The tale wore on for the remaining hours of daylight and much of the night that followed as they huddled in their cloaks and tried to sleep on a ledge no more than three feet wide. Once again Shamil drifted into a fitful slumber to the sound of Tolveg’s voice only to awaken come the dawn to find he had begun the story all over again, only, this time the shapeshifting three-eyed reptile had become a water nymph of astonishing beauty.

  “In the name of the four winds . . .” Shamil began through clenched teeth only for the words “shut up!” to die on his lips when Rignar clamped a firm hand to his shoulder. Meeting the mage’s eyes, Shamil found an implacable command to silence and, as they flicked towards Tolveg, a measure of pity.

  Shamil noticed it then: the small quiver to Tolveg’s voice as he spoke, the way his hands would sometimes stray to the scars on his neck, trembling for a second before he snatched them away. This was a man filled with fear, a fear that could only be assuaged by the constant recitation of his own story, real or imagined as it may be.

  So they shared a sparse meal of salted meat and resumed their climb without a word of protest as Tolveg’s saga continued. He filled the next few hours with such contradictory constancy that, when he finally fell silent, Shamil found himself halting in surprise at the sudden absence of his voice.

  They had scaled a steep, winding path to the mountain’s eastward flank, finding a stiff, chill wind to greet them that held the sting of more than just the cold. Shamil’s nostrils flared at the acrid, sulphurous taint to the air, eyes tracking to its obvious source half-a-dozen miles distant. The cloud rose in ugly billows of yellow and grey, shrouding much of the craggy ridgeline below, thinning periodically to reveal the gaping, circular fissure from which it poured.

  “The Maw,” Shamil murmured. Gazing upon something of such legendary status aroused a curious mix of emotions, from simple awe to a shameful sense of pride. With his own eyes he had beheld something few born to his homeland would ever see, but he had bought the experience at the cost of his honour. Throughout his trek north his mind had churned through various imaginings of what the Maw would actually look like, from a vast, bottomless pit to a jagged, flame-belching crack in the earth. Seeing the reality of it, he felt no sense of anticlimax, even though it amounted to just a very large hole spewing a good deal of foul smoke into the air. It was the reality of it that awed him, the inescapable fact that the entrance to the last refuge of the malign Voice actually existed. Furthermore, all other aspects of the legend were fully present.

  The jagged teeth of the Smeldthorn Mountains lay beyond the smoke, their black slopes laced in veins of glowing red lava birthed by the many volcanoes in their midst. The veins came together to form a sluggish river of molten rock that flowed down the ridge before angling south, creating a steaming, pulsing barrier between the smoking rent of the Maw and the greener lands that formed the eastern frontier of the Treaty Realms. Despite the ugly spectacle of the scene, most of Shamil’s attention was not captured by the Maw or the molten river but by the vast statue that rose from its eastern bank.

  He put its height at close to five hundred feet, the granite from which it had been fashioned rendered black by centuries of smoke from the Maw. Shamil supposed this was fitting since the woman it depicted was said to have worn dark armour throughout her many battles. Sharrow-Met, the Great Redeemed Wraith Queen, Founder and Saviour of the Treaty Realms, stood side-on to the Maw, both arms resting on the pommel of her mighty scimitar so that the giant edifice of woman and blade created a huge arch of sorts. Her features, stern with either resolve or perhaps disdain, had somehow escaped the blackening smoke and so shone pale in comparison to the rest of her massive body. Also, as Shamil’s gaze tracked over the fine cheekbones and aquiline nose, he noted they were disconcertingly familiar.

  “Don’t,” Lyvia said as he turned towards her. Unlike the statue, her features were weary rather than stern, mouth twisted in an annoyed grimace. “I’ve been hearing it all my life. So, please don’t.”

  The expression she cast at the statue was reflective rather than awed, proving a stark contrast to Rignar. The mage stared at Sharrow-Met’s stone effigy with unblinking eyes and face slack, as if the sight of her had been sufficient to banish all other thought from his head. Watching tears well in Rignar’s eyes, Shamil was reminded of something he had witnessed in boyhood, his aunt’s face the day his uncle returned from the last war against the raptorile. It had been a long war, and his uncle was no warrior, merely a potter called to serve his city at a time of direst need. Seeing her face that day when the kitchen door opened to reveal a smiling man in besmirched, dented armour, Shamil understood that she had never truly expected him to return. It was the face of a soul looking upon another that it loved absolutely.

  Shamil found Tolveg’s reaction to the sight of the statue the most curious. He stood with his face turned away and arms crossed, silent for once, but in a way that brought no sense of relief. For when Shamil caught sight of his features, he saw only the terror the northman had been striving to contain throughout their journey.

  “They say her battle mages built it in just three days,” Lyvia said, drawing Shamil’s attention back to the statue. “In their grief they joined their powers to raise up the stone and from it crafted a monument greater than all others, just to mark the place of her passing.”

  “Nonsense,” Rignar muttered, blinking as he wiped at his eyes. “Building the statue required mage power, it’s true, but it was still the work of years, not days. And she didn’t die at the cusp of the Maw.”

  This differed from every tale Shamil had ever read or heard regarding Sharrow-Met’s demise, placing Rignar at odds with a considerable body of scholarship and lore. However, the surety of his voice left little doubt that, at least in his own mind, he spoke the truth.

  “Then where did she die?” Lyvia asked, her voice coloured by a caustic skepticism.

  “No one knows.” Rignar displayed no overt offence as, with obvious effort, he tore his gaze from the statue to resume the trek. “She suffered wounds in the last charge that drove the Voice’s vile horde into the Maw, wounds that would surely have killed a lesser soul. All we know for sure is that, when the last arrow had fallen and the dust and smoke settled, she was gone.”

  “Set to wander the earth until our hour of direst need?” Lyvia asked, her tone taking on a taunting quality. “Are you a Revenantist, then? Is that why you’re here?”

  Rignar paused in the act of hauling himself up to the next ledge, his own tone one of sadness rather than resentment. “Revenantists are fanatics lost in a welter of delusion. I am not so fortunate, my lady.” He inclined his head at the path awaiting them, a series of ever more narrow pathways that resembled a zigzag pattern of scars slashed into the mountain’s side. “Shall we?”

  Tolveg said nothing for the rest of the day, something for which Shamil should have been grateful. Instead, the warrior’s silence soon began to stir an oppressive concern. He plodded at the rear of their party, his face set in a rigid mask, red-rimmed eyes distant, and offering only grunts to Shamil’s forced attempts at conversation. He took comfort from the fact that they had surely scaled two thirds of the mountain’s height by now and the Eyrie’s summit lay only one more day’s climb away. He knew enough not to expect complete safety upon reaching the Sentinels’ holdfast, but the challenges that awaited them there at least offered the prospect of restitution, something they had all travelled a great distance to claim. When they saw the fire wing, however, any hope Shamil harboured that the prospect of reaching their destination would restore Tolveg’s spirits dwindled and fluttered away on the mountain wind.

  It swept out of a nearby cloud bank without warning, its shadow passing over them before their ears detected its passage through the air. Shamil was obliged to squint into the sun’s glare to catch his first glimpse of the bird, watching the wings give a single mighty beat that sent it soaring high. Seeing it silhouetted against the cool blue of the mountain sky, Shamil felt a lurch in his heart at the sheer majesty of the beast, wings at least thirty paces from tip to tip, sunlight glittering through the feathers of its fanned tail, body the size of a warhorse.

  As the bird angled its wings to sweep back towards them, Shamil was able to discern the bright colouring of its feathers, a mix of red and gold that gave the impression of flame as they caught the sun. Shortening its wings, the bird came straight towards them at a shallow angle, allowing Shamil to make out the smaller bulk of the sentinel perched on its back. His initial glance made him wonder if it might be another bizarre creation of nature, its head seemingly deformed into something that resembled a teardrop with two black eyes peering down at them in blank indifference as the eagle streaked overhead. A helm, Shamil realised, noting the bronze sheen of the teardrop and the straps holding it in place before the eagle banked away and disappeared into the cloud below.

  The four of them stood in silent regard of the clouds until Lyvia coughed and said in a small voice, “Bigger than I thought it would be.”

  “Much,” Shamil agreed, his head filled with visions of what it might be like to ride such a creature and finding to his surprise that they stirred more anticipation than dread.

  “The fire wing is second only to the black wing in size,” Rignar said. “And there are said to be hardly any of those left.”

  Tolveg said nothing, moving to the ledge to peer down at the drifting clouds. They had reached a comparatively broad stretch of track, even featuring a few steps cut into the stone but no wall that might prevent a climber from coming perilously close to a sheer drop.

  “Tolveg,” Shamil cautioned, seeing the tip of the northman’s boot protrude over the edge, scattering gravel into the void.

  “That’s not my name,” the blond warrior said in a soft voice. He raised his head as Shamil took a step towards him. He was gratified to see the man’s terror had disappeared, his face now wearing a serene smile as his long locks trailed in the wind. “They took it from me, you see, the day they scourged me.” His hand half rose towards his neck in an echo of his habitual gesture, then paused and fell to his side. “It’s the law, the deserved fate of one who murders a kinsman. Tolveg Clearwater died, and in his place was Blood-Mad, murderer of uncles, worthy of only spit and curses.”

  Seeing Tolveg’s other boot scrape towards the edge, Shamil took another tentative step forward. “I doubt names matter much in the Eyrie,” he said, extending a hand.

  “They seemed to think I wanted to do it,” Tolveg went on, voice dimmed with puzzled recollection. “That I somehow lusted for my uncle’s death, out of . . . envy, perhaps? But why? Why would they think that?”

  “When we become sentinels, you’ll prove them wrong.” Shamil took another step, gauging the distance between them at little over three yards, too far to leap and catch him in time.

  “But I had to.” Tolveg’s gaze froze Shamil in mid-step, the serenity abruptly replaced by a desperate need for understanding. “I begged him to stop. I begged him to turn the ship back. ‘Have we not witnessed wonders enough, Uncle? Is our hold not crammed with treasure? But now it is always dark and the seas we sail bare of all save ice. Truly we have reached the limit of the world.’ But turn back he wouldn’t. He was well into his madness by then. Star-cursed my people call it, a soul lost to the lure of endless discovery. We sailed further north than any ship in all the sagas, and it still wasn’t enough.”

  He sighed, and the desperation in his face faded into sorrowful acceptance. “He gave me this the day we set off.” Tolveg’s hands moved to the buckle of his sword belt, unclasping it from his hips. “Alken-Haft, a blade fit for only the hand of a hero, or so he said.” Tolveg smiled as he hefted the sword and looked into Shamil’s eyes. “And I can see that this is no place for cowards.”

  He threw the sword at Shamil, hard enough to force him to retreat a step so he could catch it, stopping the rune-etched pommel an inch from his nose. When Shamil lowered it, Tolveg was gone.

  3

  The Eyrie

  “You could have saved him.”

  Rignar glanced briefly at Shamil’s stern, accusing visage before turning away, huddling into his cloak. “Leave it be, lad,” he muttered.

  The three of them had spent the hours until nightfall climbing in silence, eventually finding a resting place at the foot of a stone ladder cut into a sheer cliff some fifty feet high, too high and too narrow to scale in darkness. Throughout the climb Shamil had kept to the rear, hoping the mage could feel his eyes boring into the back of his skull. Shamil had seen death before, including the deaths of friends, for the Doctrinate’s lessons held many dangers, but never had he witnessed a man casting his own life away, especially when such a waste could have been prevented.

  “The pendant you carry has power,” Shamil persisted. “You have power. You could have stopped his fall . . .”

  “Some men are fated to die young,” Rignar cut in, voice dull with fatigue. “Saving him wouldn’t have changed that. Fear followed him like the stink that follows a drunkard, the fear that had cracked his mind when he murdered his uncle, the kind of fear that never fades. Better he spare others the cowardice that would surely have claimed him in battle.”

  “What do you know of battle?”

  “More than you, my young friend. Since I’ve actually seen a few.” Rignar shifted, letting out an irritated groan. “Best get some sleep. I’ve a sense tomorrow will be a hard trial for all of us.”

  But Shamil’s mind was too full of Tolveg’s serene smile to allow the comfort of sleep. He sat with his back against the first step, the northman’s sword propped between his knees. He turned it continually, watching the light of the quarter moon play on the runes engraved on the pommel. There were more on the blade itself, a remarkable thing of beauty that demanded admiration, bright and keen, the edge possessing the slight irregularity that came from the grind of a whetstone over many years. It bore only a few scratches, leaving the symbols that marked it intact, not that he could read them.

  “It’ll be a battle ode to one of their many spirit gods.”

  Lyvia gathered her cloak about her as she sat up, the keenness of her eyes indicating a similar inability to sleep.

  “Can you read it?” he asked, holding out the sword.

  She shook her head, making no move to take the weapon. “No, but I know a little of the northmen’s customs, one of which holds that touching another warrior’s sword invites a dire curse.”

  “It’s not mine.”

  “It is now. Tolveg’s last act was to gift it to you, and I’m sure he had good reason, however cracked his mind might have been.”

  They both started as Rignar let out a sharp exhalation and shuddered in his sleep. Checking his face, Shamil saw that Rignar’s eyes remained closed, but his features were drawn into a mask of deep distress. Shamil decided that the mage’s dreams must be terrible indeed to visit him with so much pain and terror. Rignar’s lips moved in a tremulous whisper, the words mostly gibberish but for a few sentences rendered near meaningless by archaic phrasing.

  “. . . I beg of thee . . .,” the mage whimpered, face bunching in fresh alarm. “. . . Hearken to thine heart . . . thou hast suffered enough . . .”

  Gradually, the words faded away, and Rignar calmed, his features slackening until snores replaced fearful whispers.

  “He’s been like this every night,” Lyvia said. “Once Tolveg finally stopped talking and fell to slumber. You slept through it all.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  She shrugged, looking away, her face becoming guarded. “I sleep little.”

  “You called him a Revenantist.” Shamil looked again at Rignar’s snoring features, thinking how unremarkable a figure he would have been but for the pendant he wore. “What is that?”

  “A cult, popular in my city until recently.” She angled her head, studying Rignar. “I doubt he’s truly one of them, though. No fanatic was ever so cynical.”

  “This cult worshipped Sharrow-Met?”

  “In a way. Their founder claimed to have received a vision of the redeemed Wraith Queen wandering the earth in revenant form, neither dead nor alive, in perpetual expectation of the day she’ll be needed. ‘When the Voice is once again heard in the Treaty Realms, the Wraith Queen will forsake her endless wandering and rise to be our salvation once more.’

  “This self-proclaimed visionary made himself quite powerful for a time, rich too, until one of his more zealous adherents decided he was in fact a fraud and put a hefty dose of poison in his wine. The cult splintered in the aftermath, lingering on in factions that seem more interested in fighting each other than proclaiming Sharrow-Met’s imminent return.”

  “Imminent return?”

  “The heartlands of the Treaty Realms are troubled, at least more troubled than the normal course of history would dictate. Once-loyal kinsmen vie for power, harvests are poor, reports of plague and famine are rife. It’s all fertile ground for any would-be prophet offering hope in the form of a long-dead legend. If she did ever deign to return, now would seem a very good time.” Her voice slipped into a whisper, face clouding as she added, “The beggared and the dispossessed will unite to follow another queen . . .”

  She blinked and stiffened, turning away to lie down, pulling her cloak over her head. “You really should keep the sword, Shamil,” she told him in a sigh. “I think Tolveg hoped you could use it to win the honour he could never regain.”

  The woman waiting to greet them at the top of the steps stood at least six feet tall, with copper-coloured hair bound in tight braids. She wore a fur cloak against the wind, which parted with the frequent gusts to reveal a leather harness covering a frame of lean muscle and, Shamil noted as he tried vainly not to let his eyes linger, more than a few scars. She gave no response to Rignar’s panted greeting as they hauled themselves up the final step, her arms crossed in silent scrutiny. Her angular visage surveyed them each in turn, lingering briefly on Shamil, longer on Rignar, and longest of all on Lyvia. Her eyes narrowed in recognition as they roved the younger woman’s face, a faintly puzzled line bisecting the scar on her brow.