The Ember Blade

Book 0: The Darkwater Legacy

by Chris Wooding

Genres: Epic Fantasy; Contemporary Fantasy

Synopsis

A land under occupation. A legendary sword. A young man's journey to find his destiny.

Aren has lived by the rules all his life. He's never questioned it; that's just the way things are. But then his father is executed for treason, and he and his best friend Cade are thrown into a prison mine, doomed to work until they drop. Unless they can somehow break free . . .

But what lies beyond the prison walls is more terrifying still. Rescued by a man who hates him yet is oath-bound to protect him, pursued by inhuman forces, Aren slowly accepts that everything he knew about his world was a lie. The rules are not there to protect him, or his people, but to enslave them. A revolution is brewing, and Aren is being drawn into it, whether he likes it or not.

The key to the revolution is the Ember Blade. The sword of kings, the Excalibur of his people. Only with the Ember Blade in hand can their people be inspired to rise up . . . but it's locked in an impenetrable vault in the most heavily guarded fortress in the land.

All they have to do now is steal it . . .

Release date: September 20, 2018

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 368

Sample

1

‘Keep faith and hold fast, and we will free our land!’

Edric had said that, not three days past, as he stood on the battle­ments of the keep at Salt Fork and watched the enemy closing in. Side by side with his brothers and sisters, pride swelling his chest and angry defiance in his eye, it had felt like truth.

He knew better now.

The forest whipped and scratched him as he clambered up a muddy slope, breath burning his lungs and a cold fist of terror in his gut. Dirk laboured through the undergrowth in his wake, white with exhaustion. The older man was at the limit of his endurance; it was plain by his slumped shoulders and the vacant look in his eyes.

Edric hauled him the last few paces to the top, where Dirk bent over, pulling in air like a man near drowned. He scanned the forest fearfully while his companion recovered. The trees were loud with birdsong, dewed leaves stirring in the dawn light. There was no sign of their pursuers yet, but he could hear the Emperor’s hounds through the trees.

‘You go on,’ Dirk said, raggedly. He had the flat stare of a dead man. ‘I’m done.’

Edric had known Dirk for less than a season and liked him for none of it. He was a low sort, fond of drink, and spitting, and the kind of rough humour that made Edric uncomfortable. Edric was a frustrated young man with lordly blood, looking for a way to define himself; Dirk was an illiterate ironmonger with nothing left to lose. But Salt Fork had brought them together, united them in common cause. Even when everything lay in ruins, Edric wouldn’t let go of that. He pulled Dirk upright.

‘You’ll run,’ Edric said. ‘And when you can’t, I’ll carry you.’

Together, they stumbled on.

He’d always known Salt Fork would be the end of him, but he’d dreamed a different end than this. Fifty of them had seized that town, fifty who dared to stand against their oppressors. Their act of defiance was to be the spark that would ignite the fire of rebellion in their people. He never expected to survive, but at least his name would be remembered in glorious song.

The bards would sing a different tune now. They’d sing of how the townsfolk’s resistance crumbled as soon as the Krodan army came into sight, how the crowds threw open the gates and tried to arrest the men and women who’d led them astray, hoping to trade them for Krodan mercy. They’d sing of a shambolic escape through smugglers’ tunnels, with the ringleaders fleeing for their lives as the soldiers marched in.

They’d sing of failure, and they’d sing it in the tongue of their overlords.

He’d seen Renn swallowed by the mob he was trying to reason with. Ella had died defending him, killed by a stone to the head. He didn’t know if any of the others had survived; in the confusion, he’d lost everyone but Dirk. Perhaps there’d be a rendezvous days from now, some message left at a dead drop, but he wouldn’t be there to read it. The Emperor’s huntsmen had chased them through the night and drew closer with every hour. They wouldn’t see another sunset, and both of them knew it.

A temple loomed suddenly from the trees, towering before them. The sight of it brought them to a halt. Its walls had been breached by the forest and a mossy cupola lay in ruins near the entrance. Balconied domes and soaring vaults had been gnawed bare by time’s appetite, yet still it stood in testament to its makers, an elegant masterpiece from a lost world.

Dirk’s legs shook and he fell to his hands and knees. Edric stared, wide-eyed. Exhaustion had drained him of emotion – even his fear had been numbed – but now he felt a sense of wonder which slowed his hammering heart.

Once, his people had been great. They’d led the world in art, theatre, medicine, architecture, philosophy, astronomy and the ways of war. Their empire had spanned the known lands, and Ossia had been the home of heroes.

But that was the past, and the past was long behind them. Their empire had faded centuries before. Ossia had been under a Krodan boot for thirty years now, longer than Edric had been alive. He’d never known true freedom, and so, in the end, he’d gone searching for it.

The collapse of the Salt Fork uprising and the long and frantic night that followed had shaken his faith. He’d cursed himself over and over for staking his life on a naïve dream of revolution. Yet here, before this silent monument, he found new strength. The blood of its builders still ran in his veins, and one day his people would cast off their chains.

‘On your feet!’ He hauled Dirk back up, though the man was a dead weight.

‘Leave me to the worms,’ he wheezed. ‘The Red-Eyed Child comes for me.’

Edric pointed to the temple, where a dark doorway gaped amid a tangle of vines. ‘If we must die, it will be with the Nine at our backs, in the house of our ancestors.’

‘The Nine!’ Dirk said bitterly. ‘Where are they now?’

‘They’re still here,’ said Edric, his jaw tight. ‘This is their land. It is our land, and it will be again.’

‘You’re a fool and a dreamer, Edric,’ Dirk said. ‘I always thought so.’ Then his mouth twitched at the corner. ‘We needed more like you.’

The arrow hit Dirk with enough force to knock him to the ground. He fell face down, a thick shaft fletched with ragged black feathers in his back. Edric stared at him stupidly for a moment, dazed by the speed of his death. Then terror took hold and he drew his sword, backing towards the temple, searching the trees for the enemy. He found only stillness and an uncanny silence. Even the birds had fallen quiet.

Something was out there, a presence that iced his spine. The leaves hissed in the wind and the very forest seethed with evil.

He ran, springing up the temple steps two at a time, and reached the top before his leg gave way beneath him in an explosion of pain. He crashed down on the flagstones, sword skidding from his grip, clutching at his thigh where the barbed and bloody tip of an arrow poked out. Veins stood stark in his throat as he screamed.

Numbness and corruption spread from the arrow, tendrils of foulness worming into his flesh that froze and burned all at once. He tried to rise and screamed again as the shaft moved inside his leg. His head spun, and everything was suddenly dim and distant.

Through the fog that clouded his eyes, he glimpsed a soft red light inside the temple. A light in that long-abandoned place, where he’d seen only darkness before. He was seized by a desperate hope. Was there somebody in there who could save him? Here, in this sacred place, had the Aspects sent him a sign?

Gasping with the pain, he dragged himself inch by excruciating inch over the threshold.

The forest had choked up the windows and shadows clustered thickly between the columns. Overhead, birds shifted quietly in their roosts among the stonework, subdued by the same dread that had silenced the others outside. Statues loomed at the edge of the darkness, barely more than lumps, hands lost and faces smooth. He recognised them anyway. There was Joha, the Heron King; there was brutish, squat Meshuk, Stone Mother; there, jaws agape and straining at his chains, was Azra the Despoiler, Lord of War.

Edric offered a silent prayer to the Nine Aspects as he pulled himself over cracked flagstones, each movement sending fresh fire from the wound in his thigh. A set of steps led deeper into the dark temple. The source of the red glow was somewhere below.

There was no sound from his pursuers, but he dared not hope this ancient place could keep his enemies out. He focused on the next lurch forward, and the next, until he reached the top of the steps. The red glow illuminated the bases of the columns beyond but its source remained out of sight, hidden by the broken pieces of a toppled statue.

With dry mouth and trembling arms, he slithered down the first step, and the second. At the third, his elbow gave way and he went tumbling and sliding out of control. The arrow in his thigh caught on an edge and wrenched sideways, and the pain which followed drove him into the black waters of unconsciousness.



When he surfaced again, he was lying on his back at the foot of the steps, his head tipped to one side. Tears filled his eyes, wet red hexagons swimming there, glistening. He blinked and the tears slid free.

The source of the light was finally visible. It wasn’t a sign after all, just the fading remnants of a fire left by some vagrant, or a wandering druid who’d sheltered here. No hope of help, then, and no reprieve. He watched as the glowing wood brightened in a faint breeze, and a peaceful, aching sadness soaked into his heart as he realised he’d reached the end of his road. It hadn’t felt nearly long enough.

He turned his head and saw the man at the top of the steps.

To Edric’s dimmed eyes, he was little more than a shadow, but the red light reflected from his round spectacles and made him look infernal, an imp from the Abyss come to carry him away. He was short and balding and wore a long black coat. When he spoke, his voice was breathy and damp; the sound of gentle murder.

‘No more running.’

He stepped down into the light. He was fish-lipped, weak-eyed, with a pale, soft face and the look of a clerk about him. In other circumstances he might have appeared comical, but he had the double-barred cross on his shoulder, the hated symbol of the Iron Hand, and Edric didn’t feel like laughing.

‘I am Overwatchman Klyssen,’ he said. ‘Hail to the Emperor.’

Edric had dropped his sword on the temple steps, but he had a knife at his hip, which he drew and held before him. It was a feeble threat, and Klyssen ignored it.

‘There will be others,’ Edric said. ‘Others like me. And we’ll drive you from this land.’

‘The folk of Salt Fork did not share your conviction.’ The overwatchman raised his head, taking in the gloomy grandeur of the temple. ‘We have made your highways safe and swift, brought order to your cities and given you the gift of the Word and the Sword. We protect you against enemies who would slaughter or enslave you. Your farmers enjoy the fruits of their fields, your seamstresses sew in peace and your children want to be Krodan.’ His tone became puzzled. ‘When will you be satisfied?’

‘We’ll be satisfied when the last Krodan is gone from our land, when your thrice-damned god is cast down and an Ossian sits on the throne again with the Ember Blade in their hand,’ said Edric. ‘We’ll be satisfied when we have our freedom.’

Klyssen lowered his gaze and the light made his spectacles red again. ‘Ah. That you will never have. Because, in the deepest places where you dare not look, you know you are better off without it.’

‘One day you’ll eat those words from the tip of an Ossian sword,’ he spat. ‘Kill me, if you’re going to.’

‘You’ll die, have no doubt of that. But first you’ll talk. There is one among your companions I seek. You knew him as Laine of Heath Edge, but we both know that’s not his real name.’

Edric lay in silence for a few moments. Then he began to chuckle, a pained sound almost like sobbing. ‘He has evaded you.’

‘For now.’

‘Then hope is not lost.’

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

Klyssen motioned with his hand and three figures appeared at the top of the stairs, silhouetted by the light from the temple doorway. One was hulking and armoured, carrying a great hammer. Another was ragged and thin, holding a bow. The third was cowled and cloaked, with a gleam of metal where a face should have been. The sight of them was like a cold weight on Edric’s chest. Here was the source of the nameless dread that had silenced the forest. It drained the courage from him, and fear made him babble.

‘I can’t tell you where he is. I don’t know where he is!’

He became aware of an itch in his knife-hand, increasing to a burn. Something was writhing under his skin there, vile tunnelling worms that turned and coiled in the light of the dying fire. Horror and disgust choked him. His other hand flew to his face, where the skin had begun to blister, swell and ooze.

‘We’ll see what you know,’ Klyssen said quietly, as Edric finally found breath to scream.

2

The cave was a triangular maw filled with shadowed teeth. Aren studied it warily, knuckles white where he gripped his sword.

‘You think she went in there?’

Cade nodded from his hiding place, crouched behind a boulder, poised to flee. He had his knife in hand, but he clearly had little faith in it.

Aren glanced back in case their quarry had slipped around for an ambush. The green flanks of the ravine sloped steeply up to either side. At the top, sunlight slanted across the grass, but down here it was dimmer and the air was still. The ground was cluttered with rocks of all sizes, from pebbles to great boulders shaken loose by the march of ages, shaggy with moss and lichen. A shallow stream, ankle-deep and a few paces wide, splashed between them. Dank, scrawny trees drowsed nearby, with watchful crows in their branches.

They heard a sharp clatter of tumbling stones from the cave.

Cade sprang to his feet, ready to bolt. Aren caught him by his shoulder and pressed him back down.

‘It’s her,’ Aren whispered, half in triumph and half in terror. Cade gave a low moan of despair.

Heart thumping, breath short, Aren stepped into the open and crept forward. When Cade showed no sign of moving, he scowled and gestured at him to follow. Cade slid out from behind the boulder, muttering darkly.

They were no longer boys and not quite men, adults in their own minds and no one else’s. Aren was gangly but not tall, his body still finding its proportions. Cade had a heavier build, a clumsy, solid boy who moved without grace. Thick brown curls hung across Aren’s brow; he had soft eyes, a flat jaw and a long, wide nose that split his face like the shank of an anchor. Cade had small features in a fleshy frame, a quick, restless mouth and the first dusting of a beard, the same muddy blond as his close-cut hair.

It was Cade who’d glimpsed their quarry first: a rush of movement, a thrashing in the bracken, a flash of haunch. Big as a bear, he told Aren, when he got over the fright. Just like Darra said she was. They’d tracked her into the ravine after that, and finally cornered her here.

Aren crept up to the mouth of the cave. Within was a chill, grey world of hard angles. Nothing moved. He was about to go further when Cade grabbed his arm.

‘You ain’t actually going in?’ he whispered incredulously. ‘Why don’t we wait here?’ Aren saw him struggle to think of a good reason. ‘We can jump her when she comes out!’

Aren was tempted by the idea. Better to tackle the beast in daylight, where they could manoeuvre. But lurking in ambush felt cowardly. When Toven chased the draccen of King’s Barrow into its lair and slew it, he didn’t hide outside for hours first.

‘No. We’ll catch her unawares, where she can’t escape from us,’ he said.

‘Oh, aye, that’s a great plan,’ Cade griped. ‘Foolproof. And what if we want to escape?’

Aren went in and the quiet gloom closed around him. He kept the stream to his left, moving in a low crouch, his sword held defensively across his body as Master Orik had taught him. A splash and a string of curses told him that Cade had followed him inside, and that he now had at least one wet foot.

‘She was like a wolf, but like no wolf you ever saw!’ Darra had said, his eyes bright and earnest. ‘A she-warg, high as your shoulder, broad as a cart, teeth like daggers! I saw her walking through the trees in Sander’s Wood!’

‘My brother saw her, too,’ Mya had said. ‘Next day, three of my father’s flock were gone, only blood and torn wool left to mark them.’

Aren tried not to think of the beast’s size, or her teeth, or the fact he wasn’t one-tenth the swordsman Toven had been. Instead, he imagined the townsfolk cheering their return, the nods of respect from the Krodan honour guard, the pride in his father’s gaze as the governor praised them. Best of all would be the sight of Sora’s delighted face when he presented her with the she-warg’s paw, a hero’s token to his lady.

Ahead, the cave bent sharply to the right and the way was obscured by a bulge in the rock. The light from the cave mouth was feeble this far back, and Aren wished they’d thought to bring a lantern. Facing the beast in darkness wasn’t something he’d anticipated. Perhaps an ambush did make sense. He’d always preferred the stories about clever Tomas to those of his mighty brother Toven anyway. Tomas won through wit and craft rather than force of arms.

But what if there was another way out of the cave? After all this time searching, he wasn’t about to let the beast get away.

Staying close to the cold rock, he peered round the bend and saw a small underground chamber beyond. There was a jagged fissure in one wall, wide enough to squeeze through. The stream ran across the chamber and away down another passage. Nothing moved but the restlessly tumbling water.

‘How’s it look?’ Cade asked.

‘Come and see,’ said Aren, and stepped in.

The darkness was pushed back by a thin shaft of daylight which cut diagonally across his path from a dripping hole in the ceiling. An assortment of slimy plants had found purchase along the stream’s edge and glowed dimly there. He saw phosphor moss and riddlecap, and other moulds and mushrooms he couldn’t identify.

Cade slunk in behind him. ‘Don’t much like the look of that horrible great crack in the wall,’ he said.

As if in reply, they heard a furtive rustle of movement from the fissure, the sound of something unmistakably alive. They turned to face it together, with mounting dread.

‘You know, I heard a tale about a cave hereabouts,’ Cade murmured. ‘A cave at the end of a ravine, with a little stream coming out of it. An old hermit lived there, rotten to the core, with a hook for a hand.’ His voice dropped and he leaned closer, eyes like saucers. ‘More than one traveller took shelter in that cave on a rainy night and never came out. He hung them up like meat. Story goes he died alone and hateful, but his shade walks here still, and the last thing you’ll hear before he gets you is his hook, scratching along the stone …’

Aren gave him a flat look. ‘You just made that up so you can go home,’ he accused.

‘Aye, I did,’ said Cade, shrugging. ‘Worth a try.’ He picked up a rock. ‘Shall we see what’s in there, then?’

‘Not like tha—’ Aren began, but he was too late to stop Cade tossing the rock.

A maelstrom of thrashing wings exploded from the fissure. Aren yelled and swung his sword at the air as flapping creatures beat at his face. His blade clanged off stone and numbed his fingers, nearly jolting out of his grip. Cade capered about, slapping wildly at his own head, trying to dislodge a bat which had become tangled in his hair. Half-seen shapes darted past them, whirling in panicked circles before flurrying away towards the entrance of the cave, leaving the two boys panting and gasping in fright.

Cade rubbed his hands through his hair and looked at them in disgust. ‘Flying rats. Ugh.’ He spotted Aren leaning against the cave wall with his sword drawn. ‘You get any?’ he asked dryly.

‘Next time you think you have an idea, why don’t you float it past me first?’ Aren said breathlessly.

‘I ain’t the one who just led us into a cave to face a she-warg without any lanterns.’

‘No, you’re just the one who followed him in.’

From the passage they heard a splash of water and an animal snort that set them rigid.

‘Well, reckon that’s me done for the day,’ said Cade, heading off after the bats.

Aren grabbed him. ‘No you don’t,’ he said, dragging Cade back to his side. Together they stared into the dark passage. Cade’s fingers flexed nervously on his knife-hilt, his expression dubious. ‘Sure you don’t want to go for an ale at the Cross Keys instead?’

Aren slapped him on the back for encouragement. Cade rolled his eyes and tutted. ‘Go on, then. Let’s get this over with. But I ain’t going first.’

Aren had no intention of letting him. This beast was Aren’s to kill. It would make a poor tale for Sora otherwise.

High as your shoulder. Broad as a cart. Teeth like daggers.

They trod quietly as they followed the stream deeper into the cave. The blackness thickened and they were forced to hunch over as the ceiling bore down on them. Just before they reached the limit of the light, they found a new passage leading off to the right. They heard another snort, loud and close enough that Aren jerked back and held out an arm to bar Cade’s way.

The beast was right around the corner.

Cade’s eyes glittered with fear and he grabbed Aren’s elbow, shaking his head. But Aren gripped his friend’s forearm firmly and stared hard at him. Now it came to it, there was no question of turning back.

‘We strike together,’ he hissed.

Cade wavered, but Aren wouldn’t let him go.

‘We can do it!’ he said, and this time he saw reluctant deter­mination settle on his friend’s face. ‘Aren and Cade,’ he whispered, with a reckless smile. ‘They’ll call us heroes.’

‘They’ll call us something, that’s for sure,’ Cade agreed grudgingly.

‘Are you ready? On my word.’

Cade nodded, but not without a look that made plain what he thought of being dragged into this adventure.

Aren listened. There was another grunt; the sound of the beast moving. He drew a breath, held it for a moment and then let out a cry, as fierce as he could make it. They plunged round the corner, blades raised.

Utter dark faced them. Utter dark, and no sign of their quarry. They faltered, not knowing where to strike, not daring to go onwards, and in that moment the beast was on them with a terrifying scream.

Aren and Cade stumbled back, sloshing into the stream as it charged. Aren slipped on a wet rock and his leg went out from under him. His head struck the wall, stars exploding before his eyes as he dropped to his hands and knees in the chill water. Pain sang from his shins and palms. Somehow his sword had jarred free of his grip. He cast around frantically in the stream but it was nowhere to be seen.

He heard Cade shout a warning, and he was swatted by the beast’s hot, bristly flank, its musty stink filling his nostrils. He tried to wrap his arms round it, to wrestle it down rather than let it batter him, but the beast bucked and skidded in the stream, slamming Aren against the wall, its coarse fur scratching his face. Teeth gritted, he struggled to hold on to it.

‘Cade! Stab it!’ he yelled, though he couldn’t see his friend through all the water splashing in his eyes.

The beast kicked, catching him low and hard in his gut, and his arms came loose. A heavy haunch slammed into his cheek, and then the beast was away, charging downstream, grunting and squealing frantically. The sounds faded as it reached the freedom of the open air, leaving Aren kneeling in the stream, bruised and winded, a dull ache in his belly and groin.

‘Aren?’ Cade hurried up to him. ‘Are you hurt?’

He blinked dazedly, popped his eyes wide a few times to clear the fog in his head, then laboriously got to his feet. ‘Where’s my sword?’

‘I don’t know. You dropped it somewhere. There it is, in the stream.’

Holding the back of his head with one hand, Aren stooped to retrieve his weapon. His face felt hot, and not just from the battle.

‘That was no she-warg,’ he said at length. ‘That was a wild pig.’

‘Looked like one,’ Cade said. Then, to make them both feel better, he added: ‘It was a really big wild pig.’

Aren, sodden and dripping, saw the edges of Cade’s mouth turn up, and that set him off. The two of them leaned on each other and laughed until tears streaked their cheeks. Eventually, Aren showed signs of calming down, but then Cade oinked at him and they were away again. By the time they were done, Aren’s stomach hurt and Cade was in danger of fainting.

‘Maybe best we don’t tell anyone about this,’ Aren suggested as they made their way out of the cave and into the sunlight.

Cade crouched by the stream, wadded up a rag from his pocket and soaked it in cold water. ‘As if I would. They’d never let us forget it. Here, put this on your bump.’

Aren pressed the rag gratefully to the back of his skull. The laughing fit hadn’t helped his headache much. ‘So what do you think? Next time we try the east ridge?’

‘You ain’t still after that she-warg?’ Cade said, amazed. ‘Four times we’ve gone hunting for her now! That’s every day I’ve had off work in the last two weeks! Can we at least explore the possibility that Darra’s a liar and Mya’s just gullible?’

‘We’ll explore that possibility,’ said Aren, ‘right after we’ve explored the east ridge.’

‘There ain’t no she-warg!’ Cade cried.

‘You give up too easily,’ Aren said over his shoulder as he started to trudge up the ravine.

‘Aye. And you don’t give up at all.’

3

‘Step, step, feint! Now parry, feint, thrust!’

Cade sat against the base of a dry-stone wall, eyes closed and face turned up to the sun, content as a basking cat. Bees droned lazily nearby and the breeze stirred the long grass of the meadow. In the dappled shade of a lone spreading oak, Aren jabbed and darted at imaginary foes, practising his sword drills.

‘Are you even watching?’ Aren demanded. ‘I’m trying to teach you something.’

Cade cracked one eye open to look at him. Aren stood with a fist on one hip and his blade lowered, sweating in the heat. Beyond him, the fields spread down the hill to the coast, a patchwork of green and yellow dotted with farmsteads and speckled with sheep and cows. From their vantage point, Cade could see the Robbers’ Highway snaking from the east and the Cross Keys Inn on the outskirts of town, where he and Aren had sucked down more than a few foaming ales under old Nab’s indulgent eye. Shoal Point was a cluster of buildings along the coast, mostly hidden by a fold in the land. West of that there was only ocean, glittering bright enough to dazzle.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Cade said at length.

‘Have you now?’

‘All this business with the she-warg … do you reckon Sora even wants a dirty great wolf paw?’

Aren made a quizzical noise.

Cade elaborated. ‘If you were the highborn daughter of a rich Krodan family, wouldn’t you want jewels and flowers and such? I’m just saying she might be less than thrilled when you hand her a dismembered piece of a recently dead animal with the stump all crusty with blood.’

Aren opened his mouth to make a sharp reply, then shut it again and frowned. The question hadn’t occurred to him before now. ‘Well, obviously I’ll clean the blood off first,’ he said testily.

‘It’ll still smell pretty bad,’ Cade said. ‘What’s she going to do with it, anyway? Wear it as a necklace? It’d put her back out if the beast’s as big as we’re told.’

A sour look passed over Aren’s face. ‘Do you want me to show you Master Orik’s new drills or not?’

Cade levered himself up, satisfied that they wouldn’t be exploring the east ridge on his next day off. Aren handed him the sword. It felt heavier than usual, but that was probably because he was feeling lazy.

‘Ain’t it a bit hot for sword practice?’ he tried half-heartedly.

‘Stop complaining. Come autumn I won’t be here to teach you any more.’

Cade saddened at that, but he tried to make a joke of it. ‘Just promise you’ll send me the paws of any mighty wargs you slay. I’ll have them, if Sora won’t.’

‘Ha! Get to work, you layabout!’

Cade let Aren demonstrate the new moves again and copied them as best he could, but his mind wasn’t on the task. As a highborn Ossian approaching his sixteenth birthday, Aren would soon leave for his year’s service with the Krodan military. Cade, a carpenter’s son, wouldn’t be joining him. Krodans didn’t want working boys like Cade. They only cared about the sons of rich Ossians, who could be trained as loyal and useful servants of the Empire.

He had other friends, but they were the children of bakers, potters, fishermen. None were like Aren, who could speak fluent Krodan, who knew history and mathematics and etiquette and had a permit to carry a sword, even if he had to keep it sheathed and wrapped within town limits. In truth, Cade was a little in awe of the highborn boy, and secretly dreaded the day Aren realised he could do better than a dockside lad with little education and no particular skill in anything.

The year ahead loomed large and empty. He feared it would be a different Aren who returned, one he didn’t know.

He made a passable effort at sword practice, enough to show his appreciation, but it was exhausting in the heat and he gave up as soon as he thought Aren would let him. He didn’t like the sword much, and he’d never be permitted to own one anyway, but Aren always enjoyed showing off what he knew.

‘Maybe it is a bit hot for sword practice,’ said Aren. ‘Do you want to learn some Krodan instead? I could teach you how to make a diminutive noun.’

‘Why don’t I tell you a tale instead?’ Cade suggested, with an enthusiasm that verged on desperation. ‘I’ve got a new one. You’ll like it!’

‘Is it a Krodan story?’ Aren asked.

‘Naturally,’ Cade lied. ‘Do I tell you any other kind?’

He wished his mother would tell him some Krodan stories sometimes, so that he could pas