a decision. The sky above was clear and studded with stars, while the sea was a moon-kissed carpet of darkness. Sebastian would have said this was a stupid job, too risky, and, let’s face it, too morally dubious, but
because
she was here no one would have to lose any blood. She would signal Reilly now and they would come around to the back of the island, empty the loot house and leave. With a bit of luck, Morgul would only know he’d been robbed when he woke up with a hangover in the morning.

Under the cover of night, Wydrin smiled.

Just to be sure, she wandered over to the boat containing the guests’ weapons and untied the rope, letting it drift off. The men perched at the front of the harbour were so intent on their card game that they barely noticed she was there. Once that was done she pulled the last packet of powder from within her robe and chucked the whole thing into a nearby fire pit. There was a blast of brilliant white light, and this the guards did notice, but Wydrin stood in front of the pit with her arms raised up and shouted some more things about the sea and waves of adulthood and they went back to their game.
Priests do get away with a lot of nonsense
, she thought.

Reilly appeared round the back of the loot house with several long, graceful ships that would move quickly over the water. She led them silently to the door and passed over the keys before they piled in, sacks at the ready. Wydrin and Reilly stood outside, keeping watch. From above them came the steady roar of the great hall.

‘It all went smoothly, then?’

Reilly looked unreasonably pleased with himself, particularly considering he’d barely done anything so far.

‘It seems so.’ Wydrin watched the first of the men coming out with a bulging sack over his shoulder. ‘It’s too easy. Is Morgul really such an idiot?’

Reilly shrugged.

‘He’s old, getting complacent. He thinks no one can touch him. And he puts a lot of store in this religious nonsense.’

Wydrin pursed her lips. Mocking the Graces at this stage made her uneasy.

‘You’re a pirate too. Don’t you believe in it?’

‘I’d believe in it more if all the Graceful Ladies looked like you.’ He grinned at her, his golden tooth catching the light. ‘Once we’re done here I’m planning a little celebration of my own. You, me, a few more casks of that wine. Do you fancy keeping those robes on? There’s something about a godly woman …’

‘Don’t push your luck, Reilly.’

One of his men appeared in the doorway, an excited look on his face. They conferred in harsh whispers for a moment. Reilly turned back to her.

‘The guests in the hall. Are they armed?’

‘Of course not. Morgul isn’t stupid enough to let drunken men and women wave their weapons about under his roof, it’d be a bloodbath. Besides,’ she added smugly, ‘I got rid of the boat with the weapons in it.’

Belatedly she recognised the expression of greed on Reilly’s face.

‘What is it?’

‘There are steps leading up to the hall, and a trap door. We can open it from this side.’ His eyes were wide. ‘We can wipe out half the competition in one night. It’s risky, but the rewards—’

She caught hold of his arm.

‘You can’t do that!’ she hissed. ‘We’re here to get the gold and get out.’

‘Think of the opportunity,’ said Reilly. She could see the shine of ambition in his eyes. ‘When will I get this chance again?’

‘There’s a thirteen-year-old boy up there, a stupid kid getting drunk for the first time,’ she said, hating the desperation in her own voice. ‘Don’t do this.’

But he was already turning away from her, giving the order. He ran into the loot house, and after a moment there was a huge crash from above. Wydrin swore as the noise from the hall suddenly increased tenfold.

She untied Frostling from her leg and moved cautiously towards the front steps, pausing as a crowd of guards thundered past, having finally realised that something was wrong. If she could get in the front door there was a chance she could reach Morben and get him out safely.

She had her foot on the first step when a host of desperate people came storming out of the hall doors; these were the sensible ones, the men and women who’d decided not to attempt to use fists against men with steel. They were followed out by Reilly’s men, who cut them down mercilessly, and the night rang with screams. Wydrin flew up the steps, avoiding the bloodier fights, when Morgul staggered out, his face thunderous. He caught her eye, taking in the dagger in her hand.

‘You!’ he bellowed, but there was a gust of flames from behind him and Morgul’s hair caught fire.

Reilly’s men are burning the whole bloody place down.

Wydrin fled. She took one of Reilly’s narrow ships, cursing him as she did so, and headed away from the island as quickly as her rowing arms could take her. Morgul’s hall was burning merrily now, and she saw other ships fleeing Sandshield, certain that some of them were Reilly’s men escaping with the loot. Or perhaps they would stay, and Sandshield would belong to another pirate in the morning.

As she rowed, she thought about how close she’d got to that door, and the smell of smoke and burning flesh from within. She had had no armour and only one weapon, she’d been encumbered with robes and had not a single ally. She couldn’t have saved the boy, not without getting herself killed in the process.

Even so, it felt like running away. Again.

The brood army were not difficult to track.

Sebastian sifted through the ashes with the point of his sword. Under the layer of soft black powder there were charred bones, scraps of blackened cloth, and here and there a twisted lump of metal that might have been a sword, or a hoe, or some other household implement.

Judging by the surroundings, Sebastian guessed that the scattered debris had once been farming equipment. And people, of course.

Relios was a fiery red land, thick with clay and fruit trees thriving under the relentless sun. There had been orchards here, before the army came; he could see the occasional blackened remnant of a tree dotting the landscape. There had been a village here too, no doubt full of people making a living from fruit and olives, but nothing remained of that save for smoke and ashes.

He stood, stretching out the tired muscles in his back, and looked to the north. There was a wide, black smear across the lands, leading to a distant heat haze and a smudge of grey smoke. Sometimes, when the day was especially clear and still, he fancied he could see movement there, and the occasional glint of light as the sun shone off their golden armour. He could see them, and when he tried to sleep, he could hear them.

Of Y’Ruen he’d seen little, although he had spotted her once or twice in the last few days. She was a shadow on the clouds, scouting ahead, seeking out fresh lands to destroy.

Sebastian rubbed his fingers over his newly grown beard, remembering the first time he’d seen her, flying over the coast of Relios. The fever that had been slowly growing within him ceased for one terrible moment and his entire body had grown icy cold.
Wydrin was right,
he’d thought,
what can we do against such a creature?

After weeks of following the army and its monstrous leader, the terror had sunk deep into him, becoming anger instead. Becoming
fury
. If it was hopeless, it was hopeless. He would still die with dragon-blood on his sword.

Today he was more interested in a second group, far to the east of the brood army. He’d spotted some movement in the distance the day before, the tell-tale glinting of sunlight on steel. Initially he thought it was the final stand of the Relitian army, who had made frequent and increasingly desperate attempts to destroy the dragon’s brood, but today he could see it was not them; the Relitian army carried banners of the Regnisse – red silk pennants covered in a language he couldn’t read. This group carried a rainbow of different banners, and with a strange mixture of dread and excitement Sebastian realised he recognised them. They were Ynnsmouth knights.

Of course
, he thought as he watched their manoeuvres under a distant hill.
How could the Order pass up an opportunity like this? A dragon and an army of monsters, just like a tale from the legends.

He slung his sword across his back once more and walked away from the remains of the farm.

The novice yawned hugely and picked at the starched cloth of his uniform, trying to peel it away from his sweaty skin. It was too damn hot. He imagined being back under the mountains, slipping his feet into one of the icy lakes, or sleeping on the cool grass. Sleep, in fact, was a fine idea …

‘Not much of a lookout, are you?’

The novice jerked awake. There was a man approaching through the low bushes, and he was alarmingly close. How had he got so close? The novice snatched up his spear and scrambled to his feet.

‘Halt! Who are you?’

The man paused. He had an unkempt black beard, and long black hair unbound to his waist. His face was streaked with dirt and his clothes were little better; he looked as though he’d been sleeping out in the open for weeks. And there was something about his eyes … The novice gripped the shaft of his spear a little tighter.

‘If I were an enemy, do you not think I would have let you sleep? Right up until I cut your throat?’ The man paused and shook himself, as though waking up from a dream. ‘I’m sorry. My name is Sebastian. I am one of your Order. Or at least, I was.’

The novice frowned.

‘You don’t look like a knight.’

Sebastian smiled wanly at that. ‘Here.’ He pulled something from his cloak and held it up for the boy to see. ‘I am sworn to the God-Peak Isu, and I carry his sigil.’

It certainly looked like one of the badges the elder knights wore. The novice hoped to wear one himself one day.

‘I guess you’ll come with me, then,’ he said, and then added, because he felt he should have made a better impression, ‘and don’t try anything!’

Sebastian was marched through the camp with the boy at his back. Everywhere he looked he saw the banners of the god-peaks, men and women with their sigils sewn onto their cloaks, painted on their shields. They were all busy, tending to equipment, brushing down horses or running through drills, but some looked at him curiously as he went past, clearly wondering who this tall scruffy man was. He saw no recognition in their faces, for which he was glad. It was like walking in a dream, or a memory.
How often have I thought about coming back to them?

The lookout took him to a large tent in the centre of the camp. It was yellow and green silk, the colours of Ynn. There was a brief discussion with the guard at the entrance, who looked at Sebastian with open hostility, and then he was taken inside.

It was hot and close, and it took Sebastian’s eyes a few moments to adjust to the gloom. When he saw who was waiting for him, he winced.

There were three men in the tent, standing over a low travel table covered with maps. They looked up as the guard cleared his throat.

‘Lord Commander, Novice Cooke found this man skulking at the edges of the camp. He says he is—’

‘You!’ One of the men at the table straightened up, the look of surprise on his face quickly melting into anger. ‘Of all the abominations.’

‘It is good to see you too, Spirron,’ said Sebastian.

Sir Spirron was a wiry streak of a man, his thin, grey lips always wet with saliva. The boys had called him Sir Spittle behind his back.

‘Who is it, Spirron?’ The man Sebastian didn’t recognise frowned at him over the maps. He had a neat auburn beard and patches of sunburn on the tops of his cheeks.

The last man, a tall, powerfully built knight in his middle years, cleared his throat.

‘This is Sir Sebastian, John. He left the Order before you joined us.’

‘It is good to see
you
, Lord Commander,’ said Sebastian, and he meant it. Sir Spirron rounded on the older man, his wet lips working.

‘May I remind you, Lord Commander, that the title of “sir” was stripped from this abomination when he was exiled?’

‘I am aware of that, thank you, Spirron,’ said the Lord Commander coldly. There was a moment of silence. Sir John, the man with the auburn beard, shared a glance with Sebastian and raised his eyebrows. Eventually, the Lord Commander rolled up the map in front of him and passed it to Sir Spirron. ‘Get that to the people on the front, Spirron. Now, Sebastian. What are you doing here?’

Sir Spirron made to leave, but paused at the entrance to the tent.

‘Lord Commander, this man was a disgrace to Ynnsmouth.’ Spirron kept his eyes on the grey-haired knight. ‘By rights he should be taken prisoner. It is a grave personal insult to me that—’

‘I am not
in
Ynnsmouth, Spirron,’ said Sebastian. ‘And since I am no longer part of the Order, as you keep pointing out, there is very little you can do. Unless you’ve started imposing your nonsense on civilians now, too?’

‘Enough!’ thundered the Lord Commander, and Sebastian felt a chill of recognition on the back of his neck. The Lord Commander was a good man, but you never wanted to be on the receiving end of his anger. ‘Sir Spirron, I asked you to do something for me, did I not?’

The knight nodded curtly and stalked from the tent. The Lord Commander shook his head slowly.

‘There was always an odd, rebellious streak in you, Sebastian.’ He tugged briefly at his beard, which was white and cropped close to his jaw. ‘A good knight, one of our best.’ Sebastian allowed himself a small smile. ‘But you didn’t have the steel. The resolve.’ The Lord Commander met his eyes briefly, and looked away again. There was disgust in them. Sebastian’s smile faded. ‘Your weakness was your undoing.’