Wintercraft: Legacy (2 page)

A strained cry rose up from the ground, like the whimper of a wounded animal. He raised his foot and saw what looked like four long fingers curling upwards, but the moment he saw them they were gone.

Tarak drew his blade, not sure what he had just seen. He tested the ground again, pinpointing the muffled sound, then bent down and sank his fist firmly into the sand. His fingers met something that felt like cloth. He grabbed hold of it and dragged it out. The cloth was a dirty jumper and wearing it was a young man who spluttered loudly as his sand-covered face and mop of black hair were revealed.

‘Who are you?’ demanded Tarak.

The boy was too busy coughing to answer. Tarak was about to question him again when he sensed something cool and sharp press against his throat, and a dark voice spoke into his ear.

‘Release the boy.’

A trickle of cold fear ran through Tarak’s blood. He had been threatened before, he had been close to death more times than he could remember. His fear had nothing to do with the blade at his throat but everything to do with the person who was wielding it. He hesitated for a few seconds before releasing his grip. The boy scrambled away from him.

‘Drop your weapon,’ said the voice. ‘And turn. Slowly.’

Tark did as he was told, letting his sword fall flat upon the sand. The blade of a dagger played gently around his neck as he turned to face a pair of dead grey eyes.

He was standing in the presence of a man whose height towered far above his own. Those lifeless eyes stared down at him with no hint of emotion. The rugged face gave away nothing but indifference as his ambusher held a rough dagger in one hand and a sword made of blue-black steel in the other.

‘Silas Dane.’

Fear pulled the name unwittingly from Tarak’s lungs and out into the air. This man’s reputation had spread farther than he could imagine. People on the Continent called him a man without a soul: a perfect warrior. The soldier who could not die. Tarak was trapped in the shadow of a predator that could not be outfought, outwitted
or outrun, but he would not flee and die with a blade in his back. Pride kept him standing tall, knowing that all he could hope for was the mercy of a swift death.

‘The ship,’ said Silas. ‘How many of the crew are coming ashore?’

Tarak remained silent. He would not betray his men to the enemy.

‘How many are above us with the horses?’

Silas’ blade bit a bloody mark into Tarak’s flesh, but still he said nothing. How had he not noticed that the fishing boat’s hull was damp from recent use? Why had he not stayed by the water, braving the weather rather than venturing close to the cliff?

No matter what happened to him, his birds were already on their way. Not even Silas Dane could stop what was to come. He rolled his shoulders back, forcing himself to look his enemy in the eye. If he were to die, he had done his duty. There was no dishonour in that.

Silas gave him time to answer, letting the silence stretch on. ‘If you will not talk,’ he said at last, ‘I have no time for you.’

In one quick move the blade cut deeper, slicing swiftly through the pulse beating in Tarak’s neck. Warm blood spilled across cold skin. Tarak felt the weight of his body slump heavily to the ground: his life stolen away in a single cut. Darkness and pain closed in. The warm current of death swept through him, and then his spirit was gone.

Silas looked down at the body in the bloodied sand, then stepped over it and watched the sea through the swirling hail. The young man with him was a shabby
seventeen year old named Edgar Rill, who stared at the dead man, not sure what Silas expected them to do next.

‘Bury him,’ ordered Silas, cleaning his dagger on a patch of sand grass. ‘And stay out of sight.’

‘More Blackwatch are heading in on that boat,’ said Edgar. ‘We don’t have time. Have you seen how close they are?’

‘I have eyes. Dig.’

Edgar grabbed an oar from the fishing boat. His stomach, which had been growling with hunger just a short while earlier, squirmed with discomfort at being so close to the dead man. He used the oar to scrape away a hollow in the sand beside the body, working as quickly as he could. ‘Are you going to help?’

Silas had tucked the dagger back into his belt and was listening silently to the ice-filled wind.

‘I’ll take that as a no.’ Edgar’s hands were shaking. Through fear or cold, it was impossible to tell. In the past day alone he had been stabbed, dragged back from the waiting hands of death and ferried across a frozen sea. His only company had been a man whose conversation stopped at giving orders. Silas’ presence still made the hairs bristle on the back of Edgar’s neck, despite him being the one who had saved Edgar’s life.

‘Next time, you can be the bait,’ said Edgar, digging quickly. ‘What if he decided to kill me as soon as he grabbed me? What then?’

‘I would have stopped him.’

‘Why couldn’t I have hidden in the boat?’

‘Dragging someone out of a boat makes them an
enemy,’ said Silas. ‘Dragging them out of the sand makes them a curiosity.’

‘Well, I’m glad that logic works for you. Feel free to step forward a bit quicker next time.’

Edgar knew the makeshift grave was not yet deep enough to fully hide a man, but the Blackwatch were getting too close. He had to finish the gruesome job quickly. He jabbed the oar into the sand and decided to improvise. Two drags – one on the man’s shoulder and one on the knees – sent him rolling into the shallow trench, where Edgar spotted the bright glint of a crystal lenslight hanging round his neck. Something like that was too useful to leave behind, so he tugged it loose and pocketed it.

‘And the coat,’ Silas said, without turning round. ‘He has no use for it any more.’

Edgar’s own coat was torn, filthy and drenched through. He was surprised he had survived so long in that state. He may not have liked stealing clothes from the dead, but Silas was right. He dragged the patched garment off the man and claimed it for himself. Sliding his arms into the wide sleeves, he realised with a grim shudder that they were still warm. He whispered an apology, covered the man’s face with his hat, and kept working.

It took less than a minute for Edgar to pile a mound of sand on top of the grave, while Silas kept his eyes upon the ocean, completely ignoring his efforts.

‘I’m assuming you have some sort of plan?’ asked Edgar.

Silas said nothing, and Edgar knew better than to ask again.

As soon as Edgar finished, he joined Silas within the shadow of the cave wall, watching the boat moving closer to the shore. Whatever plan Silas had in mind, Edgar would be ready when the time came. Until then, all either of them could do was wait.

Kate Winters was standing on the forward deck of the Blackwatch ship when the eastern coast of Albion crept into sight. She had hardly slept during the voyage. Her only view of the outside world had been through a tiny window facing back towards the Continent and she had spent hours looking out of it, staring into darkness, watching the stars glinting against a black velvet sky. It felt good to be out in the open again.

The sea breeze stung life into her cheeks as the ship’s crew toiled on the deck below and a woman in a long grey coat strode between them, watching them work with a critical eye. Kate could not recall much beyond her short time upon the ship, and whenever she tried to remember, she found it hard to concentrate for very long. She had a memory of travelling in a carriage and arriving at a port, but anything more detailed than that refused to make any
sense. It was like trying to remember a dream when most of it had already faded away.

The wind tugged at Kate’s long black hair as she leaned against the guardrail separating her from the sea. The coast of Albion emerged slowly as an inky sprawl of cliffs in the distance, and as the ship drew closer to the shore the gentle energies of the veil began to settle around her. The powerful influence of the woman on deck prevented her thoughts from venturing too far into the realm that lingered between the living and the dead, but that, she had been told, was for her own protection.

Dalliah Grey claimed that Kate was her student and she was her teacher, and had promised that Kate’s memory would gradually return over time. When Kate looked at the woman she expected to feel some flicker of recognition, or at least a slight hint of trust, yet all she felt was a dull creeping sense of unease.

Dalliah left the captain’s side and climbed the steps to join Kate where she stood looking towards the coast. ‘The veil is at its most powerful in these lands,’ said Dalliah. ‘You will experience changes as we approach the shore. That is natural. Make sure you are prepared.’

Frost played across Dalliah’s fingertips and gathered on her eyelashes as the veil’s influence swept in across the water. Kate remembered what she had been told. She breathed in deeply and gripped the guardrail as tightly as she could. The chill of air in her lungs and the ache in her fingers grounded her physical senses more strongly to the living world, but even that could not prevent her own skin from frosting briefly as the veil whispered around her.

Kate wanted to let her soul reach out and reconnect with her country, her home, but she could feel Dalliah watching her, quietly studying her reaction to the land’s unique atmosphere. Just being close to Albion again made Kate’s blood pulse with steady energy. If she pushed herself, she was sure she could break the restriction Dalliah had placed upon her, but she had the unsettling feeling that she was being tested. If what she had been told about her life was true, nothing would be lost by being cautious. If something else was happening and she pushed too far, Dalliah would simply strengthen her hold. It was better to appear weak than to risk showing too much resistance, at least until she could discover the truth about their journey.

Kate tried to close her mind against the veil, but she did not let go of it completely. She let its presence linger as a gentle whisper at the back of her thoughts and watched the souls within it drifting as a hint of grey haze seen at the very edges of her vision. She tucked her hands into her sleeves, concealing the frost that was spreading across her fingers, then closed her eyes against the cold wind and listened secretly to a sound that few people could hear. It was a hollow sound, empty and dull, like an echo of a voice fading in an empty room. It was the kind of noise most people would forget about as soon as they heard it, but for those who recognised what they were listening to it was the most amazing sound in the world.

Kate was one of the Skilled: one of the rare few who could hear the voices of souls that had not yet made the full journey into death. She could hear thousands of
whispers, thoughts and cries bleeding from the shores of Albion, becoming louder as the ship travelled in towards a small cove. She could not make out any distinct words, but the more she listened, the clearer her own clutch of scattered memories became. She remembered fire and smoke, and a circle made of carved symbols drawn upon an old stone floor. She tried to hold the memory and let it grow, until Dalliah’s cold hand touched hers, forcing her to open her eyes.

Dalliah’s face was inches away from her own, her eyes sharp with curiosity. When Kate tried to step back, the woman held her still.

‘What can you see out there?’ she asked.

Kate did not want to admit how strongly the veil was calling to her, so she focused upon something solid and physical instead. ‘The cliffs,’ she said. ‘They look beautiful from here.’

The older woman gave a slight smile of satisfaction, making Kate believe that her secret was safe. She may not have known why it was important for her to keep it, but as long as she had even the slightest doubt about her situation, she would trust her own instincts far more than any living soul upon that ship.

She returned as warm a smile as she could manage towards the woman who claimed to be her protector. Dalliah was a tall woman who looked no older than sixty, with short peppered hair and a strong body. Her clothes were old and well worn, and she wore twists of dried flowers and leaves around her wrists, marking her as someone who often worked with the dead. When her eyes met
Kate’s, they were critical and cold: they belonged to someone who had lived too long, seen too much, and had many secrets to hide.

Dalliah was no ordinary woman. She had lived far longer than anyone alive. Her extraordinary connection to the veil allowed her body to heal itself almost instantly, stretching her unnatural existence until she was now almost five hundred years old. She had spent most of those years in exile on the Continent. Now she was travelling back to Albion for the first time in two centuries, taking Kate back to the ancient city of Fume.

‘Is your memory returning?’ Dalliah’s question was simple enough, but the look she sent with it was heavy with threat.

‘No,’ Kate answered quickly.

‘Da’ru tried to lie to me too,’ said Dalliah. ‘When she was a girl, not very much older than you. You would be foolish to follow her path.’

The name was familiar, but Kate did not know from where.

‘Da’ru was your predecessor,’ said Dalliah. ‘She might not have possessed your level of natural ability, but I would have preferred you both worked together towards what we must do. Sadly, that is not possible.’