Witchsign. Den Patrick

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СКАЧАТЬ the pleasant ache of muscles hardened from work, jobs in need of doing and jobs well done. The product of his labour lined the walls: small knives; pots and pans; hammers; scythes and the odd sickle.

      The anvil chimed as Steiner brought the hammer down on the white-hot metal. Sweat dampened his brow and ran down his back with each breath. A deep contentment settled upon him; something was being made, something was being created.

      ‘That’s enough of that,’ said his father. ‘Looks like you’re making a sword. And you know how the Empire feels about that.’

      Steiner grinned. ‘Could I at least finish it? I’ll melt it down afterwards.’

      Marek allowed himself a smile, caught up in Steiner’s enthusiasm. ‘A sword does a strange thing to a man’s mind—’

      ‘Being beaten over the head with one thing is much like another, I reckon.’ Steiner shrugged and gave a chuckle.

      ‘I mean wielding a sword, you oaf.’ Marek returned Steiner’s chuckle with one of his own. ‘It makes a man think he has some destiny or privilege.’ Marek’s tone made it clear exactly how he felt about the latter.

      ‘Not much destiny or privilege in Cinderfell,’ said Steiner, feeling the joy of creation grow cold despite the searing heat of the smithy.

      ‘No, there isn’t. It’s why I moved here.’ Marek rolled his heavy shoulders and rubbed one scarred forearm with an equally scarred hand. ‘Come on, we’re done for the day.’

      They stepped out beneath overcast skies. Every day was overcast in Cinderfell. The Empire said it was a legacy of the war with the dragons, that the terrible creatures had scorched the skies above the continent for decades to come.

      ‘Must it always be so grey?’ muttered Steiner, as the wind chilled the sweat on his skin.

      ‘It’s not like this in the south,’ said Marek. ‘They can see the sun in Shanisrond.’

      Steiner gave an incredulous snort. ‘Next you’ll be telling me the dragons still live.’

      Marek shook his head. ‘No, the Empire saw to that. And you know that when the Empire take an interest in something—’

      ‘It usually ends up dead.’ Steiner ran a hand over his jaw, the feel of stubble beneath his callused fingers still a novelty. The downy fuzz of his early teens had given way to something rougher. ‘So why don’t we buy a cart, pack up, and head off to Shanisrond?’

      Steiner followed Marek’s gaze as he looked over the town and the cottages that nestled against the steep incline rising up from the coast. The small windows bore heavy wooden shutters stained with salt, and verdant moss clung to thatched rooftops. The dour atmosphere was well matched by the cruel temperature.

      ‘Not much of a home, is it,’ admitted Marek.

      ‘So why stay?’

      Steiner regretted the question as soon as he saw the pained expression cross his father’s face. For a moment they stood in silence beneath the flat grey sky. Marek lifted his eyes to the sea and Steiner wasn’t sure if he was searching or pleading with the choppy waves that danced against the stone pier.

      ‘You still hope she’ll come back.’

      Marek nodded, opened his mouth to speak, then decided against it and headed back into the smithy.

      ‘Did you sell the sickle we made last week?’ asked Steiner, keen to change the subject from an absent mother, an absent wife.

      Marek nodded but said nothing. Steiner was well used to his father’s silences.

      ‘Strange time of year to harvest herbs. Who bought it?’

      ‘One of the fishermen.’ Marek cleared his throat. ‘I don’t remember now.’

      Steiner frowned and pulled off his thick leather gloves. In a town this small they knew every customer by name. The sale of a sickle was no small matter and would bring some much needed coin. He opened his mouth to press for an answer but the latch on the door rattled and his father nodded towards it.

      ‘I wondered where Kjell had got to,’ said Marek.

      The door to the smithy creaked as Kjellrunn pushed the heavy wood aside. She stepped forward into the furnace’s glow. Small for her age, she looked closer to twelve than her sixteen years. Her tunic was overlong, reaching her knees, while her britches were patched many times; Steiner’s hand-me-downs. All their coin was spent on food and supplies for the smithy; money for clothes was scarce.

      ‘Would it kill you to pull a brush through your hair before you go to school?’ said their father with a slow smile.

      ‘She does a fine impression of a rusalka,’ said Steiner, noting the driftwood and black feathers she clutched; treasures from the beach no doubt.

      ‘You said you don’t believe in the old tales,’ replied Kjellrunn.

      Steiner shrugged. ‘That may be, but I’m still halfway convinced you’re one of them.’

      ‘There are worse things than rusalka,’ replied Kjellrunn. ‘A ship has just arrived in the bay.’

      ‘We were out there not more than a minute ago,’ replied Steiner.

      ‘See for yourself if you think I’m a liar,’ she replied, jutting her chin with an obstinate look in her eye.

      ‘I’d rather start preparing dinner if it’s all the same to you,’ said their father. He looked away, unwilling to meet their eyes. ‘A ship in the bay means the Empire.’

      ‘And that means a troika of Vigilants,’ said Steiner, feeling the familiar fear the Holy Synod evoked.

      ‘Perhaps not.’ Kjell eyed both of them. ‘Not this time. You’ll want to see this.’

      ‘Did Uncle Verner bet you could lure us down to the bay?’ Steiner asked as they followed the rutted track that led to the coastal road.

      ‘I haven’t seen him in days,’ replied Kjellrunn, her eyes fixed on the blue-grey swell of the sea. Something between mist and rain dampened their spirits even as curiosity kindled inside them.

      ‘There it is,’ said Marek, pointing a finger. The bay rarely saw anything larger than fishing boats; no one put in at Cinderfell to trade. Only when the Sommerende Ocean sent vicious storms did captains seek the safe haven of the drab town.

      ‘A ship,’ said Steiner. ‘A frigate, I reckon. Though why you’d care to paint it red is anyone’s guess.’

      ‘You reckon right,’ said their father. ‘It’s a frigate, but not like I’ve seen before.’

      They continued to walk down to the bay, past cottages arranged in curving rows, down the narrow cobbled road that wended its way to the shore. The Spøkelsea rushed over the shingle beach in a hushed roar, leaving trails of foam and seaweed as the water retreated once again. Steiner studied the sleek ship as it lay at anchor, sails stowed like folded wings. The sailors aboard were ant-sized at this distance and just as busy. The whole vessel was dark red from prow to stern while the figurehead СКАЧАТЬ