Chapter Thirty-Two - The Storm

Cal stood over the dead Brother, staring at the doorway, panting.

Had anyone heard? He craned his ears, trying to hear anything over the sound of his heart. The wind howled suddenly over the tent, rushing out through the rippling canvas, and thunder rumbled against the Teeth, loud as angry gods. But nothing else stirred, and the tent flap stayed closed.

Cal took a deep breath. He stared at the dead Stranger, face down in the dirt. Blood was leaking into the stones around its head, drooling out of the black hood. Dark blood. Black blood. He set down the stone, and reached out, slowly turning it over. The metal mask rolled upwards into the lamplight, frozen and staring. Cal leaned closer, and took hold of it with trembling fingers, pulling it away.

He fell back across the stones, gasping. The face beneath was old. Older than anything had any right to be, mottled all over like an old scar, torn with deep, grey creases, rotting at the edges. The nose had worn away almost to nothing, and the lips were stripped thin as paper over blackened teeth. Eyes, frozen, staring up at nothing. Balls of jet, black from edge to edge.

Cal scrambled back up to his feet. He backed away, head spinning, until his back thudded into the pillar of stone behind him. He squinted, panted, tried to breathe, staring down at it with eyes wide as dinner plates. Not a man at all. Not anymore. Brothers were men. Same as he was. The maddest bard wouldn’t sing otherwise. But this was no man. It didn’t belong here. He thought about what the Old Man had told him. There was magic beyond the mountains. The bloodiest kind. He stared down at the rotting face, the jet-black eyes. Bonemen.

Blood magic.

He shook his head, dragging his eyes away. Magic? Just a fancy. Something for Godry’s whispers after a few too many ales at the Nest, for villagers to gawp at over the fire, to help them forget they were half-freezing and hungry as dogs. He’d heard all the tales. All of Godry’s. All of the Old Man’s, too. Of Chosen, and gods, and magic. He wasn’t sure what he had thought of them, exactly, but he’d never believed them. There was no such thing as magic, anymore. And if there was magic once, it was long gone.

But then he heard the voice again. The whisper sliding into his blood, louder than the wind. He blinked, and the dead boneman stared back, eyes black as a shadow. A Stranger. Brothers were men, same as everyone else. He knew they were.

Where is he?

Cal shook his head till his skull rattled, glancing back at the tent flap. Still no sound. There was no time for this. He had to move. He snatched the strange, curved dagger up off the table where it had fallen. It was heavy in his hand, cold, and the alien words on the blade had faded to a dull grey in the flickering lamplight. He couldn’t recognise the letters. The wind howled over the top of the tent, and thunder rumbled through his feet. Getting closer. He knelt down beside one wall, setting the tip of the blade to the canvas. It cut easily, silently, opening a narrow slot in the base of the tent, and he peeked out through the gap, blinking. Rain streaked down across a black sky, and wind tore it like tiny spears across the maze of ruined black stone around the old stormtower. Beyond, the pines bent and groaned in the gale, roots gnawing at the shale. It wasn’t far. Thunder roared, and lightning set white fire in the sky. He couldn’t see any of the Brothers.

He let the flap fall closed. There wasn’t an inch of him that didn’t hurt. His skin was flayed close to bleeding. His ribs groaned with the slightest movement. His head ached. Everyone else was dead. But he was still alive. He tucked the dagger into his belt, taking a deep breath. He looked back once, over his shoulder, at the dead thing with its hideous black eyes, limp in the stones, surrounded by a little pool of dark blood. Then he turned away and began to crawl, out through the narrow slit, into the dark. Into the breaking storm.

Still here.

*

Winter had arrived, and a storm was coming.

Black clouds thundered and rolled across the hills, and lightning rent the distant sky like fire. Trees whipped back and forth in the gale, groaning, shaking with the rain. The stones paid it no heed. They had fallen long before, towers that belonged to another age. Half-remembered. Crumbled to dust. They knew the touch of thunder, forged in the cracking and rolling of the sky. It was their ally, not their enemy. This was a place of wind, of ice and stone. A place where hard men were carved like statues from the rock, granite-toothed and snarling. Darkness reigned, and black clouds blocked out the moon. What does darkness care, for the watcher?

But the game was afoot. A storm was coming, and when the lightning flashed, it glimpsed movement, still, shadows sliding across the broken ground. Masks, floating over the shale, grinning at the veiled stars, pale steel in their black hands. Pacing. Watching. Waiting. But not alone. There were other pieces moving. The board had players, yet. Creeping. Crawling through the rocks, out of sight. Men made of granite. Men filled with fire. Was he watching them, or amongst them? He could not be sure.

Then the light vanished again, and darkness reigned, though the pieces moved still, leaves in a gale, tossed and turned by the indifferent wind.

*

Cal blinked, eyes full of rain.

He was on his hands and knees, and shale bit at his skin. Spiral pillars of stacked stone stabbed up out of the dirt around him, jet black and slick with water. The wind roared, tearing at the rocks, and somewhere ahead, the trees whispered.

Cal gritted his teeth, and began to crawl. His shoulders groaned, strained, burned, and the stones cut at his hands and knees like razors. He was half-blind from the rain, and the dark was thick as water. But he was alive. He inched his way over the jagged ground, heart pounding like a drum in his ears. Behind him, torchlight was moving between the ragged black tents. How long before they came looking for him? How long before they found their master dead in the stones? He would be seen, he was sure, crawling away through the ruins. Any moment, now. Dragged screaming back into the lamplight. Blood for blood. There was a debt to be paid. Darkness had called. It was waiting for its answer.

The wind howled, and thunder cracked the sky. Lightning flashed, and he froze, pressing himself into the stones. Shadows lurched through the ruins, clawing at his dead-numb flesh. Had anyone seen? He held his breath. But the shadows had no faces. No masks leering from the dark. He blinked, and the gloom rushed back in. Moving again. He’d seen the trees. Just for a moment, but it was enough. He knew the way. Once he was in the pines, no one would catch him. No one knew these hills like he did.

So he dragged himself on across the broken rock, every inch of his body screaming with effort. His broken ribs creaked, stabbing at his guts, and his shredded skin burned like fire. He gritted his teeth, tasted bile, and his skull throbbed. The wind howled in his ears, dragging soaking hair over his cheeks. The storm was almost on him. Overhead, the angry black clouds twisted like knotted rope, spitting stinging water out over the hills. Lightning flashed again, and thunder shook the stones beneath his fingers, shaking loose the shale. Again, he hid, and again, it vanished, and on he went. Stumbling. Creeping. Crawling. Keeping to the shadows of the jagged stones, squinting pale-eyed into the dark. Every shape became a mask, every flash of wet-slick stone a dagger in the rain-drenched gloom. His heart raced in his ears. He looked down at his hands. Little lines of blood were dripping over his fingers, stinging with rain. The Old Man stared at him over the flames, and the Blacksmith was watching him from the shadows. Always watching. The thunder hummed on the air, and the rocks beneath his feet vibrated, shifting. Then he blinked, and they were still again.

Lightning flashed again, and Cal froze. There was someone there. Just a few feet ahead of him. A man in black, robes flapping in the wind. His breath caught in his throat. But the Brother was facing away, staring outward. Towards the trees. Cal threw himself out of the open, pressing his back against one of the pillars. Behind him, torchlight was whipping in the wind, tracing lurching shadows across the canvas of the darkened tents. Another rod of lightning, spearing out of the reeling clouds. The ruined tower gleamed black against a flaming sky, and thunder throbbed through his skull, setting his teeth grinding. He peeked out again at the Brother behind the pillar, staring away into the writhing pines. Not looking for him. Watching for… What was he watching for? Cal stared back at the torchlight behind him. Masks moving through the stones. He had to move. Now.

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He took a deep breath, slipping the strange dagger out of his belt and into his palm. It was cold against his skin. Heavy as stone. He stepped out from behind the rock, and was halfway to the Brother in a moment, feet floating silently over the broken ground. Lightning flashed, thunder boomed, and for a moment he was exposed, silhouetted against the night. Then darkness swept back in, and he stepped forward, thrusting the blade through the Brother’s back. Steel scraped on bone, and the man crumpled, dead, heart gaping. Cal blinked down at the body. There was blood on the blade, and the strange writing gleamed hot in the dark. The mask stared up at the sky, cracked from the fall, and pale skin flashed wetly beneath it. Smooth. Blood trickled from its lips. Red blood. A man’s blood. Cal stared at it. Just a man. Just a man.

Still here.

He was moving again, slipping, staggering over the broken rock. He could see the trees ahead, closer now. The wind howled, thunder boomed, and lightning flashed like fire. Behind him, footsteps in the stones, torches, reeling like wildfire.

‘He’s gone!’

Cal didn’t look back. He couldn’t. Staggering, stumbling, falling. Stones bit at his skin. Footsteps stamped over the shale, chased by the wind. Heart pounding in his ears. They were coming for him. Masks leered out of the dark, steel flashing in their black hands. The maw of the tower opened up to take him again, blacker than night. He couldn’t go back. He wouldn’t. Not again. Lokk looked back at him, terror frozen in his dead eyes.

Cal.

A shape lurched at him from the stones on his left, flashing silver. Cal screamed, slashing at it with the dagger, and it sagged away into the dark, spraying blood. He didn’t stop. Staggering, slipping. The rain filled his eyes, blinding him. Trees blurred. Lightning flashed, and thunder split the sky, rattling his teeth in his skull. He could feel the torches licking at his heels, black hands clawing at him. Voices were shouting, calling, taunting him on the wind. The rocks raced past him in a blur. The world spun and reeled, whipping about him in the gale. The storm was almost on them. He groaned, grit his teeth, stumbled, kept his feet. Another shape spat out of the black stones, and he ducked under its flailing arms, shoving the dagger into its gut. The blade caught, tearing from his fingers, and he was away again, spinning into the rain.

‘Get him!’

The torchlight was flickering around his feet now. He could hear them. Feel them. Behind him. Dozens of them. Ahead, the trees reared up out of the storm. So close, now. But the Brothers were almost on him. He dodged, spun, staggered through pillars of ruined stone. Caught his shoulder on a rock, twisted spinning into the shale. Stumbled to his feet. Running, falling, lurching. His body screamed at him, stabbing at his chest, his back, his skull. His heart throbbed in his ears, deafening him. Another mask lurched out of the dark, and a blade stabbed for him. Cal tried to spin away, screaming, but it was too late. The world slowed, and the blade slipped silently through the frozen rain, dividing it piece by piece, creeping towards his chest.

Lightning forked down out of the blackened sky, and thunder shook his bones. One of the pillars groaned beside them, cracking, breaking. The masked man looked up once, grinning madly, then dissolved into red mist, squashed flat by the falling stones.

‘Get him!’

Cal drove on, reeling. The trees were close. The darkness was waiting, between the pines. Just a few more steps. Torchlight surged at his back, licked at his heels. The rain stabbed stinging out of the sky, and the wind howled in his ears. Just a little further. But the masks were all around him now. A black face reared up out of the dark in front of him, and he stabbed at it. But his hands were empty, scrabbling weakly at black robes. He tried to fall back, confused, but the mask just grinned back at him, drawing back its hand.

Cal.

Something hot seared over his brow, and he sprawled sideways into the stones, spinning. The shale clawed at his skin, and thunder cracked the sky. There was blood in his eye. And pain. Lightning lurched over the ruins, and the Brother loomed over him, black against the flaming sky. There was a knife in its hand. The torchlight was almost on him. Black shapes were all around him, surging out of the rock. No way through, now. The trees whirled beyond a line of torches. The world spun, reeled, howled. The knife was falling.

Then the Blacksmith was there. Thunder cracked, grey steel slashed, and hot blood sprayed across the stones. The Brother slumped headless into the rocks. Cal blinked, and the torchlight faltered. The Blacksmith’s hand was on his shoulder, and, for a moment, he feared nothing.

‘Come.’

The Blacksmith hauled him to his feet. There was a sword in his hand, dark, grey, shining, and the scar beneath his black beard gleamed. The masks were all around them. In the stones, the rain. Spilling from the trees. But the Blacksmith’s hand was steady. Cal’s eye burned, full of red water. Torchlight spat and spun through the black rock, and lightning flashed like fire.

‘Cal!’

Cal stumbled, staggered forward, and the Blacksmith held his arm, dragging him on. A Brother flew at them from the torchlight, and grey steel flashed, cutting him in two.

‘Get them!’

On, on. Surging through the gale. The storm was almost on them. Cal’s world spun, blurred, cracked. Lightning forked down into the ruin, and stone showered down with the rain, splintered by thunder. The ruined tower was ahead of them, black against the fiery sky. Another shape lurched from the shadows, and again the Blacksmith’s grey blade flashed, shearing through bone.

‘Keep them away from the tower!’

Fire speared out of the clouds, and a ruined pillar beside them burst in a cloud of shattered rock. Cal’s ears rung like bells. The air was alive. Off to their right, lightning crashed against one of the black tents, and it exploded in a plume of pale flame. The masks were all around them, clawing, reaching, bleeding, dying. But the Blacksmith never let go of his arm. His cloak streamed out around them madly, and his blade flashed, driving the masks back. Cal’s feet dragged weakly, desperately, and terror filled his blood with ice. His head ached. His eye burned. His bones were on fire.

‘Quick!’

More masks. More blood. Thunder crashed out of the sky, and pillars crumbled, burst at the seams. The tents were all burning now, bleeding fire into the dark. The angry sky roiled and burst and cracked with flame. Cal staggered on. Into the dark, ruined tower before them, and the shadow of the Teeth loomed over it, black as pitch. The ground was flatter, here. There was blood on the stones. Old blood. Lokk stared back at him, wide-eyed, frozen. The Blacksmith stopped, pushing Cal down into the dirt.

‘Stay down.’ he told him. The torchlight was at his back, coming closer. For a moment Cal was staring up at him, and he was staring back. Black eyes flashing, bald head slick with rain, cloak flowing in the gale. Scar gleaming beneath his beard.

Then he straightened, turning back to face the flames. The masks flooded in after, surrounding them. A ring of torchlight, licking, hissing in the rabid wind. But the Blacksmith was waiting for them. Tall as a mountain, hard as stone, and the blade in his hand gleamed grey and hot in the storm-light. Black faces lurched out of the torches, screaming, snarling, tearing at him, and screaming they fell, bloody and dying.

‘Get him!’

The storm was breaking. Lightning flashed, and thunder split the sky. Cal pressed himself back against the rocks. His head ached, fit to burst, and his eye burned, vision blurred, world spun. He put a hand to his eye, and it came away red with blood. There was something gleaming beside him in the stones. Something grey and wet with rain. He blinked. He’d seen it before but… he could not remember. The Old Man watched him over the flames, unmoving.

‘Kill him!’

The lightning cracked against the ruined tower, and the ancient stone groaned. Rock showered down into the ring of writhing robes, and Brothers fell with it, screaming into the shale. The masks grinned, the Stranger hissed, and the sound of it slid icy into his blood. It was dead. By his hand. He’d seen it.

Where is he?

Masks were everywhere, clawing at them, and the Blacksmith’s grey blade was ready, piling heaps of bloody dead in the stones. Stronger. Faster. There was blood on his cloak, and his eyes were full of terrible fire. Not a man at all. Cal’s headed throbbed, eyes blurred. He was on his feet again. Half-blind. He had to help him. There were too many. A Brother lurched towards him, and he knocked it spinning back into the torchlight. There was blood on his fingers.

‘Stay down!’ the Blacksmith roared at him, but Cal barely heard him. Another Brother flew at him, snarling, and he doubled him over with a boot to the gut, throwing him sprawling into the dirt.

‘Cal!’

The world spun, reeled, blurred. Thunder cracked, lightning forked down out of the broken sky, and the roar fell away around him. His body burned. His head ached. The torchlight stopped twisting. The masks fell still. The sound of his heart filled his ears. One of them was coming at him in the dark. A blade reaching out to take him. Cal watched it come, frozen. Everything was still. Beating to the sound of his blood.

Then the Blacksmith was there. The mask crumpled wordlessly into the gale, and the blade vanished. Cal blinked. For a moment, the Blacksmith was frozen, tall as the mountains, standing alone against the raging storm. Tall and brave and secret. Then he slid sideways into the dirt, a bloody hole in his chest.

No.

Cal was on his knees beside him. Cradling his head in his lap. The Blacksmith’s broad frame was slumped, empty, and his coal-black eyes looked suddenly very tired. Tired beyond words. There was a scar on his cheek. Silver. Others, too, he saw now. Others he had never seen. On his arms. On his back, gleaming through the slashed black shadow of his cloak. There was blood trickling from his mouth, dripping through the silver lines of his black beard. The torchlight swirled all around them, surging, snarling, waiting. Cal barely saw it. He stared down at the Blacksmith, and the silence filled him with cold.

No. He heard himself saying. ‘You can’t…’

Lightning flashed, but no sound came with it. The Blacksmith’s dark eyes stared back at him, mouth set, hard. He reached out, pressing something cold into Cal’s hand, closing his fingers around the hilt.

‘You… You can’t…’

Flames whirled, lightning flashed, and the sky writhed against the stars.

‘What…’ the Blacksmith murmured. He stared up at Cal, holding his hand closed about the hilt of the sword. ‘… is our word?’

His eyes stared up at Cal for a moment, frozen. Then his head sagged back, and his hand fell away. The world reeled, blurred, spun. Cal’s eyes burned with tears, with blood, and his breath caught, choking him. Fire spat out over his shoulders, and masks clawed at the stones around him, reaching. His ears rung. His head ached. His blood burned. Beside him, the ruined stormdrinker gleamed, humming, and the sky licked at it, fit to burst. The Blacksmith lay across his knees. Pale. Empty. And there was a sword in his hands. Grey as stone.

‘Get the boy!’

Only a storm can break the dark.

Thunder crashed overhead, and lightning cut the sky. The wind roared in his ears. There was blood on the stones. His blood. Lokk’s blood. The Blacksmith’s blood. His head throbbed. His eyes blurred. The storm was breaking. The masks were everywhere. Closer. Closer. Reaching out to take him. To end it. The Old Man stared back at him, watching. Always watching. The broken rocks were vibrating, lifting out of the dirt, and the fallen stormdrinker was gleaming like flame. Silence swallowed him, thick as silver. His flesh was on fire, and his breath filled his ears. He blinked.

The air shimmered, then broke, and fire filled the sky.