‘I bear no loyalty to that traitor.’
The Father of Killers smiled. ‘His betrayal burns inside you as it does in me. But fear not. You will have your vengeance. And I will have mine.’ With that he pressed the iron nails to his lips, as though they brought him some kind of comfort.
Forest’s brow furrowed. ‘You will, Father?’
‘Yes. River’s beloved queen still lives. But before your brother dies you will tell him that the pact we made was a traitor’s bargain, and worthless. And by the time you reach him, I will have torn out his lover’s heart and laid it at Amon Tugha’s feet.’
‘Then I will leave immediately,’ Forest said.
As he walked from the cavern he could sense the Father’s eyes on him, and felt the weight of this mission on his heart.
River had betrayed them, had murdered Mountain and turned his back on their Father. But was it right to break a pact — even a so-called traitor’s bargain?
Whatever the rights or wrongs of it, Forest knew he had no choice.
River would soon be dead. And so would his queen.
ONE
Waylian had never known cold like it. It crept through his cloak and his jerkin, into his very bones. The chill giving way to shivers giving way to numbness.
Of course there had been tough winters in Ankavern. The little hamlet of Groffham had been cut off for almost a month one year, but a judicious use of their stores had meant they could weather the isolation with nothing worse than a few grumbling bellies. Waylian had been small then, barely seven summers old, and hadn’t appreciated the danger. All he had wanted to do was play in the drifts and throw snowballs at trees to loosen the icicles hanging from their branches. He’d been wrapped up against the elements, and when his fingers had started to go numb there had been a hearth to warm himself in front of and hot broth to stoke a fire in his belly.
Well, there’s no hot broth now, is there! There’s not much of bloody anything up here other than the prospect of a cold and lonely death!
The wind howled, whipping the snow into his face; it blew his cloak about him, making it flap like an unkindness of angry ravens. Occasionally its fierceness threatened to sweep him off the mountain path and send him spinning to his death far below. He wanted to cry, to weep in sorrow at his lot, but the tears would have only frozen on his cheeks. If he could remember the way back down the Kriega Mountains to Silverwall he would have taken it, but he was hopelessly lost. Every path looked the same up here and it wasn’t like he could even see with the thick snow flurries blinding him at every turn. Of course there was a map — there was always a bloody map — but right now it was about as much use as a paper axe.
Waylian tried to find shelter, huddling behind a rock, but the wind still screamed in his ears, still whipped through his clothes. He wrenched the pack from his shoulder and opened it. Before he looked he knew what would be in there — a damp and useless map, a single apple and half a hunk of bread. All his dried beef was gone, along with the cheese. As though to remind him he’d been an idiot for eating it all so quickly his stomach suddenly grumbled.
Waylian let out a sob. He stared hopefully into the pack again, as though he might somehow conjure more food from the ether, but there was still just that apple and the mouldy old bread. Oh, and the letter she’d given him — the little roll of paper with the wax wyvern seal. He still had that at least. Good old Magistra Gelredida.
The fucking bitch.
This was all her fault. Every bit of it. He was going to die up here, of starvation or from the cold, and it was all her bloody fault. Why had he said yes? He was no grand explorer, no kind of hero. But how could he have refused? It had been his one big chance to prove himself. His one opportunity to show her he was more than just an apprentice.
And you’ve well and truly fucked that up, haven’t you.
All at once Waylian yearned for Groffham. For the quiet life he could have led — not the silent death that was slowly creeping up on him. He yearned for that winter so long ago, when the snows had seemed so harmless, and he cursed the day he had ever been sent to the Tower of Magisters. This was where his ambition had got him: an ignominious end on a lonely mountaintop.
Well, we all get what we deserve, don’t we, Waylian Grimm.
He should have known it was never going to end well. It was written in the stars — the omens were there for him to see. The journey from Steelhaven to Silverwall had been uneventful enough, if you discounted saddle sores and a randy horse, but that had been nothing compared to what awaited him once he reached the city. Oh, it had looked impressive enough — high spires and vast walls under the shadow of the mighty Kriega Mountains — but what Silverwall possessed in splendour it certainly lacked in integrity. Or that’s what Waylian decided when three robbers stripped his coinpurse from his belt then demanded his sandals for good measure. They’d been kind enough to leave him his robe, so at least he didn’t have to suffer the shame of wandering around Silverwall’s streets naked.
Could things have become any worse after that?
Of course they could.
When Waylian had finally tracked down Crozius Bowe, he was not a stuffy scholar as he’d been led to believe, but a mad old codger, crazy as a bat. Half a day it had taken Waylian to convince the venerable loon who he was and why he was in Silverwall in the first place. He had almost been tempted to stuff the sealed letter up the man’s nose. Even after Bowe had decided to believe Waylian, he still made little sense, blithering on about ancient pacts and distant mountain keeps.
It was Bowe who’d given Waylian his altogether useless map and directions into the Kriega Mountains. He’d also given him travel advice, but Waylian had chosen to ignore that, making his way to a supply house for the requisite equipment and some sane guidance. Of course said ‘sane guidance’ had been not to travel at all. Venturing into the mountains alone was tantamount to suicide, but Waylian had been given his task and he was determined to see it through. And so, raising his chin like some fabled hero, he had set off to complete his task.
Looking back, such stubbornness had been foolish — suicidal even. Not much he could do about it now, though.
As he squatted down on the icy ledge he waited for the grumbling in his stomach to subside. It had got to the stage where he only ate if he was feeling sick or light headed. Who knew how much longer he would have to wander the mountain passes before he found what he was looking for. If he found what he was looking for. Waylian had been wandering for three days now, growing weaker, sicker and, it seemed, nowhere nearer to his goal.
When the grumbling had gone he staggered to his feet once more, clutching his cloak about him and pulling down the hood to try to shield his face from the blinding snow. It did little good, the snow seeming to fly every which way, even upwards to sting his eyes and assail his nostrils. He walked on blindly, keeping his eyes on the path in case he slipped off the edge. It was sheer luck that made him look up. Simple good fortune that he spotted the beast crouched there on an overhanging ledge.
Waylian froze, staring through the snowstorm. The thing was barely visible, but he could see its eyes watching him, two dark holes peering through the whiteness.
What should he do? Back away slowly? Turn tail and flee? Run at the beast screaming his lungs out in the hope of scaring it into flight?
No. Definitely not that last one.
The longer he stared, the more he could make out. At first he had thought it feline, like the mountain leopards of the north, but the more he looked the more it seemed a cross between wolf and bear. Whatever it was, it crouched ready to pounce, shoulders hunched, every muscle tensed.