Oathgold Read online

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Scenario

  Pyres of the Rangifer

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Marg hated the wind in the Grey District. It howled through the tumble-down ruins like a wraith’s lament. And perhaps it was. The dead didn’t rest easy in Frostgrave. Could be lurching closer with every moment. Marg shuddered, and drew the rough woollen cloak tight around his shoulders. He prided himself on being afraid of nothing that bled, but old bones were a different matter.

  ‘We have to get out of the wind!’

  Szalia shook her head, the snow-dusted blonde plaits dancing in the wind. She jerked her head north, past the collapsed temple-spire. Wasn’t much in the Grey District that hadn’t collapsed. Rumour had it the giants of the Northmark scavenged stone from the long-abandoned streets, and weren’t too choosy about where in the structures they stole from. Not that they’d seen a giant yet.

  Marg growled, but pressed on. Captain Paras had been quite clear who was in charge of the expedition.

  He trudged on, shoulders set, the wind’s icy fingers plucking at his clothes and casting ice spicules into his face and beard. A dozen dark shapes – Marg’s fellow blackcloaks – paralleled his course to left and right, none of them looking any happier than Marg felt. All of them watching the side streets with obvious worry.

  Marg didn’t blame them. They’d all heard tales about the Grey District. Those who came in, didn’t always come out. Like him, they’d have been happier in the southern districts, ‘persuading’ Frostgrave’s motley collection of traders, delvers and mercenaries that Captain Paras’ favour was worth a modest tribute. Risking giants and the like? Wasn’t what he’d signed on for.

  Then again, Captain Paras didn’t take kindly to his orders being questioned.

  Szalia spun on her heel, her eyes tight with determination. ‘We’re close.’

  Marg peered at the map, at the young woman’s trembling finger as it danced across a series of unintelligible lines. ‘Take your word for it, miss.’

  ‘We’re close.’ She spoke through chattering teeth. ‘Just a little farther.’

  ‘We need to rest up. I can’t feel my damn feet.’

  ‘There’s no time. You remember what he said? No delays. You want to tell him some filthy delver came in and nabbed the prize while you were sleeping by the fire?’

  Marg winced. ‘Won’t do us any good if we freeze to death, will it? ’Sides, no reason for anyone else to cotton to what we’re after. Secret died with that addled wayfarer. No one else knows.’

  Szalia’s eyes narrowed. The palest of blues, and cold as the snow. Colder, even. Too similar to Captain Paras’ eyes for Marg’s liking. ‘You prepared to stake your life on that throw?’

  Marg stomped his feet, as much to buy time to think as to get the corpuscles flowing. Not that he was hired for such.

  ‘Be reasonable, miss. Even if you’re right, we don’t know what’s waiting there, do we? Might be you want us rested and ready to fight.’

  Impossibly, her gaze grew colder still. ‘I can take care of myself.’

  That was bravado, plain and simple. Wasn’t easy to live a sheltered life in Frostgrave, but Szalia had something damn near – not that she’d ever admit it. Marg had never even seen her use the dagger scabbarded at her waist. She’d certainly not earned her keep with fist and garrotte in the alleys of Karamasz and Tindermark like he had. That poise’d vanish soon as danger closed in, no question. But until then…

  ‘Not saying you can’t,’ he replied carefully. ‘Six hours. That’s all I’m asking. Enough for a nap, and a bit of grub. Six hours can’t hurt.’

  Szalia stared down at the ice-sheathed flagstones, and gnawed thoughtfully on her chapped bottom lip.

  ‘No.’ She moved away. ‘I’m going on.’

  Marg’s fingers closed around her wrist.

  ‘Hands off!’ she snarled.

  There’d be a price to pay for crossing that line, but it was too late now. ‘Look…’

  The bellow and the rumble of stone sounded as one. A half-dozen paces to Marg’s left, a columned archway collapsed beneath a giant’s sledgehammer blow. A blackcloak’s cry of alarm died with him in an avalanche of ice and stone.

  Szalia’s truculence forgotten, Marg drew his sword. ‘Blackcloaks! To me! Bring that ugly brute down!’

  Bowstrings sang. The gusting wind dragged most of the arrows off-course. A few thudded into the giant’s blue, mottled flesh.

  The creature waved a massive hand through the air, swatting at the arrows as if they were flies. Then it stooped through the ruins of the archway and battered a blackcloak away into the snows. The giant growled in triumph and lurched around. It peered at Marg through the snows, favouring him with a broken-toothed grin.

  A wiry hand, all yellowed nails and knotted scar-tissue, snaked forward.

  ‘Keep your hands to yourself!’

  Marg leapt back, sword flashing. Bluish blood spattered across the snow. The giant roared in pain and jerked back its wounded hand – now lacking one whole finger and most of another. A big brute, and no mistake – easily twice Marg’s height, with reach to spare.

  Boots skidded on compacted ice as Marg scrambled away. He grabbed at the cracked remnant of a statue’s plinth for support. Screams echoed through the wind. A second giant appeared through the swirling snows. Then a third.

  Marg swore softly under his breath. One rotted giant was bad enough, but manageable. Two was too many. Three? That’d end badly for everyone. So much for keeping watch. Then again, an army could’ve snuck up on them in this storm. No, strike that. An army damn near had.

  ‘Miss? We’re gonna have to…’

  He turned. Szalia was gone, a thin trail of footprints leading away to the north.

  Better and better.

  A boulder the size of Marg’s chest caromed off the plinth in a spray of snow. The remains whistled past his head. A blackcloak hacked at a giant’s leg, then vanished screaming into the storm, dragged away by a blue-skinned hand.

  Marg froze, caught between loyalty and self-preservation. Self-preservation won. With four of his blackcloaks down – at least four – there was no fighting that many giants. And if something happened to Szalia? Marg would rather take his chances with the giants than report that back to Captain Paras.

  He set off at a run, following Szalia’s footprints.

  The trail doglegged west at the ruined street corner, cutting close to the rim of a frozen fountain and down a sharp hill. A giant’s bellow sounded as Marg reached the head of the incline. He caught a glimpse of his pursuer. Blood still dripped from the brute’s wounded hand. The other grasped a notched timber club tight.

  Marg redoubled his pace.

  He’d barely set foot on the incline when his feet shot out from under him. The world spun. He bounced the rest of the way in a flurry of snow and bruised flesh, tumbling from ice-slicked step to ice-slicked step and jangling every bone in his body. A jarred elbow shivered the sword from his hand. The sharp, blinding crack of his head against a balustrade marked the end of the descent.

  Marg h
auled himself groggily upright with numbed fingers. His head throbbed. His vision swam. But out beyond the balustrade, a welcome sight coalesced. A tangle of battered hulks and splintered masts, still encrusted by wind-blasted horizontal icicles. The legacy of the storm that had frozen the wide Meregile River solid, and encased the fleets Solastra-knew how long back.

  ‘I’ll be damned,’ he breathed. ‘That old devil weren’t lying after all.’

  Not that anyone lied for long once Captain Paras went to work on them. The boss had an ear for the truth, and a knack for coaxing it forth.

  Better yet, Marg caught a glimpse of blonde hair through the gusting snow. A glimpse, and no more before its owner scrambled over the frosted gunwale of a galleon with a golden figurehead and was lost to sight. Szalia. Fool girl had risked the ice. Sure, it looked solid enough, but many a drowned man might have said the same, if given voice.

  The giant’s angry bellow dragged Marg’s attention back to more immediate dangers. Ice cracked beneath the creature’s footfalls. Snow cascaded down the incline as herald to its coming.

  Snatching up his sword, Marg vaulted the balustrade and edged his way onto the frozen river.

  The ice creaked alarmingly from the first. Marg swallowed hard and pressed on as swiftly as he dared, seized of the conviction that the quicker he closed the gap to the nearest vessel, the better. Every crack, every squeak of the ice set his pulse racing, but he kept moving, more fearful of staying still than stepping deeper into the unknown.

  Details of the ships sang out as he passed between them, the baroque, squared-off hulls of Karamasz distinct alongside the elegant sloops favoured out beyond the Lost Isles. Here and there, Marg sighted men and women aboard deck – icy figures still locked in a battle begun before the storm. The wayfarer had blamed their fate on an elementalist’s conjuring gone wrong, but who knew the truth? Linger in any of Frostgrave’s taverns and you’d hear dozens of tales, few of them true.

  The ice lurched beneath Marg’s feet. Heart pounding, he spun around to see the giant striding out across the frozen river. Too stupid to know the ice wouldn’t take his weight, or too angry at his missing fingers to care.

  ‘Get away!’ Marg shouted. ‘You’ll send us both down!’

  The giant bellowed wordlessly in reply and picked up speed. The ice shuddered with the first lumbering step. A sharp crack sounded at the second.

  Marg ran for the galleon with the golden figurehead, no longer concerned with his own footfalls. Sharp, tortured snapping sounds cut through the howling storm. Black, jagged crevasses ripped through the icy hummocks. Glittering spray spat into the wind.

  Water washed over Marg’s boots, cold even through the thick leather. He jumped, gloved fingers straining for a handhold on the icy ridges crusting the galleon’s flanks.

  Away behind, the giant’s bellow rose half an octave in alarm. Still dangling, Marg twisted in time to see the fractured icy shelf upend and tip the giant into the water. The brute fought at first, thrashing as he sought to keep afloat. But the more desperately he clutched at the ice, the faster the ice broke apart. The giant surfaced once, twice… then went down for the third and final time.

  Breathless, his arms aching with exertion and his heart still hammering, Marg began the inexorable climb to the galleon’s gunwale. With every grasp, every precarious toehold, the ice threatened to slip away beneath him, pitching him onto the mass of broken platelets below. Marg held on so tight that his knuckles throbbed, and kept climbing. At last, he swung a trembling knee over the ice-sheathed gunwale, and heaved himself onto the upper deck.

  Marg collapsed on the ice-crusted timbers, lungs gulping down the chill river air. Now he was aboard, the grisly details of the galleon’s last moments stood out all the plainer. Men and women stood frozen in place, hands gesticulating in horror or held up to ward off a doom they could not escape. All were bedecked with wind-blown icicles, their pallid faces thick with gleaming crystals. Too similar to Marg’s almost-fate in the Meregile for comfort.

  ‘Szalia…?’ Marg broke off, appalled at the tremor in his voice. He swallowed, and tried again. ‘Szalia? You up here?’

  No answer.

  Here, as in the streets, the line of slender footprints betrayed Szalia’s course. Marg made his way along the deck, the accusing eyes of the dead prickling at his skin with every step.

  ‘Szalia?’

  Sword held ready, Marg followed the footprints down the first companionway. Thick sheets of ice choked the lower deck, trapping uniformed sailors and cargo alike. The trail continued down another flight of steps. Careful to keep a tight grip on both sword and guardrail, Marg pressed on into a darkened antechamber.

  Ahead, a broken door hung off broken hinges. Beyond that, shafts of murky daylight pierced ill-fitting timber to light the galleon’s hold.

  Of all the vessel’s chambers, this was the only one free of ice. An ornate chest, hooped and bound in iron, looked out of place amongst the familiar shapes of supply crates and provision sacks. But it was nothing to the golden statue of a robed warrior standing at its side, or the twisted corpses at its feet. The spired helm and layered armour plates marked it as something from very far afield indeed.

  There were at least a dozen bodies strewn across the hold, all of them clad in furs and leathers that made up traditional delver gear. Not all the same group, or at least not all had died at the same time. Some of the bodies were so shrunken as to be little more than skeletons. Others were so fresh Marg fancied he could smell them. The wayfarer had been wrong – others had known about the galleon. Chances were, Captain Paras’ prize was long gone.

  ‘He’s not going to like this,’ muttered Marg.

  A hand closed around his collar, dragging him back. A dagger’s blade kissed his throat, the steel both cold and hot with the trickle of blood.

  ‘Don’t. Move.’

  ‘Szalia? Don’t be stupid, girl. It’s me.’

  The dagger didn’t move. Didn’t even flicker. Marg stood in silence, wondering if he’d misheard. No, it had been Szalia’s voice. He’d known her too long to mistake that.

  Slowly – too slowly for Marg’s taste – the dagger withdrew. The grip on his collar loosened and Szalia stepped into sight. Strange that she looked different down here. Maybe it was the light, or the lack of. Maybe it was the fact that she’d proved beyond doubt she did know how to use that dagger. Perhaps she wasn’t so delicate a bloom after all.

  ‘What in the frozen hells were you doing, girl? You could’ve slit my throat!’

  ‘And if I’d let you walk in there, you’d be dead.’

  Marg followed her gaze into the hold, noting for the first time the bloodstains on the statue’s sword. Realisation dawned. ‘It’s a construct?’

  She nodded. ‘I can taste the enchantment from out here. Probably been guarding the chest all this time.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like the Captain’s golems.’

  ‘The Captain likes practical things. And he loves coin.’ Her lip twisted. ‘Why waste gold on a servant when stone and scrap will do just as well?... Where are the others?’

  Marg frowned. ‘Scattered or dead.’

  ‘The giants?’

  He nodded, the sudden numbness nothing to do with the cold. Deaths meant better shares for those who survived, but still… The blackcloaks were a brotherhood, brigands or not. Didn’t take noble purpose to bind men and women together – gold did that well enough, and Captain Paras wasn’t a miserly taskmaster. Sure, they’d not been friends, maybe not even comrades, but Marg would’ve needed a heart of stone not to feel something.

  ‘Some’ll have gotten clear.’ He nodded at the construct. ‘Can you command it?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Szalia. ‘I need it to wake up first.’

  ‘So why didn’t you wake it, girl?’

  ‘Enchantment’s a personal thing – I wasn’t sure I could unpick the magics before it took my head off.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘But that’s not a worry now, is it?’

>   ‘You want me to walk in there?’

  ‘I need a distraction.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’ Szalia glared at him. ‘We’ve come all this way, and you’re baulking at a little risk?’

  Marg eyed the statue. There was no way to know the construct’s limits. The corpses suggested he err on the side of caution. ‘Easy for you to say.’

  ‘Hah! So much for Marg, the fearless blackcloak!’ Her scowl deepened. ‘Which means I’ll have to do everything.’

  ‘You’d go in there?’

  ‘I don’t have a choice,’ she said, her voice suddenly distant. She shook her head, and her tongue regained its sharpness. ‘But it’s you I worry about. Say that thing chops me up into fish bait. What tale will you spin when you return without his prize? How long will it take you to die?’

  Marg closed his eyes and stifled a sigh. ‘Work fast.’

  She offered a lopsided sneer. ‘How gallant. And they say all the true knights are dead.’

  Marg bit back an unwise response and approached the threshold. All in all, he’d be well and glad to escape Szalia’s company.

  Slowly, his eyes not wavering from the statue, he picked his way through the dead. He wondered how many of them had tried this very same plan. How many had died bellowing for a wizard to shut the construct down?

  ‘Hurry up,’ hissed Szalia.

  Marg scowled and took another step towards the chest. Would there be any warning? Deciding it better to be safe than sorry, he raised his sword.

  Gold blurred. A dull chime rang out, followed by a mournful crack. Marg’s sword shattered a hand’s span above the cross guard.

  The statue’s golden sword lashed out again. Marg threw himself aside. The sword arced above his head, and shattered a provision crate.

  ‘Szalia!’

  ‘I’m trying!’

  The hold blazed with amber light as she drew on her magic, Fibrous halos of power wove about her head and hands like sparkling spiderwebs.

  The construct came on. Marg ducked beneath the blade’s inexorable swing. He saw the clubbed fist too late. Stars burst behind his eyes. When they cleared, he lay prone atop the construct’s previous victims, the golden sword stabbing down.