Frostgrave_Second Chances Read online

That settled it. Cavril was here. Whether or not Mirika’s future lay with the Gilded Rose, the Szarnos reliquary belonged with Master Torik.

  One troll lurched to a halt, dull-witted gaze sweeping back and forth across the unexpected puzzle. The other was of a more practical mind, and swung its primitive club at the nearest ‘Marcan’.

  The image shattered like breaking glass, shards dancing across the snows before vanishing entirely. The troll roared its victory, then stumbled away as an arrow thwacked into its shoulder. Mirika spotted the archer at the corner of the street, another arrow already nocked. Darrick charged past him, his battle cry unintelligible from that distance.

  ‘Yelen! Come on! We have to go.’

  Mirika’s thoughts raced as she considered their next move. They couldn’t leave at ground level without running into the growing skirmish – it didn’t matter who won, she wanted no part of that. The roof. Get up to the roof and travel to the edge of the Broken Strand that way – assuming the wind remained in abeyance. They still had a rope. They could get down into Wailing Reach without setting foot on cobbles. Yes. That would do it.

  ‘Yelen!’

  ‘I’m here.’ And she was, blankets already stuffed into their supply haversack. ‘What’s the calamity?’ Another roar sounded from below. Yelen peered out of the window. ‘Oh. You’re sure you don’t want to go down there? Take both groups on?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  One troll was reeling, an arrow in each shoulder, arms windmilling as it sought to land a blow. It fought not just Marcan and Darrick now, but Serene as well. Not that numbers availed them greatly. As Mirika watched, Darrick ducked under the flailing fist and hacked at the beast’s flank. The troll didn’t stagger. There wasn’t even any blood, the blow having wasted its force on the shaggy, matted pelt.

  The second troll had but a single opponent. Kain stood before it, feet planted in the snows with the certainty of an aged oak, bastard sword held in a duellist’s overhand stance. Where her fellows were edgy, hesitant in their blows – and with damn good reason, as far as Mirika was concerned – Kain exuded calm.

  The troll’s club came down. Kain twisted away. Not much. Just enough to avoid the blow grazing her armour. The bastard sword flashed. Blood sprayed from the troll’s forearm, the droplets freezing in the clear air.

  ‘Who is she?’ Yelen breathed, wide-eyed.

  ‘She’s too good for the Gilded Rose, that’s for sure,’ Mirika replied. ‘I wonder what she’s running from.’

  Yelen crouched. ‘And why’s this on the floor?’

  Mirika started guiltily. She dropped to her knees, scooping the reliquary back into the haversack. It was no longer warm to the touch. Perhaps it never had been. ‘I dropped it. Don’t worry, it’s fine.’

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ muttered Yelen. ‘Torik won’t blame you if it’s broken.’

  Mirika grimaced, but knew better than to take the bait. ‘We’ll go up to the roof. We can…’

  ‘… cut across from there,’ Yelen interrupted. ‘I know. I unlocked the door while you were sleeping.’

  Mirika shook her head. Two steps ahead, once again. Not bad for someone without access to the timeflow. ‘You really do think of everything, don’t you?’

  Yelen’s expression flickered with… something. ‘Not even close.’

  ‘Go on, get going.’

  ‘Me? I was waiting for you.’

  Mirika took a step towards the lopsided staircase, but some instinct held her back. Glancing out the window, she saw that a third troll had joined the fray, bearing down on Kain with single-minded determination. The first troll still held the bulk of the Gilded Rose at bay. The archer still lurked at the street corner, firing whenever a clear shot presented itself, which was seldom enough. Magnis – never really one for physical confrontation – stood close by.

  Good as she was, Mirika couldn’t see how Kain could fend off two trolls at once. Hells, even one was a challenge beyond the pale for most delvers, as the rest of the Gilded Rose were inadvertently proving. Mirika didn’t know the woman. She wasn’t sure she even liked her – the insults from Szarnos’ tomb still rung too loudly in her ears for that. But still…

  Coming to a decision, Mirika plucked a pebble from the floor. Leaning out over the window ledge, she held it at arm’s length below her, taking the measure of the new-come troll’s advance. Timing was everything, even for a time witch.

  Steady. Steady.

  At last, instinct declared the moment right. Mirika gave the pebble’s tempo a hard shove, and released it. Time flowing over it at many times the speed of everything nearby, the pebble plunged, picking up more speed as gravity’s acceleration took hold.

  It struck the top of the troll’s skull with a crack as sharp as it was brief. Frigid blood spattered the snow as the impact bored a ragged hole from the top of the beast’s lumpen scalp to the base of its spine. With a last gargled roar, it toppled face first onto the cobbles.

  Across the way, Magnis stared sharply up at Mirika’s window, a thoughtful expression on his face.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Yelen asked. ‘You’ve given us away.’

  ‘They already knew,’ said Mirika. ‘And it felt right.’

  Fingers closed around her arm. ‘It felt right? Will it feel right if Torik doesn’t get his wretched box? Come on!’

  Yelen ran for the stairs. With a last look out of the window, Mirika followed.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Yelen no longer remembered what it was to be warm. The wind howled across the maze of shattered monoliths and sunken sepulchres, slicing effortlessly through her robes. With each gust, a thousand icy needles pricked at her exposed skin. She walked hunched over, each plodding, leaden footstep following those Mirika had left behind. She seldom raised her eyes. What was the point? The path ahead lay hidden beneath the impenetrable blizzard, its fury funnelled and redoubled by the confines of the Broken Strand. Not for nothing was the sprawling grave-field known to delvers as the Wailing Reach.

  The rope around Yelen’s waist jerked once, twice. She tugged back, sending the ‘all clear’ signal into the swirling white, letting Mirika know she was still alive. Mirika could see, of course, drawing on long ago skies unchoked with clouds to pick a safe path through the graves. But the rope was necessary all the same.

  They’d learnt that the hard way six months earlier, when Mirika had taken a tumble into a sunken crypt. The memory of the long, lonely hours of searching still burned bright in Yelen’s thoughts. The rising sense of panic as time wore on, each passing minute bringing her closer to the looming reality of her sister’s death. All in her mind, of course – she’d eventually found Mirika nursing a swollen ankle in the lee of an eagle-crested memorial – but it’d been too close a call, all the same. Mirika had been less than a hundred yards away the whole time, and the worry had nearly broken Yelen.

  So how would she feel if Mirika was still delving in Frostgrave while she was leagues away in Karamasz?

  Yelen jerked to halt, paralyzed by doubt and the shadow of future guilt. The rope went taut, occasioning a querulous double-tug from deeper in the blizzard. Stifling her embarrassment, she gave the all clear, and pressed on.

  ‘You have to go,’ she muttered. ‘You have to.’

  ‘Don’t worry, poppet. You’ll always have me.’ Azzanar’s voice rang out clear above the howling wind. More proof that fate hated her.

  ‘I hope not.’

  Yelen swayed slightly as another gust caught her off-balance. Experience had taught her that she didn’t need to speak aloud for her tormentor to hear. That said, holding a one-sided conversation was less disconcerting than having the entire exchange play out inside her head.

  ‘That’s hardly kind.’ Even in the biting cold of the blizzard, Azzanar’s words maintained their syrupy warmth. ‘And after all I’ve done for you.’

  ‘If you care that much, leave me the hell alone, and slink back to wherever that idiot plucked you from.’

  ‘Sorry pop
pet. Promises were made. Blood exchanged. We’re together ’till the end, like it or not. Anyway, I’m looking forward to stretching my legs.’

  Yelen flinched as the skin at her left wrist started prickling. She scratched at it through her layered robes, already knowing the itch wouldn’t fade. Likely it was all in her head, for whatever comfort that was. ‘Your legs? Mine, you mean.’

  Azzanar laughed like a parent amused by their child’s unwitting witticism. ‘Why quibble? It’ll all be the same before long. I’ve already seen it.’

  Yelen gritted her teeth and trudged on. Azzanar often said such things as prophecy, asserting that the chime of thirteen was inevitable. Yelen didn’t believe her. The demon never had anything else to say about the future. It was just another way to wear her down. Unfortunately, ignoring the taunts didn’t discourage Azzanar in the slightest. In fact, Yelen had the horrible feeling she enjoyed the challenge – a cat enjoying the struggles of its prey.

  Distracted by anger, Yelen misplaced her footing. Permafrosted mud crumbled away from her heel, spilling away down the sheer slope to her right. She lurched to her left, flailing for balance.

  ‘We’re going to have such fun, you and I.’

  Yelen knew all too well what that meant. At the chime of thirteen, their positions would reverse – she’d be trapped in the depths of her own mind, and her body would become Azzanar’s. Torik had been clear on that – gleefully so, when Mirika wasn’t around. A favoured tactic of demon lords in ages past, he’d said. The prospect made Yelen sick to the stomach. Bad enough to die. But to stand as helpless witness to whatever Azzanar did with her body and in her name…?

  But until then, she was still in control. For whatever that was worth.

  ‘If you don’t shut up, I’ll untie this rope and throw myself into the next crevasse.’

  Azzanar laughed. ‘You’re not going to do that. Think of what it would do to your sister.’

  Yelen halted and placed a hand on the knot. ‘Try me.’

  She felt the demon coiling in her thoughts, spiralling this way and that, weighing her conviction. Not for the first time, she was glad that Azzanar couldn’t actually read her thoughts, only skim the meaning of silent conversation. Otherwise, she’d have seen that Yelen had no intention of following through with her threat.

  ‘Oh, have it your way,’ said Azzanar sulkily. Then, gloriously, she slid back into the depths.

  Yelen allowed herself a moment of exultance before pressing on. A small victory, but no less satisfying for all that. Not that it changed anything. She’d called on the demon’s help too many times. Never for trivial reasons, but that was the thing about last resorts – they cropped up more than you ever expected.

  Bowing her head against the blizzard, Yelen trudged on.

  * * *

  At last, it loomed out of the snow – Blackstena crematorium, one of the few structures still standing in the Wailing Reach. The gate was ajar, but that meant nothing. The slab of stone was broader than Mirika was tall, and twice that in height. Only a colossal might could have budged it so much as an inch.

  With a last surge of effort, Mirika waded through the deep-drifted snow, and into the gloomy interior. Wisps of snow blew in from small windows set high on the walls, but otherwise the floors were clear. Or almost so. A quick search uncovered a pile of blood-stained traveller’s furs behind one of the chipped obsidian biers. Of the traveller, there was no sign. Not even bones. But nor was there any sign of what might have done the deed.

  She made another sweep of the chamber, paying careful attention to the claw marks in the ice by the frost-locked kiln. Too large for wolves. A bear? Could be. She’d heard tell that they occasionally strayed this far south. Still, there was no sign of one now. And it was only a waystation. They wouldn’t be there long.

  Tugging three times on the rope, Mirika relinquished her time-sight. She already felt giddy from her brain trying to reconcile the light of past and present. A rest would help. So would a meal. That being the case, she busied herself setting a fire in the records room. At least, what she always called the records room. She found it easy to imagine a fussy clerk sitting behind the battered old desk, tutting at the grief of kith and kin as he scratched names off the ledger. In her mind, he was tall and thin – the very spit of the tyrant who ran the guttermarch orphanage. She hoped that he too was long dead.

  Yelen arrived just as the fire caught hold. Mirika held her tongue at her sister’s bow-legged and staggered gait, comical though it was – not out of politeness, but out of certainty that she looked every bit as ridiculous.

  ‘Any sign of the Gilded Rose?’

  Yelen planted herself beside the fire, gloved hands rubbing life back into her cheeks. ‘You’re joking. I couldn’t even see you. Darrick could have been stomping away a pace behind me all across that last ridge, and I wouldn’t have known. But I think they’ve more sense to be out in this.’

  Mirika shot her a wry smile. ‘Not like us?’

  ‘Not like us.’

  By the time the billy can had been fetched from the depths of Yelen’s haversack, and fresh snow from the frozen wastes outside, Mirika was feeling almost warm. Almost. It took half a mug of sour chanin tea to chase the rest of the cold away. Propping herself up against the desk, she wolfed down a mouthful of bread and drew in a lungful of the smoky, bitter chanin steam. The smell alone held back the howl of the wind, evoking memories of comfortable evenings in more pleasurable climes. A little too much so, in fact.

  ‘You’re sure you didn’t use too many of the leaves,’ she asked. ‘I don’t want to start seeing things.’

  There were plenty of hedge wizards in the frozen city who overindulged in chanin precisely because they wanted to start seeing things. But doing so while trapped in a blizzard on the Wailing Reach was hardly the place to try that. Not unless you wanted to separate mind from body permanently.

  Yelen rubbed her hands together and held them, palm outward, towards the fire. ‘Relax, we’re well under the limits. At least, providing you don’t drink all of it.’

  Wincing, Mirika reluctantly handed the mug across the fire. ‘Be like that. I’ll have it all to myself when you’re gone.’

  Yelen froze mid-reach, her fingers inches away from the cup. A chasm yawned open at the base of Mirika’s gut. She’d meant the words as a joke, to soften the prospect of a parting that might only be days away. But in addressing the idea aloud, all she’d done was to reinforce the reality to come. Judging by the stricken look on Yelen’s face, they’d awoken a similar revelation in her.

  ‘I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…’

  Yelen shook her head, and drew back her hand. ‘It doesn’t matter. Finish the tea. I’ll make some more.’

  Mirika twitched the mug. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Drink it.’

  Yelen hesitated. Then she took the mug and cradled it in both hands. ‘Wouldn’t kill you to think before speaking from time to time, you know?’ A smile softened the harshness of the truth.

  ‘That’s what I’ve got you for, remember? I handle the bold action, and miraculous escapes. You do the worrying, and the thinking.’ She shrugged, grinning at her own pomposity. ‘It’s worked out nicely so far.’

  ‘I guess so.’ Yelen raised the battered tin mug, tilting it slightly towards Mirika. ‘To the Semova sisters – a selfish pair, but there’s not a delver to match them.’

  So saying, she knocked back a mouthful of tea.

  ‘I can’t return the toast without the mug,’ Mirika observed.

  ‘Or without tea,’ Yelen observed, upending the vessel. Empty. ‘I’ll let you make some more.’

  Shaking her head, Mirika trudged back to the doorway and stuffed the billy can with snow. The world beyond was awhirl with snow, so much so that she could barely see the two sentinel statues guarding the entrance. Yelen had walked all this way, seeing so little? Sometimes Mirika forgot what it was like not to have time-sight at your beck and call.

  She stood there a while long
er, imagining dark shapes amongst the white. Where were the Gilded Rose? There were only two or three safe paths through the Wailing Reach, so the odds were good that Cavril and his minions were even now closing the distance. Possibly, he’d even split up his expedition to follow all three routes. In which case, pursuit was certain. Something had to change.

  Not that Yelen would like what she had in mind…

  * * *

  Yelen awoke, blinking to clear her thoughts and her eyes. She lurched to a sitting position, the bed creaking as her weight shifted. The smooth, ice-clad stones of the Blackstena crematorium had vanished, replaced by the buckled timbers of her attic room in the Guttered Candle.

  She rubbed at her eyes with her palms. ‘Mirika, what have you done now?’

  Was it a trick? Payment for the thing with the tea? That would be childish even by Mirika’s standards. Yelen didn’t even know if such a thing could be done – erasing the long, cold walk from her mind by meddling with tempo and timeflow. Oh, she’d suffered similar pranks when they were younger – relived brief moments, as vibrant the second time as the first, only to be snapped out of it by her sister’s mischievous grin. But to vanish a whole day? At least, Yelen hoped it was only a day. What she remembered of the hike across Wailing Reach promised a long, fraught journey.

  Fire kindled in the pit of Yelen’s stomach. Whatever Mirika had done, she was damn sure her sister didn’t know what the consequences might be. ‘Mirika!’

  There was no answer. In fact, the whole tavern – seldom a place of riotous activity – seemed unusually quiet.

  Pushing off from the bed frame, stooping low as ever to avoid bashing her head on the bowed beams, Yelen pulled on moth-eaten furs that served as her night robe, and made her way towards the door.

  Halfway across the room, something caught her eye – a glint of light in the cracked mirror-pane. Frowning, Yelen changed course, running her fingers across the squat chimneybreast, her nails skipping and tugging across the uneven stones. Something wasn’t right about the room, though she couldn’t decide exactly what. Everything was in its proper place. The shelves holding her few meagre books. The statuette of Solastra she’d pilfered from that belligerent drunk down by the river wharf. The battered trunk housing her spare clothes. And, of course, the mirror itself; jagged and cracked, its edges chipped and discoloured.