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Synopsis
Part IV 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
Demons and gods, revenge and lies, and still the dragon moves slowly north. Wydrin, Sebastian and Frith now have the tools that could end the destruction, but a vast army lies between them and victory, and time is running out. The race is on to stop Y'Ruen before all of Ede is under her flame.
The complete novel, THE COPPER PROMISE, is available from Headline in Paperback and Ebook
Release date: January 30, 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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Upon the Ashen Blade
Jen Williams
Y’Ruen spread wings the colour of twilight and flew up through the cloud cover, revelling in the cold wisps of vapour as they curled against her scales. Her wings tore through the cloud, scattering and tearing, until she raised her head into a clear blue sky. The air was thin here, and cold, although she barely registered that; it was nothing compared to the boiling furnace she carried within her.
What is in the mind of a dragon? What does a god think about?
They were moving beyond the red lands of Relios now, and the clay-ridden earth had given way to plains full of hardy grass. Beyond those, Y’Ruen could make out lush green fields and the distant blue mountains that rimmed the northern edge of this continent. A flood of simple pleasure moved through her body at the thought of all that green space, all those fresh hills. Relios contained plenty of humans to consume, that was true, and the destruction of Creos, so long the site of her prison, had been a source of fierce joy, but these southern lands were already dry and sun baked. How pleasant it would be to see the water-fed lands of the north curling and turning black under her flames, while her children bloodied their swords.
Still, there was no rush.
The bone horns on either side of her long head were gathering ice crystals, and she could see the sky above darkening as she ran out of atmosphere. Turning gracefully, she dipped her head below the clouds once more and dived, seeking her children on the ground. The brood army marched below, a glistening tapestry of green and gold. There was almost too much to do. After thousands of years trapped within the Citadel she wanted to see everything turned to ash, and now there was no one to hold her back.
Long ago, when the world was young and Y’Ruen was already so old, there had been other gods. Brothers and sisters, creatures like her but not like her. There was the green woman, she remembered, who was forever telling her not to do this and not to do that. The green woman liked to see things grow and had encouraged the humans in their efforts, and so she and Y’Ruen had fought constantly. When the mages trapped them all within the Citadel – all save for one, although Y’Ruen barely remembered him – the green woman had seemed a lot smaller, and a lot less powerful. They all had.
It had taken a number of years – gods are not so easily consumed – but after centuries of being shredded between Y’Ruen’s teeth her siblings were finally nothing more than memories and ghosts in the rock.
Below the clouds the air was warmer, balmy almost. She flew down slowly, letting the heated air push comfortably against her membranous wings. She kept her eyes on her children, watching them as they marched. They had left the remains of the last village behind, and she could feel the eagerness of some of them for a new fight and fresh blood, matching her own hunger for destruction.
And some of them were talking again.
There wasn’t an awful lot that could make Y’Ruen uneasy. In fact, she had rarely experienced the sensation, save for the terrible moment when the doors of the Citadel had closed behind her and she’d felt the net of spells descend over them all. She didn’t expect her daughters to produce such worrying emotions. She had birthed them all in the dark of the Citadel, had she not? Clawed a nest in the raw rock and formed them from her own flesh and will? They were hers, and hers alone, and yet …
There was the other one. The man whose blood had woken them to life. And now some of her children were thinking in ways that were alien to her, keeping secrets from their mother and their sisters, treasuring words and names like they actually meant something. Like there was anything beyond the purity of fire and the joy of destruction.
Y’Ruen was displeased.
She put it from her mind. The green hills were coming and the blue mountains beyond, and soon it would all burn. Little else mattered.
The Sea King’s Terror limped past the islands like a wounded animal, still stinking of smoke and ashes. Wydrin paced the deck, peering out into the mists. In one hand she held a damp cloth, which she squeezed reflexively between her fingers; she’d been using it to moisten her brother’s brow, for all the good that had done him.
‘How close are we, Bill?’
The squat sailor pursed his lips, causing his beard to bristle up like a particularly ugly hedgehog. He shrugged at the fog enveloping the ship.
‘Not far now, uh, lady. It’s the weather, see, we have to go careful to avoid tearing out our arse on these rocks. The Nowhere Isles is always like this. Nasty, cursed place, if you ask me.’ He paused, as if considering the wisdom of saying more. ‘Waste of bloody time, if you ask me.’
Wydrin reached over and grabbed him by the front of his filthy tunic. She pushed her face close to his, ignoring the meaty stink of his breath.
‘So we should just let him die, is that what you are saying?’ She gave him a shake. ‘Because I would suggest you think very carefully before you say that to me.’
The small patch of Bill’s face that wasn’t bearded turned pink.
‘What good will it do? We’re chasing wisps and mermaids out ’ere! I’m mightily fond of the captain but it’s plain no one can help.’
Wydrin shook him again.
‘I know someone,’ she said. She looked down and noticed the bloody rag still clasped in her fingers; it smelled of fever-sweat and desperation. She let go of Bill and dropped the rag onto the floor, feeling faintly ill. ‘We just have to get to Whittenfarne.’
Of course, it was possible that Frith hadn’t gone there at all, or had been and left already. Knowing her luck, the awkward sod had been killed on his way to the islands, waylaid by thieves with an eye for his fancy sword and fat coin purse. But there was a chance, and as long as there was a chance she wasn’t letting go. She stalked away from Bill, tired of the weary sympathy in his eyes, and looked back into the mists.
An hour later, when eventually she saw the island, she thought her eyes were playing tricks on her. There was a faint blue glow coming from the blanket of white mist to the north-east of the ship, a soft light that seemed to shift and flicker. As they drew closer the patch of light grew larger, its movements more violent. There were shouts from the lookouts.
She grabbed the nearest crewman.
‘That’s where Whittenfarne is, isn’t it?’
The crewman nodded.
‘Does it usually look like that?’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘No, ma’am, islands don’t normally glow all blue like.’
Another shout from the rigging turned her back to the eerie sight. Whittenfarne finally came into view, and like most of the islands in this strange little archipelago it was all black rock and jagged hills, with patches of stunted trees and hardy vegetation. It was an unappealing place, but it wasn’t the geographical make-up that drew the eye. It was the storm.
Wydrin could think of no other name for it. The faint blue glow they’d seen through the mist had given no indication of the violence of light that now doused Whittenfarne. It was a shifting caul of indigo brilliance, riddled with crackling veins of lightning. There were dark clouds within the storm, swirling in a tight circle over the island, while everything beyond it was as still and calm as ever.
‘So this is Whittenfarne,’ she sighed. ‘Of course it bloody is.’
They sailed on, passing two gigantic black statues, the tops of both lost in the swirling clouds, before they finally came to a small, ramshackle dock built of greenish wood. There was a single bedraggled figure sitting there, and Wydrin recognised him instantly; it was difficult to mistake that white hair. Hope seized her heart, and something else too. With a start she realised she was glad to see the stupid princeling, despite everything.
‘I must really be desperate,’ she murmured.
Frith watched the small boat approach from where he sat on the rotting dock. Distantly he was aware he should be glad, that this was probably his only way back to civilisation, but it was difficult to muster the energy to care. Let them come, he thought. Let them go. It is all the same to me. There were two figures in the boat, a man and a woman, both rowing steadily. The woman turned and shouted something back to the ship, her voice flat against the fog. Frith blinked.
‘It cannot be,’ he said aloud.
He watched the small figure in the boat as it edged closer to the dock, taking in the mess of red hair, the way she sat slightly forward, tightly focussed on their destination, the ill-matched collection of leather armour … Yes, it was. Closer still and he could see the tattoo on her arm, the dagger at her waist. He struggled to his feet, ignoring the wave of lightheadedness that passed through him. He walked to the end of the dock, and now he was waving too, and as the boat came alongside and she clambered onto the steps, he realised an odd thing: he was smiling. It felt strange on his face, after everything that had happened.
She glanced up at him, green eyes flashing, and he was struck by how serious she looked.
‘The Copper Cat of Crosshaven,’ he called down to her. ‘I’m fairly certain your contract was at an end.’ He reached down an arm to help her up, and she took it. There was an awkward moment as they stood together on the dock, hands entwined, and then she pulled away, looking at the island beyond.
‘Oh, I thought you’d have some sort of trouble you’d need me to deal with.’ She waved at the silent storm, stopped as if she was going to say something, then waved her arms about some more. ‘What,’ she said eventually, ‘is all this?’
Frith sighed.
‘This,’ he said, ‘is the wrath of the gods.’
It took some time to explain, from all sides.
There was some initial confusion when finally Frith recognised the other occupant of the boat. He looked from Gallo to Wydrin, his hand hovering over the hilt of his sword.
‘A dead man walking around? You expect me to believe that?’
Wydrin shrugged.
‘You can come over here and smell him if you like. I may not believe him about a lot of things, but he’s definitely rotten. Listen, we need to talk.’
‘And where’s Sebastian?’
‘That is who I seek,’ said Gallo. Frith frowned. The man certainly looked dead; his skin was as white as parchment, save for those parts that were turning black and green. ‘We believe he’s in Relios, tracking the dragon you set free.’
‘I did nothing of the sort.’
‘What is all this, Frith?’ Wydrin nodded at the storm of lights.
They were perched on the small part of the beach untouched by the light. It was unnerving to be standing so close to it; the raw power seemed to push at Frith’s back, and he could feel his hair trying to stand on end.
‘I came here to learn how to control the mages’ powers. I met with a mystic called Jolnir.’ Frith cleared his throat. ‘He wore a mask, and underneath it he wasn’t human. And now he’s whipped up this magical storm. I believe that his assistants were once the other mystics of Whittenfarne, now under O’rin’s spell. The storm is impenetrable, and—’
‘What?’
‘Jolnir was a creature called O’rin, one of the old gods.’
Wydrin ran a hand over her face, squeezing her eyes shut.
‘I don’t have time for this.’ She took Frith by the arm. ‘Come on, I need you to come back to the ship with me.’
‘What?’
‘My brother is injured. We ran into the dragon while we were looking for Sebastian and apparently pirate ship versus dragon isn’t a well-matched fight. He’s dying, Frith, and I need your help.’
She began to drag him back to the dock, so he shook her off.
‘No, I can’t.’
‘Yes, you can.’ She took hold of him again, with both hands this time. Gallo stood off to one side, silent. ‘I need you to do what you did with me, remember? When you healed my arm? With the pink light?’
‘I said I can’t.’
‘I’ll pay you! I’ll do anything you want. Just come with me and help him. I’ll do anything.’ She . . .
What is in the mind of a dragon? What does a god think about?
They were moving beyond the red lands of Relios now, and the clay-ridden earth had given way to plains full of hardy grass. Beyond those, Y’Ruen could make out lush green fields and the distant blue mountains that rimmed the northern edge of this continent. A flood of simple pleasure moved through her body at the thought of all that green space, all those fresh hills. Relios contained plenty of humans to consume, that was true, and the destruction of Creos, so long the site of her prison, had been a source of fierce joy, but these southern lands were already dry and sun baked. How pleasant it would be to see the water-fed lands of the north curling and turning black under her flames, while her children bloodied their swords.
Still, there was no rush.
The bone horns on either side of her long head were gathering ice crystals, and she could see the sky above darkening as she ran out of atmosphere. Turning gracefully, she dipped her head below the clouds once more and dived, seeking her children on the ground. The brood army marched below, a glistening tapestry of green and gold. There was almost too much to do. After thousands of years trapped within the Citadel she wanted to see everything turned to ash, and now there was no one to hold her back.
Long ago, when the world was young and Y’Ruen was already so old, there had been other gods. Brothers and sisters, creatures like her but not like her. There was the green woman, she remembered, who was forever telling her not to do this and not to do that. The green woman liked to see things grow and had encouraged the humans in their efforts, and so she and Y’Ruen had fought constantly. When the mages trapped them all within the Citadel – all save for one, although Y’Ruen barely remembered him – the green woman had seemed a lot smaller, and a lot less powerful. They all had.
It had taken a number of years – gods are not so easily consumed – but after centuries of being shredded between Y’Ruen’s teeth her siblings were finally nothing more than memories and ghosts in the rock.
Below the clouds the air was warmer, balmy almost. She flew down slowly, letting the heated air push comfortably against her membranous wings. She kept her eyes on her children, watching them as they marched. They had left the remains of the last village behind, and she could feel the eagerness of some of them for a new fight and fresh blood, matching her own hunger for destruction.
And some of them were talking again.
There wasn’t an awful lot that could make Y’Ruen uneasy. In fact, she had rarely experienced the sensation, save for the terrible moment when the doors of the Citadel had closed behind her and she’d felt the net of spells descend over them all. She didn’t expect her daughters to produce such worrying emotions. She had birthed them all in the dark of the Citadel, had she not? Clawed a nest in the raw rock and formed them from her own flesh and will? They were hers, and hers alone, and yet …
There was the other one. The man whose blood had woken them to life. And now some of her children were thinking in ways that were alien to her, keeping secrets from their mother and their sisters, treasuring words and names like they actually meant something. Like there was anything beyond the purity of fire and the joy of destruction.
Y’Ruen was displeased.
She put it from her mind. The green hills were coming and the blue mountains beyond, and soon it would all burn. Little else mattered.
The Sea King’s Terror limped past the islands like a wounded animal, still stinking of smoke and ashes. Wydrin paced the deck, peering out into the mists. In one hand she held a damp cloth, which she squeezed reflexively between her fingers; she’d been using it to moisten her brother’s brow, for all the good that had done him.
‘How close are we, Bill?’
The squat sailor pursed his lips, causing his beard to bristle up like a particularly ugly hedgehog. He shrugged at the fog enveloping the ship.
‘Not far now, uh, lady. It’s the weather, see, we have to go careful to avoid tearing out our arse on these rocks. The Nowhere Isles is always like this. Nasty, cursed place, if you ask me.’ He paused, as if considering the wisdom of saying more. ‘Waste of bloody time, if you ask me.’
Wydrin reached over and grabbed him by the front of his filthy tunic. She pushed her face close to his, ignoring the meaty stink of his breath.
‘So we should just let him die, is that what you are saying?’ She gave him a shake. ‘Because I would suggest you think very carefully before you say that to me.’
The small patch of Bill’s face that wasn’t bearded turned pink.
‘What good will it do? We’re chasing wisps and mermaids out ’ere! I’m mightily fond of the captain but it’s plain no one can help.’
Wydrin shook him again.
‘I know someone,’ she said. She looked down and noticed the bloody rag still clasped in her fingers; it smelled of fever-sweat and desperation. She let go of Bill and dropped the rag onto the floor, feeling faintly ill. ‘We just have to get to Whittenfarne.’
Of course, it was possible that Frith hadn’t gone there at all, or had been and left already. Knowing her luck, the awkward sod had been killed on his way to the islands, waylaid by thieves with an eye for his fancy sword and fat coin purse. But there was a chance, and as long as there was a chance she wasn’t letting go. She stalked away from Bill, tired of the weary sympathy in his eyes, and looked back into the mists.
An hour later, when eventually she saw the island, she thought her eyes were playing tricks on her. There was a faint blue glow coming from the blanket of white mist to the north-east of the ship, a soft light that seemed to shift and flicker. As they drew closer the patch of light grew larger, its movements more violent. There were shouts from the lookouts.
She grabbed the nearest crewman.
‘That’s where Whittenfarne is, isn’t it?’
The crewman nodded.
‘Does it usually look like that?’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘No, ma’am, islands don’t normally glow all blue like.’
Another shout from the rigging turned her back to the eerie sight. Whittenfarne finally came into view, and like most of the islands in this strange little archipelago it was all black rock and jagged hills, with patches of stunted trees and hardy vegetation. It was an unappealing place, but it wasn’t the geographical make-up that drew the eye. It was the storm.
Wydrin could think of no other name for it. The faint blue glow they’d seen through the mist had given no indication of the violence of light that now doused Whittenfarne. It was a shifting caul of indigo brilliance, riddled with crackling veins of lightning. There were dark clouds within the storm, swirling in a tight circle over the island, while everything beyond it was as still and calm as ever.
‘So this is Whittenfarne,’ she sighed. ‘Of course it bloody is.’
They sailed on, passing two gigantic black statues, the tops of both lost in the swirling clouds, before they finally came to a small, ramshackle dock built of greenish wood. There was a single bedraggled figure sitting there, and Wydrin recognised him instantly; it was difficult to mistake that white hair. Hope seized her heart, and something else too. With a start she realised she was glad to see the stupid princeling, despite everything.
‘I must really be desperate,’ she murmured.
Frith watched the small boat approach from where he sat on the rotting dock. Distantly he was aware he should be glad, that this was probably his only way back to civilisation, but it was difficult to muster the energy to care. Let them come, he thought. Let them go. It is all the same to me. There were two figures in the boat, a man and a woman, both rowing steadily. The woman turned and shouted something back to the ship, her voice flat against the fog. Frith blinked.
‘It cannot be,’ he said aloud.
He watched the small figure in the boat as it edged closer to the dock, taking in the mess of red hair, the way she sat slightly forward, tightly focussed on their destination, the ill-matched collection of leather armour … Yes, it was. Closer still and he could see the tattoo on her arm, the dagger at her waist. He struggled to his feet, ignoring the wave of lightheadedness that passed through him. He walked to the end of the dock, and now he was waving too, and as the boat came alongside and she clambered onto the steps, he realised an odd thing: he was smiling. It felt strange on his face, after everything that had happened.
She glanced up at him, green eyes flashing, and he was struck by how serious she looked.
‘The Copper Cat of Crosshaven,’ he called down to her. ‘I’m fairly certain your contract was at an end.’ He reached down an arm to help her up, and she took it. There was an awkward moment as they stood together on the dock, hands entwined, and then she pulled away, looking at the island beyond.
‘Oh, I thought you’d have some sort of trouble you’d need me to deal with.’ She waved at the silent storm, stopped as if she was going to say something, then waved her arms about some more. ‘What,’ she said eventually, ‘is all this?’
Frith sighed.
‘This,’ he said, ‘is the wrath of the gods.’
It took some time to explain, from all sides.
There was some initial confusion when finally Frith recognised the other occupant of the boat. He looked from Gallo to Wydrin, his hand hovering over the hilt of his sword.
‘A dead man walking around? You expect me to believe that?’
Wydrin shrugged.
‘You can come over here and smell him if you like. I may not believe him about a lot of things, but he’s definitely rotten. Listen, we need to talk.’
‘And where’s Sebastian?’
‘That is who I seek,’ said Gallo. Frith frowned. The man certainly looked dead; his skin was as white as parchment, save for those parts that were turning black and green. ‘We believe he’s in Relios, tracking the dragon you set free.’
‘I did nothing of the sort.’
‘What is all this, Frith?’ Wydrin nodded at the storm of lights.
They were perched on the small part of the beach untouched by the light. It was unnerving to be standing so close to it; the raw power seemed to push at Frith’s back, and he could feel his hair trying to stand on end.
‘I came here to learn how to control the mages’ powers. I met with a mystic called Jolnir.’ Frith cleared his throat. ‘He wore a mask, and underneath it he wasn’t human. And now he’s whipped up this magical storm. I believe that his assistants were once the other mystics of Whittenfarne, now under O’rin’s spell. The storm is impenetrable, and—’
‘What?’
‘Jolnir was a creature called O’rin, one of the old gods.’
Wydrin ran a hand over her face, squeezing her eyes shut.
‘I don’t have time for this.’ She took Frith by the arm. ‘Come on, I need you to come back to the ship with me.’
‘What?’
‘My brother is injured. We ran into the dragon while we were looking for Sebastian and apparently pirate ship versus dragon isn’t a well-matched fight. He’s dying, Frith, and I need your help.’
She began to drag him back to the dock, so he shook her off.
‘No, I can’t.’
‘Yes, you can.’ She took hold of him again, with both hands this time. Gallo stood off to one side, silent. ‘I need you to do what you did with me, remember? When you healed my arm? With the pink light?’
‘I said I can’t.’
‘I’ll pay you! I’ll do anything you want. Just come with me and help him. I’ll do anything.’ She . . .
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