We sat together for a time while Stevan gurgled and fidgeted until sleep took him. It was as I watched his small mouth draw breath, wondering if the shape of his lips favoured me or Evadine, that I heard Uthren’s loud snort of warning.

  “Up!” I snapped to the scouts, disentangling myself from Juhlina and reaching for my sword.

  “Where?” Tiler asked, busily winding his crossbow while the scouts armed themselves. “Who?”

  Looking to Uthren, I saw the great horse standing in tense regard of a dense patch of forest on the edge of the clearing. He snorted again and trotted forward, breath steaming in the cool night air.

  “Adlar,” I called to the juggler as I led the others in the paelah’s wake, “stay with Juhlina.”

  The scouts fanned out to either side as we followed Uthren into the trees. He drew up short after only a few paces, letting out a low rumbling whinny, the muscles of his massive body tensing. “No bugger here,” Tiler muttered, squinting as he peered into the confusion of shadows, primed crossbow at his shoulder.

  For a creature that had once carved a bloody swathe through an entire army, the Eithlisch was indeed hard to spot that night. When I made out the shape of his cowled form, slumped and still atop a fallen pine trunk, my heart took on a far more rapid beat. Tiler noticed him a moment later, jerking in surprise and finger tightening on the crossbow’s lock until I clapped a hand to his arm, sternly shaking my head.

  “I thought you’d gone home,” I said to the Eithlisch, forcing my voice to an even temper I didn’t feel.

  His cowl swayed a little, a soft sound emerging from its shadow. “Home,” he repeated. “A word with scant meaning for me now.”

  “What do you want?”

  He gave no immediate answer, instead getting slowly to his feet. Uthren emitted more rumbling as the cowled giant came closer. Sensing the tension, the scouts began to draw their steel, halting when I barked out an order to stop.

  “You know what I want, Alwyn Scribe,” the Eithlisch said, coming to a halt. He was not the size he had been on the field at Castle Ambris, but even now he cut an impressive powerful figure. “The child. Give him to me.”

  The fear that had been building in my breast abruptly shifted to fierce, unflinching anger. “No,” I stated, hand moving to my sword.

  “You know he cannot stay in your care.” The Eithlisch took another step forward and I saw his fists clench. “The vaerith in his blood is too potent.”

  “My son stays with me.” Slowly, purposefully, I drew my sword, provoking the other scouts to follow suit. “That was the Doenlisch’s wish, as it is mine.”

  “So you claim. But I hear her voice not.” Another step, a definite swelling in his shoulders accompanied by the sibilant grind of muscle and sinew expanding. “Did she perish in the fire? Did you watch her burn?”

  “I know not where she is, or if she still lives. A creature such as her may not even be capable of death. But I do know her heart, and it rests with my son in my hands.”

  “You are not worthy.” His words had a strangled quality now, mangled by the swelling of his neck and jaw. “Of her heart, or the child. Give him to me!”

  He lurched forward then, massive hands outstretched as I raised my sword and Tiler unleashed his bolt. It tore the fabric of the Eithlisch’s cloak but careened harmlessly off the flesh beneath. Before I could deliver what I knew would be a similarly useless thrust at the fast-approaching monster, Uthren let out a vast, ear-straining whinny then leaped into the Eithlisch’s path. The great horse reared, hooves flashing close to the monster’s head. The Eithlisch snarled in return, his cowl drawn back to reveal features even more bestial than the feral mask displayed in the thick of battle. I understood then that this creature had never been fully human, that he existed in a state between nature and man. His true face was this teeth-baring, roaring thing of the wilds.

  The mingled cries of the two beasts faded as they faced each other, Uthren tensed and ready for combat while the Eithlisch slowly lost his snarl. His features subsided into a dark, resentful version of the previous sculpted smoothness. Turning to me, he straightened, his form losing its swell until once again he appeared almost the man he pretended to be. Uthren gave another snort then, shifting his massive head to meet my eye, blinking once before turning and trotting to the Eithlisch’s side, swishing his tail in impatience.

  Uthren’s actions made one thing very clear, at least. “She lives,” I told the Eithlisch. “Somewhere. Though I know not whether you and I will ever see her again.”

  “She was always a mystery to me,” the Eithlisch said. “But nothing so mystified me more than why, with all the world to choose from, she chose you.”

  Fixing his cowl in place once more, he climbed on to Uthren’s back, the great horse immediately spurring forward, bracken cracking and earth rising as he carried his prisoner away, lost to the gloom of the forest in a few heartbeats.

  “Din Faud owns the entire island?” I asked, peering ahead at the towering city looming out of the morning haze. The sea was placid, the Sea Crow’s sails stirred by a gentle breeze that carried us towards harbour. The reflection of the great metropolis shimmered in the swell, adding to a palpable sense of majesty. Houses, shops, temples and towers appeared to cover every foot of the island’s conical, mountainous form, save for the summit which consisted of bare rock. As the ship drew closer, I saw the mountain was crowned by a tall statue, a womanly form with the head of an eagle, her arms outstretched as if delivering a blessing to the city below.

  “In spirit if not in fact,” Toria replied. “He ran the streets of Lesturia as an unloved orphan until he grew old enough to get himself on a ship. He doesn’t talk about his boyhood much, lot of dark memories I think. In truth, I’m not sure if he hates or loves the place, but it was always his passion to rule it. And so, thanks to the riches brought to him by his beloved, if adopted daughter, he does. They have an official ruler, the Satrapine of something or other, but it’s just ceremonial. As with most places, it’s the hand that wields the fattest purse that holds power here.”

  “And you’re sure he’ll welcome us?”

  Toria glanced over her shoulder at her passengers crowding the foredeck. Juhlina bounced Stevan in her arms, his eyes agog at the spectacle of Adlar juggling no fewer than seven daggers at once. Tiler and the scouts sat close by, sharpening their blades and casting narrow glances at Toria’s crew. The weeks at sea had done little to assuage the former outlaw’s ingrained suspicion of those who once shared his proclivities. I didn’t fault him for it, in fact I welcomed his suspicion. He and the rest of my much diminished company had taken on the charge of protecting my son. It would be the work of years, yet none had shirked it.

  “My word carries a good deal of weight with him,” Toria said. “But he’ll need to know the truth. About the boy. About all of it. He’s a bit like you, y’see? Got an irksomely keen ear for untruth.” Noting the doubt lining my brow, she jostled my shoulder. “Don’t fret. You’ll find a home here.”

  I saw how her eyes lingered on Stevan, as if she were looking for some sign of his mother. I knew the look well, for I had seen it on Juhlina’s face too.

  “I’d best be about it,” Toria said. “Got some orders to shout, mostly for appearances’ sake. You can’t take a ship into harbour without a lot of shouting. It’s expected.” She strode away across the deck, casting a series of commands into the rigging which appeared to occasion little change in the tasks of the sailors labouring among the masts.

  Moving to Juhlina, I took Stevan from her and turned his face towards the approaching island and its remarkable city. He appeared to find it less fascinating than Adlar’s tricks, however, sticking his fingers in his mouth with a gurgle. I also often looked for a resemblance when gazing upon this face, and, on occasion, found it in the shade of his eyes. Dark like hers, sometimes baffled too, as she had been before the feather took her life. She didn’t know. Even at the end, she didn’t know.

  I pushed the memory away with a habitual grimace, something I suspected I would be doing for the rest of my life.

  “This is home,” I told Stevan, pressing a kiss to his head. “Here, you will grow of age, with a mother and a father. Here, no one will beat you, or cast you out into the cold woods, or force you to steal and murder. And, should anyone in this world ever try to do you harm, I’ll kill them.”

  Stevan gurgled again, squirming in my arms and slapping a small, wet hand to my face while I laughed and wondered how it could be that I could ever deserve to feel such joy.

  But, I hear you ask, what of his name? What name did you choose for your son, Alwyn Scribe? Is it a name I have heard? To which I answer, yes, I fancy that it is. But this portion of my testament is now at an end, and my son’s name and all that goes with it, is, dearest, most gentle and beloved reader, a tale for another time.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Many thanks to all those who helped bring the testament of Alwyn Scribe to a conclusion. Special thanks to my agent Paul Lucas, my editors James Long and Bradley Englert, and my most enthusiastic critic Paul Field.

  Discover Your Next Great Read

  Get sneak peeks, book recommendations, and news about your favorite authors.

  Tap here to learn more.

  extras

  meet the author

  Ellie Grace Photography

  ANTHONY RYAN lives in London and is the New York Times bestselling author of the Raven’s Shadow and Draconis Memoria series. He previously worked in a variety of roles for the UK government, but now writes full time. His interests include art, science and the unending quest for the perfect pint of real ale.

  Find out more about Anthony Ryan and other Orbit authors by registering for the Orbit newsletter at orbitbooks.net.

  if you enjoyed

  THE TRAITOR

  look out for

  THE LOST WAR

  Book One of The Eidyn Saga

  by

  Justin Lee Anderson

  Justin Lee Anderson’s sensational epic fantasy debut follows an emissary for the king as he gathers a group of strangers and embarks on a dangerous quest across a war-torn land.

  The war is over, but the beginnings of peace are delicate.

  Demons continue to burn farmlands, violent mercenaries roam the wilds, and a plague is spreading. The country of Eidyn is on its knees.

  In a society that fears and shuns him, Aranok is the first mage to be named king’s envoy. And his latest task is to restore an exiled foreign queen to her throne.

  The band of allies he assembles each have their own unique skills. But they are strangers to one another, and at every step across the ravaged land, a new threat emerges, lies are revealed, and distrust threatens to destroy everything they are working for. Somehow, Aranok must bring his companions together and uncover the conspiracy that threatens the kingdom—before war returns to the realms again.

  “An eclectic cast of characters traverse a war-ravaged kingdom as Anderson’s cleverly constructed plot winds its way toward a truly unexpected denouement. Rich in action and intrigue, this fantasy adventure with a Scottish flavor is sure to please fans of David Gemmell.”—Anthony Ryan

  Chapter 1

  Fuck.

  The boy was going to get himself killed.

  “Back off!”

  Aranok put down his drink, leaned back and rubbed his dusty, mottled brown hands across his face and behind his neck. He was tired and sore. He wanted to sit here with Allandria, drink beer, take a hot bath, collapse into a soft, clean bed and feel her skin against his. The last thing he wanted was a fight. Not here.

  They’d made it back to Haven. This was their territory, the new capital of Eidyn, the safest place in the kingdom—for what that was worth. He’d done enough fighting, enough killing. His shoulders ached and his back was stiff. He looked up at the darkening sky, spectacularly lit with pinks and oranges.

  The wooden balcony of the Chain Pier Tavern jutted out over the main door along the front length of the building. Aranok had thought it an optimistic idea by the landlord, considering Eidyn’s usual weather, but there were about thirty patrons overlooking the main square with their beers, wines and whiskies.

  Allandria looked at him from across the table, chin resting on her hand. He met her deep brown eyes, pleading with her to give him another option. She looked down at the boy arguing with the two thugs in front of the blacksmith’s forge, then back at him. She shrugged, resigned, and tied back her hair.

  Bollocks.

  Aranok knocked back the last of his beer and clunked the empty tankard back on the table. As Allandria reached for her bow, he signalled to the serving girl.

  “Two more.” He gestured to their drinks. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  The girl furrowed her brow, confused.

  He stood abruptly to overcome the stiffness of his muscles. The chair clattered against the wooden deck, drawing some attention. Aranok was used to being eyed with suspicion, but it still rankled. If they knew what they owed him—owed both of them…

  He leaned on the rail, feeling the splintered, weather-beaten wood under his palms; breathing in the smoky, sweaty smell of the bar. Funny how welcome those odours were; he’d been away for so long. With a sigh, Aranok twisted and turned his hands, making the necessary gestures, vaulted over the banister and said, “Gaoth.” Air burst from his palms, kicking up a cloud of dirt and cushioning his landing. Drinkers who had spilled out the front of the inn coughed, spluttered and raised hands in defence. A chorus of gasps and grumbles, but nobody dared complain. Instead, they watched.

  Anticipating.

  Fearing.

  Aranok breathed deeply, stretching his arms, steeling himself as he passed the newly constructed stone well—one of many, he assumed, since the population had probably doubled recently. A lot of eyes were on him now. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe they needed to see this.

  As he approached the forge, Aranok sized up his task. One of the men was big, carrying a large, well-used sword. A club hung from his belt, but he looked slow and cumbersome, more a butcher than a soldier. The other was sleek, though—wiry. There was something ratlike about him. He stood well-balanced on the balls of his feet, dagger twitching eagerly. A thief most likely. Released from prison and pressed into the king’s service? Surely not. Hells. Were they really this short of men? Was this what they’d bought with their blood?

  “You’ve got the count of three to drop your weapons and move,” the fat one wheezed. “King’s orders.”

  “Go to Hell!” The boy’s voice cracked. He backed a few steps toward the door. He couldn’t be more than fifteen, defending his father’s business with a pair of swords he’d probably made himself. His stance was clumsy, but he knew how to hold them. He’d had some training, if not any actual experience. Enough to make him think he could fight, not enough to win.

  The rat rocked on his feet, the fingertips of his right hand frantically rubbing together. Any town guard could resolve this without blood. If it was just the fat one, he might manage it. But this man was dangerous.

  Now or never.

  “Can I help?” Aranok asked loudly enough for the whole square to hear.

  All three swung to look at him. The thief’s eyes ran him up and down. Aranok watched him instinctively look for pockets, coin purses, weapons—assess how quickly Aranok would move. He trusted the rat would underestimate him.

  “Back away, draoidh!” snarled the butcher. The runes inscribed in Aranok’s leather armour made it clear to anyone with even a passing awareness of magic what he was. Draoidh was generally spat as an insult, rarely welcoming. He understood the fear. People weren’t comfortable with someone who could do things they couldn’t. He only wore the armour when he knew it might be necessary. He couldn’t remember the last day he’d gone without it.

  “This is king’s business. We’ve got a warrant,” grunted the big man.

  “May I see it?” Aranok asked calmly.

  “I said piss off.” He was getting tetchy now. Aranok began to wonder if he might have made things worse. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  He took a gentle step toward the man, palms open in a gesture of peace.

  The rat smiled a confident grin, showing him the curved blade as if it were a jewel for sale. Aranok smiled pleasantly back at him and gestured to the balcony. The thief’s face confirmed he was looking at the point of Allandria’s arrow.

  “Shit,” the rat hissed. “Cargill. Cargill!”

  “What?” Cargill barked grumpily back at him. The thief mimicked Aranok’s gesture and the fat man also looked up. He spun around to face Aranok, raising his sword—half in threat, half in defence. Nobody likes an arrow trained on them. The boy took another step back—probably unsure who was on his side, if anyone.

  “You’ll swing for this,” Cargill growled. “We’ve got orders from the king. Confiscate the stock of any business that can’t pay taxes. The boy owes!”

  “Surely his father owes?” Aranok asked.

  “No, sir,” the boy said quietly. “Father’s dead. The war.”

  Aranok felt the words in his chest. “Your mother?”

  The boy shook his head. His lips trembled until he pressed them together.

  Damn it.

  Aranok had seen a lot of death. He’d held friends as they bled out, watching their eyes turn dark; he’d stumbled over their mangled bodies, fighting for his life. Sometimes they cried out, or whimpered as he passed—clinging desperately to the notion they could still see tomorrow.

  Bile rose in his gullet. He turned back to Cargill. Now it was a fight.

  “If you close his business, how do you propose he pays his taxes?” Aranok struggled to maintain an even tone.