THE RIGHTEOUS
David Wragg

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

Copyright © David Wragg 2021

Cover illustration © Gavin Reece

Cover design by Micaela Alcaino © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

David Wragg asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008331443

Ebook Edition © April 2021 ISBN: 9780008331450

Version: 2021-04-20

Dedication

For my parents, Who thought they’d raised me better

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Previously …

Part I

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Part II

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Part III

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Part IV

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by David Wragg

About the Publisher

PREVIOUSLY …

Aye, right, where were we? So our boys Rennic (aka boss) and Chel (aka wee bear, cub, dipstick) have got themselves locked in the dungeons below the old royal citadel, along with a whole bunch of hapless folk who thought they were on the verge of liberating the kingdom from your good old-fashioned tyrannical regime. I’d say execution at the hands of the murderous red confessors is imminent, on account of the steady procession of corpses that’s been rolling out of said citadel in the time since, often in stages.

How did it come to this, dear Lemon, I hear you ask? Ah, well, it all started back in Denirnas Port, where the Black Hawks (the greatest mercenary company the world has yet to recognize) – the boss Rennic, the big lad Foss, the tart Loveless, the tireless Whisper, the tiresome Spider and the wise and scintillating Lemon – were engaged in the blameless act of unregulated commerce. Then out of the clear blue morning, in come the whopping black ships of the Norts from over the sea, blockade the bay and blast the fuck out of the port’s various edifices strategic with their heathen witchfire.

It’s fair to say some chaos and bedlam ensued. Being attentive and charitable souls, we snatched a prince from the melee: Tarfel, the runt prince, the spare heir. Chel, his sworn man, came too – not my fault, the boss insisted. Plan was we’d shop said wee prince over to the Rau Rel, the great partisan underground, who were gathering their strength to overthrow the hated church.

Course, like any good plan it’s fucked sideways from the off. Seems the wee bear has made it his sworn mission to drop a bollock at every opportunity, and boss has to relocate one of his arms to knock off his aggro. We’re forced cross-country, chased by a steaming stack of confessors, Mawnish mercenaries, cannibals, and toothy wolves. Fucken wolves, man. At least we saw the last of that prick Brother Hurkel – Loveless took a hand off him and we left him to die on a mountain. No chance he made it back from that, no chance at all.

Anyway, all’s grand in the end. We get princeling to the Rau Rel, they arrange a meetup with his big bro, the dim Crown Prince Mendel, and we’re all set for taking the citadel. Off we dutifully march, with nary a pause to renegotiate our fee, and set up guard in the courtyard while the others bust in. Now I don’t know exactly what happened next, but friend Spider came steaming out in short order and bellowed a morsel as he passed, to wit: the ‘regime’ we’d come all that way to perform said overthrowing upon is our bosom pal the fucken crown prince. Except he’s not the dim one, Mendel the thickie. He’s the dead one, Corvel the bastard – who offed his own twin to lay a trap for the churchy buggers years ago, and has been ruling from the shadows in times since.

Boss and the wee bear didn’t have friend Spider’s luck, hence their predicament. But where there’s life there’s hope. Did I mention the wee bear has a sister? Aye, and she’s a fuck-sight craftier than he is …

PART I

ONE

The crack on the ceiling was patterned with frost, frozen tendrils spidering the length of the cell. Chel stared up at it in the dull light, watching his breath plume in the frigid air.

The wind blew through the narrow cell window and he hunched into the thin blanket wrapped around him. The noise it made was eerie through the dungeon, moaning down the hallway. Snow lay piled beneath the narrow windows, small drifts resting undisturbed on the broken flagstones beyond the cell’s bars. The vast bulk of the gaoler blocked what thin light and warmth spread from the brazier by the stairs, her infrequent shuffles, farts, and mutterings the only reminder that another soul dwelt alongside them.

Chel sat up on the pallet and opened his mouth to speak. His cellmate was already staring at him from the opposite pallet, glaring from beneath thunderous dark brows, bearded jaw set hard.

Chel closed his mouth. Today would not be a talking day.

The clatter and jingle of armoured footsteps from the stairwell roused the dungeon’s denizens and the gaoler knocked over her stool in her haste to stand. She slapped at the cell bars with the brazier’s poker, her wordless command to stand and look presentable, and a moment later the procession reached the foot of the stairs. Armoured confessors tramped around the corner and out of sight, away from the cells, spears tightly angled against the low ceilings. Chel couldn’t see who marched at their centre. The gaoler sagged back to her righted stool as they disappeared, the clang of a distant iron door reverberating down the cold stone hall from the block’s far end.

Chel’s heart fluttered. He felt an electric surge of hope and fear every time the confessors appeared. Their visits were less frequent, the prince coming weekly now that most of the cells had been emptied, sometimes stopping at their cell, sometimes going only to the iron door. Every time, Chel tried to scrutinize his escort without staring, looking for signs that his sister survived, that she hid still within their ranks. That she could still free them, before their cell, too, was emptied.

He slid back from the bars, back to the pallet, lost in melancholy, as the red procession swept back past the cell in a tumult. Gold flashed amid the red, then Prince Corvel Merimonsun was there, standing to address the occupants of the last two cells. Chel risked a look at the escort, but the forms were hooded and dim, their rust-coloured robes murky in the gloom.

‘Here we are again.’ The crown prince, now king-in-waiting, sounded cordial, even cheerful. ‘This really is your last chance. I’ve waited as long as I can.’

Silence came in answer from both cells. Chel began to edge forward, but a confessor’s hood twitched in his direction and he shrank back.

‘I’m offering you a way to survive. I’m a man of my word. Tell me all you have, confirm what I already know, and you live out your days. All of you, saved from confession.’

He paused, waiting for an answer that would not come. He began to move away, footsteps echoing off the stone walls, hesitated, and turned back.

‘I could have tortured you, you know? I could have had you ripped into pieces, but I wanted to keep this civil. I wanted to set an example. Well, you’ve done me no favours there, have you? Now Brother Hurkel will tell me he was right all along.’

The prince took a long breath. The gaoler shuffled in the lull.

‘Enough is enough. My mercy is not inexhaustible. Prepare the court. These two can go today. In fact, they can go now.’

Something stirred within the cell. A moaning cry, a wordless expulsion of woe and denial. A pair of confessors peeled off from the escort, running back up the stairs with their gear jangling. The gaoler was sitting up straight now, keys in her blistered hand. Chel felt numb, even the cold in his fingers was distant.

‘Oh, you have something to say, do you?’

The crying continued, becoming a repeating syllable, no, no, no, no, no. Shifting, becoming hoarse, pleading screams. ‘Take them! Take the others! They’re to blame! It wasn’t me!’

Dalim, the erstwhile glaive-wielding mercenary, had spoken little since Brother Hurkel had crushed him against the wall of the Primarch’s tower, and what he’d said had been indistinct. This was the most vocal he’d been since the cells had welcomed them.

Corvel addressed the cell’s other occupant. ‘You see, Palo? You could have saved them all, every soul in this place. What kind of monster are you?’

Without another word, Corvel swept back past Chel’s cell, a flowing wave of golden hair and robes. The clank of the cell door opening was followed by the grunting and cursing of the confessors as they extracted the kicking and wailing Dalim. His screams echoed down the stairwell as they carried him up, weakened but struggling, out of the light and out of sight.

‘It’s their fault! Their fault! They did this!’

Ayla Palo, last survivor of the Rau Rel leadership, emerged from the cell and followed at her own slow pace, a confessor on either side. Chel hadn’t seen her since they’d been confined, countless weeks before. She looked thin, colourless, diminished, but her expression was resolute.

She paused as she passed their cell, the confessors stopping alongside. Chel started to find his cellmate at his elbow, his gaze locked on Palo’s.

‘He’s right, you know.’

Her first words in weeks. Chel tried to puzzle out who she meant.

Beside him, Rennic nodded.

‘He is.’

‘Should have listened to me.’

‘I should.’

She nodded, eyes blank, then turned to follow Dalim up the stairs.

‘Palo?’

Rennic called after her, and she paused. His fingers were wrapped around the freezing bars, but he wasn’t letting go.

‘Yes?’

‘Be seeing you.’

***

The gaoler was roasting something over the brazier and greasy fat drops were sizzling on the glowing coals. The smell reached Chel’s nostrils, making his mouth water, despite his growing unease at the cries and creaks from the courtyard beyond the narrow window. The sounds of a gathering crowd.

Chel leaned against the freezing bars. His mind drifted, thoughts blurry, indistinct, whirling like a leaf in a gale.

‘Hey.’

Rennic called from across the cell, past where Chel was slumped. The founder and chief executive of the Black Hawk Company was upside-down, feet against the back wall, pushing himself slowly up and down on his hands. Chel’s shoulder ached to look at him.

‘Hey!’

The gaoler glared over one meaty shoulder. ‘What?’

‘When are we eating?’

The gaoler stirred, pushing herself to her feet. The keys jangled at her belt as she lumbered forward, the poker back in her hand. She came to rest before the bars, a fraction beyond arm’s reach. A sickly grin spread across her bulbous features, revealing an excellent set of teeth.

‘No food for you today, fuckers. No food ever again.’ She chuckled, her robes shuddering in waves.

Rennic took one foot off the wall, then the other. He maintained the handstand for a breath, then lowered his head to the floor, raised it again, and rolled down into a crouch. Flushed and panting, he fixed a fearsome glare on the gaoler.

‘No last meal? We die hungry? Prince Dick-head decree that, did he? Or is this your initiative, you pearl-grinned fuck-fountain?’

The poker slammed against the bars. ‘You die hungry,’ the gaoler growled, and turned to waddle back toward the brazier.

Torchlight flickered in the stairwell. Someone was coming.

The gaoler brandished the poker again, grunting them back from the bars, then straightened her stool and stood tall beside the brazier. Footsteps echoed from the stairwell, less numerous than usual, less weighty. A moment later, a bright torch flared into the dungeon, held aloft by a skinny but well-tailored arm. The gaoler dropped to one knee.

‘Your highness!’

Prince Tarfel Merimonsun stumbled into the dungeon, keeping the torch overhead, blinking in its dancing light. A hooded confessor followed at his heel. Tarfel cleared his throat, eyes scanning the now-empty cells, the unease growing on his face. He looked healthy, at least, whole and well-fed, although his sunless pallor had returned.

‘I … I need to speak to the prisoners. Alone.’

The gaoler frowned. She was still on her knees, the poker still in her hand.

‘Alone, highness? I can’t leave them unattended. You understand, these are dangerous, vile men. Damned criminals and traitors.’

Tarfel nodded, distracted. Despite the cold, he appeared to be sweating. ‘Yes, yes, indeed. Indeed. That’s why I brought protection,’ he added, with a wave toward the accompanying confessor. ‘Open the cell, please?’

The gaoler’s frown deepened, and she raised her gaze a fraction, narrow eyes moving from the prince to his escort and back. ‘I cannot, your highness.’

Tarfel turned back to the confessor with a helpless look, a shrug forming. The confessor’s hood gave a firm nod, one hand reaching for the thin mace dangling from the rope belt. The gaoler caught the movement, shifting her focus from the hapless prince to the confessor, her furry brow now lowered in bullish suspicion. Chel edged closer to the bars. The light was weak, his view blocked, but the confessor looked small to his eye. His pulse quickened.

The gaoler had risen to a half-crouch. ‘Is there something else I can help you with, highness? Perhaps you’d like me to call for someone?’ The dungeon bell was two paces away, the far side of the brazier.

Tarfel swallowed. His torch arm was beginning to tremble.

‘Give me the keys. Please.’

‘I don’t think that would be appropriate, highness.’

‘I’m a prince!’ His voice rose in panic. ‘You have to do what I say!’

‘Perhaps I should check with the duty prelate. I’ll call for him.’

The gaoler stood, already lurching toward the bell. The confessor pushed past the prince, mace in hand, blocking the gaoler’s path, dwarfed by her.

‘Are you lost, brother?’ the gaoler sneered. ‘Stand aside.’

Tarfel had his free hand out in desperate placation. ‘Now there’s really no need for—’

The gaoler swung, the poker whistling in an arc and smashing shards from the stone beside the stumbling confessor’s head. The mace swung back, pinging from the poker as it came back around. It flew from the confessor’s grip and skittered across the icy flagstones.

With a gleeful chuckle, the gaoler advanced on the confessor, who scuttled and dodged back and around the bleating prince. The gaoler followed, the bell forgotten, swiping with the poker like a butcher swatting flies. The confessor scrambled around, kicking snow, before standing before Chel’s cell, back pressed to the bars.

The gaoler lunged, the confessor ducked, and something shunted Chel aside. A ringing clang filled the hallway, a muffled grunting in its echoes. Chel looked back to see the gaoler’s beefy arm dragged through the bars, held fast at a punishing angle in Rennic’s unyielding grip. His other arm was through the bars in the other direction, wrapped around the wide-eyed gaoler’s neck, jamming her back against the rusty iron. The poker dropped with a clatter.

Rennic’s eyes shone white in the gloom. ‘Get. The. Keys.’

The confessor pushed out from beneath the gaoler’s shadow and stood, a touch unsteady. A quick hand snapped the keys from the gaoler’s belt, another beckoned Tarfel and his torch over to find the right key. A moment later, the door clanked open and swung wide. The gaoler looked around with wild eyes, her every attempt to speak or cry choked by Rennic’s grip.

Rennic peered over her at the confessor. ‘Lemon, is that you in there? How the fuck did you get in?’

The confessor pulled back her hood. Straight black hair, pulled tight, tumbled out from within. Defiant grey eyes glowed in the torchlight.

Chel’s heart burst. ‘Sab!’

‘Hello, Brother Bear. I told you I’d be back for you, didn’t I?’

Rennic looked from one to the other. ‘Fuck me, this is your sister?’

‘Rennic, this is Sab—’

‘Don’t care. We need to get the fuck out of here. I assume you have a plan for what’s next, Chel’s sister?’

Sab nodded. ‘There’s a way out, while everyone’s distracted by the confession.’

‘Then let’s go.’

Sab looked around the dungeon, the barred cells stretching off either side of the hallway.

‘What about the others?’

Chel shook his head. ‘There are no others.’

‘Oh. I’m … I’m sorry. I came as soon as I could …’

‘You’re here now.’

The gaoler struggled in Rennic’s grip, and he clamped down with a growl.

‘Either of you got a knife?’

Tarfel wiped at his face, smudging his cold sweat with torch soot. ‘Can we just lock her away? The cell’s open.’

The gaoler struggled again, fighting against his grip, her muffled cries rising in pitch.

Rennic’s voice was grave-flat.

‘No.’

The muscles of his arm bulged like the gaoler’s eyes as he began to crush the life from her. Chel turned away, reaching out an instinctive arm to steer Sab with him, but she stood firm, expression fixed. He tugged at her shoulder.

‘Let’s go.’

‘I can take it.’

‘I’m sure you can, but we need to go, remember?’

She relaxed and turned with him, and he nodded to Tarfel to lead the way out.

‘Good to see you, highness.’

Tarfel sniffed, a small smile tweaking his mouth. His trembling had almost subsided. ‘How about a thank you?’

‘How about we get out of here first?’

Chel had his foot on the bottom step when he heard the sound, this time clear enough to make him pause. It was coming from the opposite end of the dungeon hallway, the darkened end, the end with the iron door. It sounded like a cry.

Rennic bumped into his back. ‘Get moving, fuck-stick.’

‘I think there’s someone in there.’

‘You can pity them later.’

Chel stepped back from the winding stairwell. He walked quickly to the iron door, Rennic’s exasperation at his back palpable, the weak light from the fading brazier picking out only the scores and divots from the shadows. A small, barred grille was cut from the door’s mass. From it, a pair of wide, frightened eyes peered, glimmering tearful.

‘Please?’

Chel stared into deep wells of the eyes, locked in pleading entreaty. The face was small, dark, dirty, young.

‘Who are you?’

‘Please?’

Chel yelled for the keys. ‘Fuck it, you’re coming with us.’

Rennic’s hand was rough on his shoulder, spinning him. Behind them, Sab’s approaching footsteps jingled.

‘—the fuck are you doing, boy? You think we have eternity to bolt?’

Chel reached past him, snatching the keys from Sab’s outstretched hand and rummaging in the half-light.

‘I’m getting this boy out.’

‘Please,’ came again from the grille.

‘This is not one of ours! There’s none of us left!’

‘He’s trapped here just the same. We can’t leave him – my father would have called it a sin to leave an unfortunate in peril.’

‘We’re pretty unfortunate by any measure, and our peril is not in dispute!’

Chel fumbled with cold, rusty iron, trying one of the keys to no avail. ‘You can either stand there and shout at me while I ignore you and do the right thing anyway, or you can fucking help. We’d all get out sooner.’

Rennic’s nostrils flared, and his mouth shaped to speak, but he held his tongue. Finally, he snatched the ring from Chel’s hand, flicking it around before seizing one from the mass.

‘Here you go, merciful sister. Keyhole’s a different shape from the cells.’ He sighed. ‘Sooner or later, your fucking sanctimony will be our deaths.’

The lock sprang, and the great dark door swung open with a clang and an alchemical waft.

A shrivelled creature looked up at them, rag-clad and hunched.

‘Fuck me,’ Rennic said, head tilted. ‘A Nort.’

TWO

The stark, snow-reflected light from the tall windows along the upper hallway stung Chel’s eyes, and by now his weakened legs were aching, begging for rest. Only the little Nort fared worse; his shuffling steps were timid and unsteady, and a rough sack of belongings gathered from shelving beside the iron cell was slung over his shoulder, clinking with each halting pace. Rennic was doing better – Chel wasn’t sure if he’d never abandoned hope of rescue, or if he was too bloody-minded to change his routine, but the big man had kept himself as fit and strong as possible during their stay in the cells. Chel’s early attempts to match him had led only to sharp pain from his ruined shoulder, and he’d felt too cold and hungry to try again since.

‘Come on, Bear, keep moving!’ Sab’s arm wrapped around him.

He nodded back at the Nort. ‘Think our friend needs help more than I do.’

‘“Our friend” flinches whenever I get near him, so you’re all I’ve got.’

They struggled on in awkward synchronicity.

‘Where are we heading?’

‘The gatehouse. I’ve stashed some cloaks and things there, we should be able to slip out of the side door, mingle with the crowd at chucking-out time, get down the hill with the masses.’

‘At the end of the confession?’

She paused.

‘Yes.’

‘Where are all the guards?’

‘Prince Tarfel told them it was fine to go and watch the confession. Only that beast in the cells looked twice at us.’

Chel nodded, wincing at the burning sensation in his legs. He’d not walked so many steps in a row for weeks, nor climbed anything more than his creaking pallet.

‘How did you get Tarfel to help? How did you even come to speak to him? How …’ He fell silent. There were too many questions, too many things he felt eluded him.

She sensed his mood, the tide of enquiries dammed by his silence. ‘Don’t fret, Bear. You know I can be persuasive. We can go into detail later, once we’re clear. If you want, that is …’

He nodded, waved her words away.

‘How long do we have?’

A scream rent the air, something awful and animal and in utter agony. It lasted far longer than Chel thought possible, its pitch and intensity shaking his bones, making his guts tremble.

Sab’s eyes were wide, her breath sharp.

‘Not long.’

Rennic was already at the window, peering into the courtyard below, but keeping as low as he could. Chel thumped down next to him as the next scream ripped across the citadel. It subsided into sobs, screeching, mewling, pleading.

‘Any chance they’re just skinning a goat down there?’

Rennic shook his head. His expression was grave-cold, his years wearing as heavy on his face as Chel had ever seen.

‘Dalim,’ he said.

Chel nodded, because he could think of nothing else to do. Then he said, ‘Palo will give them nothing. She’ll make fools of them all.’

Rennic took a long breath, steadying himself to stand.

‘I doubt it.’

***

At the door to the frozen battlement, their burning climb behind them, Tarfel stopped to wait. ‘The gatehouse is at the far end. Just stay out of sight until the confession ends, then go for the side door. I need to get back upstairs, before they notice I’m gone,’ he said. ‘We both do.’ He was looking at Sab.

Chel looked back in horror. ‘Get back? What are you talking about?’

The prince shrugged, apologetic. ‘I’m technically under house arrest, confined to chambers, you see. If your sister hadn’t got me out, I’d still be stuck there.’

‘But people saw you, you sent them to watch the confession!’

‘Indeed, indeed. My status is all a bit hush-hush, a bit need-to-know. Corvel’s not keen to explain why he’s imprisoned his own brother, you understand.’

‘And you’re going back?!’

‘Plausible deniability, Vedren. Best big bro never finds out I’ve been on a jaunt.’

‘And you?’ Chel turned to his sister. ‘Why would you stay here?’

‘Nobody knows about me,’ she said, jaw set in an expression he remembered from years before. ‘I can do more good here, working on the inside.’

‘Corvel knows a thrice-damned sight more than anyone ever believed,’ he said, skin prickling with inner heat. ‘He knows I have a sister, and he’ll sure as day-old shit know that we’re gone and his gaoler is dead. He’ll know we had help. He’ll look.’

Another scream tore through the morning air, this one layered thick with madness.

‘And everyone confesses in the end.’

Rennic elbowed his way into their huddle. ‘It’s guarded,’ he snarled. ‘The fucking gatehouse has three men I can see and who knows how many more within. What the fuck are we supposed to do about them? Cough our way past? Why do you have no weapons?’

Sab stood her ground. ‘If you’d let me get to it, I’d tell you I planned for this.’ She gripped his arm and led him back to the battlement doorway. She pointed at a stack of bundles, piled against the base of the wall. ‘There, see it? It’s stacked with tinder and dried wood, plenty of green piled on top for some nasty smoke. I even rolled up a barrel of brandy from the cellars. Set that lot off, nobody is going to be looking at the gatehouse.’

Rennic gave a nod of the head. ‘Impressive. How do we set it off?’

Sab went a little pale, and Rennic’s expression darkened.

‘I … er …’

‘Jingling dick-bells, are you serious?’

‘I had a lot to do, all right, and not much time to do it in! And in absolute secrecy!’

‘Shepherd’s tits, there’s no way to light it.’

Sab was flushed but defiant. ‘Hey, there are plenty of ways to light it. I could go down there, and—’

Before Chel could throw himself into the argument, Tarfel spoke up. ‘I know where they put your stuff. Your weapons and armour.’

Rennic turned to him, very slowly.

‘Yes, princeling?’

‘It’s in the armoury, above the stables. There are bows there, and crossbows. You could light the pile with a flaming arrow, right?’

Rennic stared at him for a long time, eyes burning, then he shrugged. ‘Not very subtle, but fuck it, yeah.’

Outside in the courtyard the chanting of the crowd reached a crescendo, and the final, agonising scream ended with abrupt certainty.

‘Show me.’

***

Rennic stalked along the empty hallways like a great prowling cat, sliding from one pool of shadow to the next, his fists clenching and unclenching as he went. Tarfel trotted in his wake, pointing the way in mute distress, while Chel brought up the rear, casting pinched looks back down the passageway to where his sister and the Nort huddled on the battlement. Tension radiated from the man in front. Until he held a weapon, Rennic would not relax.

Not every occupant of the keep was at the confession, and their progress was skittering and irregular as they ducked in and out of doorways to avoid the occasional squeamish clerk. Overhead, the early bell had begun to toll once more. The second confession was imminent.

The smell announced that the stables were close. They peered through a narrow window into a low, separate courtyard, strewn with straw and dung piles. A stone-walled building occupied the far wall, plumes of steam billowing from the horses tied in the stalls within.

‘Up there, above the stables. The room with the narrow windows.’ Tarfel gestured redundantly upward, and Rennic rewarded him with a withering look.

A sound pricked Chel’s ears: footsteps.

‘Someone’s com—’ he began, but Rennic was already bundling them out of the hallway and into a side room. The big man followed, staying pressed against the cold stone of the door-frame, breathing into his arm to hide his breath-fog.

Chel counted the footsteps, four sets. No, five, moving fast but heavy. Armed men, most of them. Approaching from the main keep, either heading for the stables or the walls. Rennic met his eye. They were both unarmed. He knew Rennic was perfectly capable of incapacitating an adversary with little more than his thumbs, even a couple if he had the drop, but five was pushing it.

Rennic was scanning the gloomy room, an office from the look of it, as most of them seemed to be on this floor: rolled scrolls, writing desks, quills, and ink. He plucked a quill from its holder, tested the point against his finger, then sighed in disgust, snapped it and discarded the remains.

‘… cannot be allowed to escape the citadel, you understand? There’s no way he drugged that guard himself, and if he’s loose, he’s had help.’ A voice, pompous, northern. Familiar. Chel’s gaze snapped back to meet Rennic’s. He recognized it too. ‘You two, check the walls, make sure he’s not sneaking out that way. We’ll look in the stables, count the horses. That ghastly little shit may have his brother’s indulgence, but he does not have mine.’

The footsteps split, two sets heading up the hallway toward them, the rest continuing toward the stables. Chel slid deeper inside the room, ushering the prince into the shadows. The two men flashed past down the hallway, swords at their hips and shields on their arms. Their colours confirmed his suspicions – the freshly minted Grand Duke of Denirnas, Esen Basar, was hunting the prince.

Tarfel poked his head up, jaw flapping. ‘Esen Basar!’

‘Esen fucking Basar,’ Chel growled, feeling the throb of his shoulder. The cowardly count who’d killed his own father and tried to murder Tarfel in the process.

‘Prick-weasel escaped me once at the winter palace.’ Rennic was already moving, padding out into the hallway. ‘Not going to let that become a habit.’

‘Two of his men are going to the wall, Rennic. They’ll find my sister!’

‘No shit.’ He changed direction. ‘I’ll deal with it. Stay here, keep princeling quiet.’

Rennic’s hand moved to the knives at his belt.

He had no knives. He had no belt.

Chel held his gaze. ‘What are you going to do?’

The big man paused only a moment.

‘Improvise.’

***

Rennic came barrelling back into the office only a short time later, before Chel had started to really panic. One side of his face was sprayed dark and a guard’s sword hung loose and bloodied in each hand; he left dark footprints in his wake. He looked out of breath.

Chel was on his feet immediately. ‘What happened? Are you hurt?’

Rennic pushed one of the weapons into Chel’s grip. Its hilt was sticky. ‘Fine. Where are Count Pig-Dog and his minions? Have they left the stables?’

Chel shook his head. ‘We haven’t heard—’

‘Fucking hells. Fine. Princeling! Take us to the armoury.’

The thick door to the armoury was unguarded. Tarfel fished around for a set of keys, gabbling the whole time.

‘Borrowed these from the seneschal’s office, didn’t even have to use subterfuge, turns out nobody wants to refuse a prince, well, aside from that monster in the dungeon. I suppose, that could have been—’

‘Shut up.’ Rennic cuffed the back of his head.

‘Righto.’

The armoury was less impressive inside than Chel had hoped: a rack of spears that had seen better days, some rusted mail and low-grade swords. Wherever the confessors were keeping their blessed blades and fancy new breastplates, it wasn’t here. Chel poked at a pile of unstrung bows, their wood cracked and snarled. Through the narrow windows, voices drifted up from the stables below. Pressed to the wall at the window-side, Rennic’s scowl deepened. ‘Basar is down there, he’s searching the stables.’ He looked up at the others. ‘Find me something that can shoot.’

Chel went back to the cracked bows, hoping to find one he could salvage. Tarfel began to sift in the room’s other corner, looking under canvas coverings and rummaging in crates. A moment later, he cried in triumph. ‘Crossbows!’

‘Levers and quarrels?’

‘Er …’

‘Keep looking, dung-muncher!’

Rennic marched to a long, low chest that sat beneath the windows. He ripped it open then crowed with delight, reaching in a gleeful hand to make sure. Chel looked up from his search. ‘What, what is it? Quarrels?’

Rennic withdrew an armful of interwoven panels of leather and steel, a little frayed but still robust. His lamellar armour. He shook it out, then slung it straight around his shoulders.

‘Little man, come and give me a hand with this.’

Tarfel piped up. ‘I’ve found crossbow bolts, I think. And some kind of rod.’

‘Good, good, now … Oh …’

Chel peered over Rennic’s shoulder into the chest. Under the grotty collection of mail and broken blades piled within lay something long and slender, one end thick and tightly wrapped. Rennic reached in and levered up one end, sliding it out with great care. The shaft was carved, inlaid and ornate. And under the wrapping would be a long, sharp blade, inscribed with swirling patterns.

‘Dalim’s glaive,’ Chel murmured, his gaze fixed on the gleam of the day’s grey light on the shaft’s carvings.

‘He won’t be needing it.’ Rennic hoisted it over his shoulder.

‘Anything else in there? My good knife?’

‘Come on, let’s get back to the battlements while those dick-heads are rifling the stables. Keep a tight hold of that sword, eh?’

Armour hanging open, wrapped glaive over his shoulder, Rennic strode back toward the door, waving for Tarfel to bring the crossbow, quarrels, and lever. The prince stumbled along behind them, bent double over his load, and Chel went back to assist him. Rennic sighed, turned and marched out through the doorway and straight into Esen Basar, Grand Duke of Denirnas.

Both stood in shocked silence for a moment, agape. Then recognition bloomed in the young duke’s eyes, an instinctive hand going straight to the puckered scar across his otherwise perfect cheek. Rennic had given him that, Chel remembered with satisfaction.

‘You!’

Rennic unfroze, swinging the glaive off his shoulder and tearing at the blade’s wrapping. The duke’s eyes moved from Rennic’s face to the weapon and back, his nostrils flared, then he turned and ran, jostling past the two guards filling the hall. ‘Kill him!’ he screeched as he fled, soft boots slapping against the flagstones. Chel tried to step in to help, the sticky sword heavy in his hand, but Rennic blocked the door. The wrapping wasn’t coming free. The two guards closed, shields up, swords drawn.

‘Fuck,’ Rennic snarled. ‘Fuck, fuck fu—’

Chel lunged forward and swiped at the last of the bindings around the glaive, narrowly missing Rennic’s fingers. The blade abruptly freed, the big man feinted a back-step then pivoted, slashing the razor-sharp blade in a tight arc below the shield-line. Both guards, caught mid-advance, buckled and squealed. One managed to keep his shield up, the other took the blade’s driving point in his neck. As he fell, Rennic was already shifting, spinning the haft around to crunch the pommel into the surviving guard’s helmet, then slashing the blade again to his undefended legs. He collapsed, and Rennic moved fast to cut both throats.

‘Can we—’

‘Shh!’

Rennic cocked his head, and Chel did likewise, trying to quiet the pounding of his pulse in his ears. He could still make out the soft slap of the duke’s boots, now half-muffled by straw.

‘He’s back downstairs. Crossbow!’

Rennic pushed the glaive toward Chel and snatched the crossbow from the prince’s hands, along with the lever and a handful of bolts, and raced to one of the arrow-slit windows. Chel was an instant behind him, glaive and sword cradled uselessly in his hands, eye pressed to the next window along. There was the duke, sidling across the stable-yard, his step hesitant, his gaze over his shoulder at the lower door. Presumably waiting to see if it was safe to come back, or if he was being pursued.

Rennic dropped to one knee, working the lever into the crossbow’s notch and drawing the creaking string, then slotted in a bolt. He sighted along its length, through the arrow-slit, at the oblivious duke. Chel looked down at the weapon. The quarrel was warped, the string fraying.

‘It looks pretty old, are you sure you can—’

‘Princeling,’ Rennic growled over him, ‘find another crossbow and load it.’

He pulled the trigger.

The bolt twanged from the bow, swishing through the air and smacking off the packed, frozen dirt several feet from the duke. The duke squealed and took to his heels, making for the wide gate that led to the main courtyard.

‘Fuck! Rancid fucking crossbows! Give me another!’

He slung the crossbow aside, and Tarfel scurried over to press another into his waiting hand. Chel could only watch, his arms already full of weapons. Rennic checked the quarrel, raised and fired. The bolt skittered away, pinging over the duke’s shoulder and into the ground, setting him squealing anew.

‘Another!’

Tarfel passed him another weapon and he sighted along it. The duke had reached the wide gate and was trying to open it. It was shut fast, and the noise of the confession beyond appeared to be drowning out his hammering wails. Rennic lined up the bolt and pulled the trigger.

The string snapped.

‘Fuck! Another!’

The duke had spotted the wicket gate.

‘Another!’

The duke ran to the wicket gate, first trying to push, then pull.

‘Another! What the fuck!’

Rennic swung around. Tarfel had the last crossbow, feebly trying to lever the string back. He looked up in misery. ‘I think it’s stuck, I can’t—’

In the stable-yard, the wicket gate swung open, and the duke darted inside. He was gone.

Rennic’s gaze swung back to the prince, and his knuckles went white.

‘You useless fucking shit-heap!’

He threw himself at the prince, fists swinging. He landed only a couple of blows before Chel was on his back.

‘Stop!’

Rennic stood, levering Chel clear of the ground, spinning and wrenching. He threw him clear, but Chel leapt straight back, a fresh scrape along one arm and a nasty throb in his shoulder.

‘Stop! Stop. Hitting. Him.’

Rennic swayed on his feet as the rage seemed to drain from him. He seemed at once very tired. Tired and old. Chel pressed his advantage.

‘He risked his life for us. He didn’t have to do that. He didn’t have to do a thrice-damned thing.’

Tarfel cowered behind him, whimpering. Chel kept himself between the big man and the prince. He could feel a hot trickle of blood leaking from his nose.

‘We need to leave. And he’s coming too.’

Rennic nodded, the fury gone from his eyes as suddenly as it had come.

‘Then let’s go.’

THREE

Chel led them back at speed, ignoring the thumping pain in his head and shoulder. Rennic seemed in a daze, Tarfel likewise. They stepped over a pair of steaming corpses in the hallway as they approached the battlement. Nobody spoke.

The bell had stopped. Shouting filled the court of confession, the crowds below roiling and chanting, jostling for a better look. Confessors and clergy mixed with commoners, a great seething mass of humanity joined for the spectacle, some in ghoulish glee, some morbid fascination. And somewhere out in the courtyard, a panicked duke, screaming for guards, screaming about a missing prince and assassins in their midst.

On the central platform, beneath the gibbet, whatever remained of Dalim had been cleared away, now freed from sin – and any other earthly consideration – in the sight of the Shepherd and her merciful servants. Palo stood flanked by a pair of brawny confessors, small and hazy in the snow-glare. Over her stood Brother Hurkel, the great tin monster on metal legs, his red little head capped with the white wolf pelt. On the far side of the platform stood the royal gallery. Chel could almost make out the golden blur of Prince Corvel, front and centre.

Rennic crouched on the battlement and rubbed his eyes, peering at the gatehouse at the wall’s end. He was sprayed in drying blood and looked drained. ‘It’s as before, no change. We still have a chance.’

Chel nodded. ‘Let’s light a bolt and get things moving, shall we?’

Sab hovered over them, her relief at their return tempered by their battered state. She seemed particularly disturbed by Rennic’s gory appearance, and wouldn’t meet his eye. ‘This way.’

On the platform, Hurkel raised his arms, his missing hand replaced by a two-pronged fork. He began bellowing of Palo’s crimes, real and imagined, to the baying of the crowd. Chel watched his theatrics, his absent hand, and thought for a moment of Loveless, feeling a sharp pang of something he couldn’t name. His glance fell on Palo, now half-strapped to the confessor’s table. Even at this distance he could see she was impassive, detached.

Rennic had taken the crossbow from Tarfel’s arms without a word, slotting the bolt and tweaking the string. His gaze matched Chel’s, watching Hurkel raise the glowing brand from the platform’s brazier, seeing it steam in the frigid air. Chel realized he was shaking.

‘Can we save her?’

Rennic’s head shake was a mere twitch.

‘We’d only die alongside.’

‘Can we do anything?’

‘We can get the fuck out of here. She’d want that at least.’ He clicked his fingers at Sab, startling her. ‘Fire, girl. Where’s the fire?’

‘What? I thought you meant you …’ Sab swallowed, and looked to her brother. ‘I can run and get a torch—’

‘Nine hells, girl, what were you doing while we were fetching the fucking weapon?’

‘Keeping out of sight! Not murdering anyone! Which is—’

The little Nort appeared between them, dragging the clinking sack. He looked up from one to the other, then to the crossbow in Rennic’s hands.

‘Please?’

Rennic raised an eyebrow but allowed the Nort to take the bow. He placed it flat, then fished in his sack for a few small clay pots and jars. He tapped out a handful of crystals from one, added a powder from another, rubbed his hands together – Chel noticed his palms were pale and smooth with scarring – then applied the mixed powder to the shaft of the bolt. He wiped his hands and held out the crossbow to Rennic.

‘Please?’

Rennic took back the weapon, frowning, and knelt to fire at the stacked fuel against the far wall. The Nort tapped his shoulder, one finger raised, then reached over with a tiny bottle in his hand. Trembling, he tilted the bottle, until a drop of something clear and acrid fell from its lip onto the powdered bolt.

The bolt began to steam, then smoke, and then it burst into flame.

‘Fuck!’ Rennic cried, almost dropping the weapon. Chel and Sabina fell back, recoiling from the alchemical stench. The Nort pointed at the far wall, hands urgent, and despite visible misgivings, Rennic lined up the shot through the caustic smoke.

He fired. The flaming bolt whipped through the air, leaving a plume of curling fumes, almost disintegrating. It smacked into the base of the stack, splintering into flaming shards, and almost immediately the stack began to smoke.

Rennic clenched a fist. ‘Fucking have that!’

If anyone had noticed the bolt’s passage, they made less noise than the clamour of confession. Chel exchanged glances with the others, then looked back to the simmering stack. Already white smoke was curling from within, the dry wood alight, licking at the green above.

‘Let’s give it a moment before people notice the smoke, then—’

The stack exploded. A ring of flame tore out from the base of the wall, a pulse of roaring energy ripping through the eddies of black and white smoke, tearing and stretching the atmosphere around it. A deafening crack split the air as pieces of splintered, flaming wood rained down on the shocked and screaming crowd in the courtyard.

Rennic whipped around, eyes locked on the Nort, the crossbow shaking in his hands.

‘What the giddy fuck was that?’

The Nort looked equally shocked, his mouth open, hands up in warding. Chel blinked away smoke-induced tears, feeling the air burning in his lungs. The crowd in the courtyard were panicked, fleeing, streaming for the city gate in a heaving mass, even as the last echoes of the explosion died away. In the gatehouse, the guards within were milling, unsure if they should be investigating or fleeing themselves.

‘We need to leave!’

Rennic nodded, immediately back on task. He stood, waving the others forward along the wall. Tarfel and Sab led, the Nort on their heels, his clinking sack slung over one shoulder, leaving him hunched and lopsided. Rennic went to toss the crossbow, then paused, his gaze returning to the platform at the courtyard’s centre. Chel followed it.

Hurkel stood on the platform, turning slowly, his big red face a picture of enraged confusion. Below him lay Palo, on the confessor’s elevated table. She was still, her free hand clamped around the dagger she’d plucked from his belt in the commotion, now standing proud from her chest. Blood pooled beneath the table, joining that of the countless hordes who’d preceded her, the table’s wood long since stained dark. She looked serene.

Rennic swallowed and nodded. His voice was a cracked growl.

‘Be seeing you, Palo.’

They ran for the gatehouse.

***

They didn’t stop running until they reached the outer walls, melded with the fleeing crowd from the citadel. People’s instincts varied – some ran for their homes, others for the river, some out into the countryside beyond – and it was only when they split from the free way into the back alleys that the human tide around them ebbed.

Chel jogged beside his sister, kidding himself that he was keeping her safe, his legs burning along with his lungs. He’d long since let the bloody sword drop, had kicked it away into an alley. He’d told himself that he needed to conserve what little strength he had, but beneath this rationale lurked an abiding desire to be rid of the thing that had little to do with any forthcoming need for self-defence. Sab kept easy pace at his side, ducking through the warren of adjoining buildings as they made for the Shanties gate.

‘What happened back there?’ she said, breath catching. ‘What did the Nort do? What else is in that sack?’

‘The Nort?’ Chel gasped, flicking a glance over his shoulder. The Nort was keeping up, his mysterious sack still shouldered and a look of determination on his young face, shuffling along beside Tarfel. Rennic brought up the rear, shepherding them along with a glower from beneath the hood of his pilfered cloak. ‘From his reaction, I’d say he was as surprised as us. Are you sure it was brandy in that barrel?’

She shook her head. ‘It came from the lower cellars. It’s usually where they keep the brandy … Shepherd’s tits, there were dozens of barrels down there … It cracked the wall, Bear. Did you see? It cracked the citadel wall!’

The Widowgate hove into view, a dark and stubby thing festering in the brutal New Wall. Rennic stepped ahead of them. ‘Who has silver? Anything valuable?’

Chel gave him an even look.

Tarfel slapped at his cloak. ‘I think I have a token somewhere, it’s a trifle really—’

Rennic waved him away. He slung the re-wrapped glaive at Chel, then stalked off toward the gate guards. The others huddled in the faint shadow of a workshop.

Chel found himself standing beside the little Nort. He looked down at the heavy sack, then found the Nort gazing up at him, a glare of challenge. ‘So, er,’ he coughed, ‘they let you keep all that alchemical stuff close to your cell? That was … er …’

The Nort said nothing, holding his gaze with unblinking eyes.

Rennic stepped out from the shadow of the gate and waved them forward. They hurried through, hoods down, while the guards studiously looked the other way.

‘What did you offer them?’ Chel asked as Rennic took back the glaive.

‘Promises,’ he said. ‘And we’ll be long gone before they realize they were dust.’

‘Ain’t that the way,’ Chel said. He was very tired. And hungry. Very hungry. ‘Does anyone have any food?’

***

The Shanties still reeked of smoke and soot, parts charred black and broken from Spider’s fire. Their ill-starred entry to the city seemed so long ago now. They crept through the winding labyrinth of nominally temporary structures, snow and charcoal crunching underfoot. Water dripped from somewhere, always seeming to be both ahead and behind. They saw no one.

‘What are you going to do about the prince? He can’t go back, can he?’

Sab was beside him again, her hand on his arm, helping him around a blackened spar as his stride faltered.

‘No. Not after that.’

‘And nor can I.’

‘No.’ Chel realized that he was feeling relief, a great wash of sensation, an unwinding knot of tension. His fingers tingled from it. He was free, and his sister was safe. ‘No, you can’t go back there.’

She grunted, and they walked on in silence for a time.

‘How did you get into this mess, Bear? Last time I saw you, you were in the favour of two princes, destined for great things. Why do I next encounter you as a condemned traitor to the crown? Did you get very drunk?’

‘We … I think we made things worse.’ He swallowed. ‘But what about you?’ He felt anger rising in his voice, now they were free, now the immediate danger had passed; a hot, raw frustration born of ignorance and insecurity. ‘You were a fucking Rau Rel spy? Did you consider for a moment the risk—’

She put a hand on his arm, drew him to a stop, and his words died. She met his faltering gaze with steady, moist eyes. ‘Bear, we’re all growing up fast.’ One hand ran down his cheek, lingering at the scar on his lip, the broken bulge of his jaw. ‘I’m glad I can still recognize you. How are you, really? Are you all right? I’m so sorry I couldn’t … Things took so long to arrange …’

He put his hand on hers, then wrapped his arms around her, and wept for the first time in all of it, in all the weeks of captivity, misery, and doubt. He cried on his sister’s shoulder until he was a heaving, empty husk, and felt her sobbing against him in return. He realized he was talking, mumbling, forming the words ‘thank you’ over and over into her cloak.

‘We’re not out yet.’ Rennic shook his shoulder, drawing him gently away. Chel looked up in tearful defiance, but he saw his emotion mirrored on the big man’s face, his own eyes glazed with unshed tears. His voice was little more than a whisper. ‘We need to keep moving, little man.’

Chel sniffed, nodded, and on they pressed, the weight of the Shanties pressing down around them. He remembered the children he’d seen playing therein, their rhymes and songs.

We were supposed to be lucky.

***

Sab led them up into the hills, away from the slabs of the walls and the malignant gaze of the citadel’s tower. She’d recovered some of her poise, and chattered as they climbed, of what she’d seen within the citadel, of her covert operations for the Rau Rel. Chel paused for breath at the edge of the woods, looking back over the city beneath its pall of winter smoke, now thickened by the alchemical plume from their distant intervention. Below them, the main road wound around to the ruined old bridge, clad in ugly stacks of wooden scaffolding, then away toward the gates. Small structures lined the road, thin poles, dotted at the top with …

‘Best not look too close,’ Rennic muttered from beside him. One of his knees seemed to be giving him trouble. ‘You won’t want to risk recognizing anyone.’

Of course: they were heads. Dozens upon countless dozens, girdling the road like fence-posts.

Sabina was following his gaze, and Chel heard her breath catch. ‘The bastard,’ she hissed. ‘The unconscionable … Why didn’t you stop him?’

Chel turned, his mouth already framing an earnest defence, but her words were addressed to Tarfel. The prince stood slumped, panting and pink-cheeked from the climb, eyebrows raised and eyes wide.

‘Me? What could I do?’

‘You’re his brother! Who else can stand up to him?’

Rennic pushed himself back upright. ‘Let’s hope our fates don’t rest on this little piss-cloth,’ he muttered. ‘Let’s get where we’re going, get to someone who can actually make a difference.’

With a pointed look at the prince, Sab led them into the woods. Before long, they reached a clearing, where she came to a hesitant stop. It looked deserted, and the sun had long since disappeared behind the hills; if it had been cold before, the coming night promised something altogether worse.

Rennic strode ahead, into the clearing, fierce eyes scanning the trees in the dying light.

‘This is the place?’

‘It should be.’ Sab crinkled her nose. ‘I’ve never actually been out here …’

‘But?’

‘But I left a message in the usual drop. They should know we’re coming.’

‘Depends if there was anyone left to listen. As our friends along the road can attest, King Corvel has been busy.’

Something rustled in the gloom beyond the clearing, and Rennic froze, hands gripping the glaive. Chel felt his pulse quicken but nothing more. His muscles were spent, his very bones exhausted, and he’d long since given up on the idea of food. He wanted to lie down on the ground and let the world wash over him. Beside him, Tarfel whimpered.

A hoot came from somewhere around them, a formless owl, too loud, too imprecise. Rennic unfroze, a broad grin spreading across his face in the twilight. He visibly relaxed, letting the end of the glaive rest on the ground, then put one hand to his mouth and hooted in return.

A figure detached from the darkness of the trees, striding across the clearing with a sun-bright smile. Even in the low light, Chel could recognize Whisper’s lithe gait anywhere, the springing confidence in every step. She raced to Rennic, embracing him with silent affection, while he let the glaive fall.

The bushes beside him rustled and crackled, then an orange-haloed figure emerged blinking into the clearing. ‘All right, wankers?’ said Lemon. ‘How’s tricks?’

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