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Synopsis
Part III of THE COPPER PROMISE, the first in the exhilarating British Fantasy Award-nominated Copper Cat Trilogy. Epic fantasy for fans of Robin Hobb and Jay Kristoff's Nevernight series.
'A fast-paced and original new voice in heroic fantasy' Adrian Tchaikovsky , author of Children of Time
Before they can face the terror that they unleashed, they must face themselves: the magic that Lord Frith carries could save them, if only he could control it; Wydrin's impulsive nature leads to a deadly conflict with pirates; and Sebastian is beginning to understand that victory can only come with sacrifice.
The complete novel, THE COPPER PROMISE, is available from Headline in Paperback and Ebook
Release date: January 16, 2014
Publisher: Headline
Print pages: 172
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
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Prince of Wounds
Jen Williams
The dead man stood and stared at the ruined tower.
He was aware of a number of things at that precise moment. The bustle of the town around him; people going about their lives, shouting greetings, orders, half-joking threats, the harsh sounds of wood being sawn and hammers striking nails, the smell of sawdust and tar. They were rebuilding.
The dead man was aware of the crawl of fresh air against his skin, curling and sticking there like a handful of worms, and the solid presence of his blood, black and unmoving. And there was the twitching, unnatural energy that sparked up and down his limbs, tugging at his eyelids and keeping him moving, always moving, never a moment’s peace.
Peace. When Gallo had been alive he’d had no use for peace. Now he could think of nothing else.
‘Young man, you are not looking especially well, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
A woman had appeared next to him. She had the tattoos of a fire-priestess across her cheeks, and her eyes were narrow and shrewd.
‘I have travelled a long way, mistress, and I am weary.’ He tried out his old grin, and watched her grimace in response. ‘I was looking for some friends of mine, actually. I wonder if you’ve seen them? They would have been here, oh, around six weeks ago.’
The priestess pursed her lips into even thinner lines.
‘Six weeks ago Pinehold was a bad place to be,’ she said.
‘You would remember them,’ continued Gallo. In the street behind them a door opened and the contents of a bucket of offal were strewn across the stones. He was glad; it would cover up some of the smell. ‘A young woman with short red hair, and a tall man with big shoulders and a broadsword. A knight of Ynnsmouth. You could hardly forget him.’
The woman folded her arms over her thin chest. The skin from her wrists to her elbows was crowded with tattoos.
‘And what would you want with them?’
Gallo shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His legs were so heavy these days.
‘Nothing untoward, my good woman. I understand, of course, that persons such as those might have a number of enemies, made in the course of their work. Sebastian and I were once business partners and I wish to speak to him again.’
The use of the knight’s name seemed to soften the harsher lines on the woman’s face.
‘Yes, well. I can’t tell you where he went. He left unexpectedly, and without telling Wydrin, as I understand it.’
‘They do not travel together?’
‘No more. She went back home to Crosshaven, or at least that was her plan.’ For a moment it looked like she would say more, then she frowned. ‘That’s all I know.’
‘Crosshaven, of course.’ Gallo grinned. ‘That is so like Wydrin. Thank you.’
The priestess sniffed.
‘You’re welcome. Get yourself some rest, child.’
Gallo nodded absently, looking back at the shattered tower, but when the woman turned to go he grabbed hold of her arm. Under his cold fingers her skin felt very warm.
‘Relios is burning,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Your home is a smoking ruin, can’t you smell it? Shouldn’t you be there?’
The woman snatched her arm away. Her face drained of colour.
‘The rumours are true?’
Gallo smiled mildly. The urgency that moved through him sometimes was gone again, and instead he was left with the steady thickening of his own blood.
‘Yes, all the rumours,’ he said lightly, ‘and all the nightmares.’
The Marrow Markets were the pulsing heart of the island of Crosshaven. A diseased, misshapen and congested heart, perhaps, but if you needed something rarer than the fish and spices sold on the docks, or an afternoon’s entertainment, this was where you wanted to be. It was also a good place to find an errant half-brother who had a few days off from pirating.
Wydrin stood on the dusty steps of the enormous hexagonal building, watching as people thronged between the tall marble pillars. It was early afternoon, so it was still reasonably quiet. These were people come to buy and sell, or men and women with swords looking for work. As the sun neared the horizon the atmosphere would change, the rabble would grow louder, and a strong scent of beer and cooking meat would waft over these old stones. She loved the Markets at night.
Wydrin raised her arms above her head and stretched, glorying in the warmth of the sun. It was fine to be out and about, exploring again. Even if the Marrow Markets were as familiar as the back of her own hand, it was better than sitting in a tavern nursing a pint that tasted roughly the same going down as coming up. She glanced back at the glittering blue ribbon of sea still visible over the rooftops, and joined the crowds moving into the Markets.
Within the supporting pillars was a small bustling town of tents and shacks and walled pits. Long banners hung from the distant ceiling announcing the various districts and trading areas in a hundred different languages, a thousand different colours, so that to glance above your head was to look into a rainbow of words and symbols. In the centre of the chaos there was a narrow space of peace and quiet like the calm in the centre of a storm: the Temple of the Graces. At this time of day there would be many people making offerings and contemplating the deadly waters, but it was unlikely she would find Jarath there, so she turned away from the light of the Temple and headed deeper into the murk, moving towards the fighting pits.
As she neared the area she heard a ragged cheer go up, followed by the flurry of new odds being offered. There was a crowd around one of the shallow pits, and, judging from the betting slips being passed back and forth, a fight was about to start.
‘Thurlos Beaststalker versus Jarath the Crimson Scar!’ called one of the men in the high seats. ‘Place your bets, place your bets now please!’
Wydrin laughed to herself as she pushed her way to the front of the crowd. The Crimson Scar?
There were two men in the shallow pit. One was a broad man with thick black hair covering most of his body, culminating in one of the biggest, wildest beards Wydrin had ever seen. It was just about possible to see a ruddy nose and a pair of eyes peeking out from behind all the hair. He wore leather breeches secured with a heavy studded belt and sandals on his huge, dirty feet.
And there he was. Younger, shorter and slimmer, yet Jarath was clearly the crowd’s favourite. His body was toned and his skin, the warm brown of dark toffee, was carefully oiled to glisten prettily under the lights. His curly black hair was cropped close to his skull, and he was cheerfully ignoring his opponent, preferring to spend his time grinning and winking at members of the crowd. There were, Wydrin noticed, an inordinate number of young women at today’s fight, and they were all gazing lovingly at the Crimson Scar. He also sported a red splash of paint, a long diagonal line from the right-hand side of his chest down to the taut muscles of his lower belly. Otherwise he wore simple cloth shorts that came down to his knees, and his feet were bare.
One of the adjudicators in the tall chairs declared the betting over, and the two men began to circle each other warily. Jarath was still grinning. He held his arms out as if welcoming the larger man into an embrace.
‘Come and dance with me, Thurlos!’ he called. He had a strikingly deep voice. ‘I have longed for a dance partner such as you!’
Thurlos Beaststalker growled, loud enough for Wydrin to hear him over the shouts and jeers of the crowd. The hairy man flexed hands the size of hams.
‘Tell me,’ called the Crimson Scar again, ‘do you get animals trapped in that beard? It looks like you’ve left half your lunch in there already.’
The crowd roared with laughter, and a few of the women called out the young fighter’s name. He raised a hand to them in response, nodding in acknowledgement of his own wit, and that was when Thurlos charged.
Wydrin winced. She had fallen for that trick often enough herself, and always paid for it in bruises and damaged pride.
Jarath stepped to one side as the larger man came, letting him barge past like an enraged bull. Thurlos pulled himself up just in time to avoid colliding with the wall, and the Crimson Scar bowed to the crowd again, just as though he’d won a great victory. The young women screamed with delight.
‘Oh dear,’ said Wydrin, shaking her head slowly.
Thurlos barrelled into the young man again, and this time Jarath let the bigger man knock him to the floor, only his feet somehow managed to find themselves braced against the hairy fighter’s midriff, so that rather than being crushed into the dust he straightened his legs and threw Thurlos off easily. The big man collided with the floor heavily enough for Wydrin to feel the impact in her feet, and after that it was all over very quickly. I should have placed a bet.
Wydrin tracked Jarath to a nearby drinks tent and found him surrounded by a gaggle of young women. Pushing her way through them, she found him sitting on a stool, sipping a pint of something foamy.
‘Really? The Crimson Scar?’
Jarath dropped his drink on the floor, entirely unmindful of the fancy shoes belonging to the young woman standing next to him.
‘Wydrin!’
He jumped off the stool and hugged her enthusiastically, lifting her off her feet and covering her clean shirt in oil and red paint. Wydrin could feel a dozen female gazes narrowing at her back. She kissed him on the cheek and gave his neck a squeeze.
‘Put me down, you great idiot. Yes, I’m back. What’s all this Crimson Scar nonsense?’
Jarath let her go, still grinning. He shrugged and pointed at the remnants of red paint on his chest.
‘You rememb. . .
He was aware of a number of things at that precise moment. The bustle of the town around him; people going about their lives, shouting greetings, orders, half-joking threats, the harsh sounds of wood being sawn and hammers striking nails, the smell of sawdust and tar. They were rebuilding.
The dead man was aware of the crawl of fresh air against his skin, curling and sticking there like a handful of worms, and the solid presence of his blood, black and unmoving. And there was the twitching, unnatural energy that sparked up and down his limbs, tugging at his eyelids and keeping him moving, always moving, never a moment’s peace.
Peace. When Gallo had been alive he’d had no use for peace. Now he could think of nothing else.
‘Young man, you are not looking especially well, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
A woman had appeared next to him. She had the tattoos of a fire-priestess across her cheeks, and her eyes were narrow and shrewd.
‘I have travelled a long way, mistress, and I am weary.’ He tried out his old grin, and watched her grimace in response. ‘I was looking for some friends of mine, actually. I wonder if you’ve seen them? They would have been here, oh, around six weeks ago.’
The priestess pursed her lips into even thinner lines.
‘Six weeks ago Pinehold was a bad place to be,’ she said.
‘You would remember them,’ continued Gallo. In the street behind them a door opened and the contents of a bucket of offal were strewn across the stones. He was glad; it would cover up some of the smell. ‘A young woman with short red hair, and a tall man with big shoulders and a broadsword. A knight of Ynnsmouth. You could hardly forget him.’
The woman folded her arms over her thin chest. The skin from her wrists to her elbows was crowded with tattoos.
‘And what would you want with them?’
Gallo shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His legs were so heavy these days.
‘Nothing untoward, my good woman. I understand, of course, that persons such as those might have a number of enemies, made in the course of their work. Sebastian and I were once business partners and I wish to speak to him again.’
The use of the knight’s name seemed to soften the harsher lines on the woman’s face.
‘Yes, well. I can’t tell you where he went. He left unexpectedly, and without telling Wydrin, as I understand it.’
‘They do not travel together?’
‘No more. She went back home to Crosshaven, or at least that was her plan.’ For a moment it looked like she would say more, then she frowned. ‘That’s all I know.’
‘Crosshaven, of course.’ Gallo grinned. ‘That is so like Wydrin. Thank you.’
The priestess sniffed.
‘You’re welcome. Get yourself some rest, child.’
Gallo nodded absently, looking back at the shattered tower, but when the woman turned to go he grabbed hold of her arm. Under his cold fingers her skin felt very warm.
‘Relios is burning,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Your home is a smoking ruin, can’t you smell it? Shouldn’t you be there?’
The woman snatched her arm away. Her face drained of colour.
‘The rumours are true?’
Gallo smiled mildly. The urgency that moved through him sometimes was gone again, and instead he was left with the steady thickening of his own blood.
‘Yes, all the rumours,’ he said lightly, ‘and all the nightmares.’
The Marrow Markets were the pulsing heart of the island of Crosshaven. A diseased, misshapen and congested heart, perhaps, but if you needed something rarer than the fish and spices sold on the docks, or an afternoon’s entertainment, this was where you wanted to be. It was also a good place to find an errant half-brother who had a few days off from pirating.
Wydrin stood on the dusty steps of the enormous hexagonal building, watching as people thronged between the tall marble pillars. It was early afternoon, so it was still reasonably quiet. These were people come to buy and sell, or men and women with swords looking for work. As the sun neared the horizon the atmosphere would change, the rabble would grow louder, and a strong scent of beer and cooking meat would waft over these old stones. She loved the Markets at night.
Wydrin raised her arms above her head and stretched, glorying in the warmth of the sun. It was fine to be out and about, exploring again. Even if the Marrow Markets were as familiar as the back of her own hand, it was better than sitting in a tavern nursing a pint that tasted roughly the same going down as coming up. She glanced back at the glittering blue ribbon of sea still visible over the rooftops, and joined the crowds moving into the Markets.
Within the supporting pillars was a small bustling town of tents and shacks and walled pits. Long banners hung from the distant ceiling announcing the various districts and trading areas in a hundred different languages, a thousand different colours, so that to glance above your head was to look into a rainbow of words and symbols. In the centre of the chaos there was a narrow space of peace and quiet like the calm in the centre of a storm: the Temple of the Graces. At this time of day there would be many people making offerings and contemplating the deadly waters, but it was unlikely she would find Jarath there, so she turned away from the light of the Temple and headed deeper into the murk, moving towards the fighting pits.
As she neared the area she heard a ragged cheer go up, followed by the flurry of new odds being offered. There was a crowd around one of the shallow pits, and, judging from the betting slips being passed back and forth, a fight was about to start.
‘Thurlos Beaststalker versus Jarath the Crimson Scar!’ called one of the men in the high seats. ‘Place your bets, place your bets now please!’
Wydrin laughed to herself as she pushed her way to the front of the crowd. The Crimson Scar?
There were two men in the shallow pit. One was a broad man with thick black hair covering most of his body, culminating in one of the biggest, wildest beards Wydrin had ever seen. It was just about possible to see a ruddy nose and a pair of eyes peeking out from behind all the hair. He wore leather breeches secured with a heavy studded belt and sandals on his huge, dirty feet.
And there he was. Younger, shorter and slimmer, yet Jarath was clearly the crowd’s favourite. His body was toned and his skin, the warm brown of dark toffee, was carefully oiled to glisten prettily under the lights. His curly black hair was cropped close to his skull, and he was cheerfully ignoring his opponent, preferring to spend his time grinning and winking at members of the crowd. There were, Wydrin noticed, an inordinate number of young women at today’s fight, and they were all gazing lovingly at the Crimson Scar. He also sported a red splash of paint, a long diagonal line from the right-hand side of his chest down to the taut muscles of his lower belly. Otherwise he wore simple cloth shorts that came down to his knees, and his feet were bare.
One of the adjudicators in the tall chairs declared the betting over, and the two men began to circle each other warily. Jarath was still grinning. He held his arms out as if welcoming the larger man into an embrace.
‘Come and dance with me, Thurlos!’ he called. He had a strikingly deep voice. ‘I have longed for a dance partner such as you!’
Thurlos Beaststalker growled, loud enough for Wydrin to hear him over the shouts and jeers of the crowd. The hairy man flexed hands the size of hams.
‘Tell me,’ called the Crimson Scar again, ‘do you get animals trapped in that beard? It looks like you’ve left half your lunch in there already.’
The crowd roared with laughter, and a few of the women called out the young fighter’s name. He raised a hand to them in response, nodding in acknowledgement of his own wit, and that was when Thurlos charged.
Wydrin winced. She had fallen for that trick often enough herself, and always paid for it in bruises and damaged pride.
Jarath stepped to one side as the larger man came, letting him barge past like an enraged bull. Thurlos pulled himself up just in time to avoid colliding with the wall, and the Crimson Scar bowed to the crowd again, just as though he’d won a great victory. The young women screamed with delight.
‘Oh dear,’ said Wydrin, shaking her head slowly.
Thurlos barrelled into the young man again, and this time Jarath let the bigger man knock him to the floor, only his feet somehow managed to find themselves braced against the hairy fighter’s midriff, so that rather than being crushed into the dust he straightened his legs and threw Thurlos off easily. The big man collided with the floor heavily enough for Wydrin to feel the impact in her feet, and after that it was all over very quickly. I should have placed a bet.
Wydrin tracked Jarath to a nearby drinks tent and found him surrounded by a gaggle of young women. Pushing her way through them, she found him sitting on a stool, sipping a pint of something foamy.
‘Really? The Crimson Scar?’
Jarath dropped his drink on the floor, entirely unmindful of the fancy shoes belonging to the young woman standing next to him.
‘Wydrin!’
He jumped off the stool and hugged her enthusiastically, lifting her off her feet and covering her clean shirt in oil and red paint. Wydrin could feel a dozen female gazes narrowing at her back. She kissed him on the cheek and gave his neck a squeeze.
‘Put me down, you great idiot. Yes, I’m back. What’s all this Crimson Scar nonsense?’
Jarath let her go, still grinning. He shrugged and pointed at the remnants of red paint on his chest.
‘You rememb. . .
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