I opened my eyes and saw blue sky. My head throbbed and my leg was numb. My mouth was dry and my skin was covered in sweat. I could feel rocks beneath my body. I was lying on a beach, with the sea tickling my feet. I tried to sit up, but my hands and legs were bound with rope. I felt drained and thin, as if I’d been pulled from the deepest sleep.
“You are lucky to be alive,” said a calm voice. “Such exertion is dangerous for your people.”
I turned my head and saw Snake Charmer, David’s Pure One squire. His arms and legs were tied, and his face was badly beaten. For a moment, I forgot the enormity of what I’d done and why the Dark Brethren would attack us, and wondered why the Pure Ones would beat one of their own. “Are you okay?” I asked.
“Mostly,” answered Snake. “David and I were in hold when you … ended the fight. When the Brethren brought us up on deck, everyone was either dead or unconscious. Your doing?”
I looked at the rocks beneath me, wanting to say no. “Did I kill any of the crew?”
Snake nodded along the beach. I blinked tears from my eyes and tried to orient myself. Everything was foggy, like a sheet of mist across my field of vision. Gradually, I regained focus, and saw ten or eleven restrained Sea Wolves. Vikon Blood was amongst them, as was the Kneeling Wolf, Weathervane Will.
“They’re alive,” said Snake. “As I said, you ended the fight, you didn’t win it.”
Beyond the surviving crew, Mirralite Pure Ones, directed by Dark Brethren, were piling bodies. I gulped, and felt vomit in my throat. The dead were formed into three distinct piles on the rocky beach. The smallest was of Dark Brethren, mostly mangled into fleshy pieces. Then came the cleaved bodies of tattooed Mirralite. But the closest pile, and by far the largest, was comprised of Sea Wolves. “How many of them did I kill?” I asked, terrified by the sheer scale of death.
“I think … most of the Brethren and Pure Ones,” replied Snake. “You just knocked the Sea Wolves insensible. If the attackers had not had reinforcements you might have won the day. Though many warriors fell.”
“And the assassin?” I asked.
“Freed,” replied Snake. “Taken away by the Brethren. Though I don’t think that is why they attacked the Dead Horse.”
From close by, opposite the growing mounds of corpses, four Dark Brethren realized I was awake and encircled me. They wore black armour of different tones, with a faded owl on every tabard. They held high-tension short bows, and quickly pointed four arrows at my head. I tensed my legs and tried not to piss myself. Twist was asleep, and my wyrd felt like a damp rag. I was totally helpless, and feebly put my hands in the air.
Off the coast, I saw the Dead Horse aflame. The sails were sheets of fire, dancing downwards and catching the wood of the deck. The ship would burn to the waterline in a matter of minutes. My first voyage as a Sea Wolf had ended in an explosion of wyrd, with the crew utterly defeated by their oldest enemy. I’d tried to help. I’d desperately tried to help. But I had no control, and I’d just lashed out.
A strange mixture of revulsion, fear and confusion overtook me. I looked at the warriors I’d killed and felt as if my mind was crawling up a mountain of dead bodies, becoming heavier with every step. Was I really as dangerous as everyone thought? Or was the Old Bitch of the Sea right to show me her favour? I wanted to be a Sea Wolf, but I was just a freak with a pain spirit.
“Your life is in the balance,” said one of the Dark Brethren, a clean-cut warrior with a young face. “My name is Loco Death Spell, and I will end you if you disobey me. You may have killed a hundred warriors, but Inigo Night Walker and the third void legion now control your fate.”
*
The bodies were burned. Around seventy Sea Wolves were surrounded by wood and set alight. On top of the pile of bodies, posed with no reverence, the broken body of Captain Roderick Ice was thrown. Cold Man’s eyes were open and bloodshot, though his neck, chest and arms were riddled with deep slice marks. He’d died fighting. Any one of his wounds would have maimed a lesser man, but it had taken dozens to put him down.
The survivors were allowed to say no words over the departing spirits. Hoods were placed over our heads and we were hefted onto war canoes by the Mirralite, whilst the Dark Brethren used their void paths to go on ahead. It was a subtle use of wyrd, not practised by Sea Wolves, allowing swift travel through a hostile voidscape. I didn’t know how it worked, but they must have found a way to conceal themselves from the darker denizens of the wild void. They’d used their craft to assault the Dead Horse and kill the Sea Wolves. But I didn’t know why.
I saw David’s limp body be hooded just before me. The Winterlord had been divested of his armour and was badly beaten, but he was still alive. I couldn’t say the same about most others.
As the canoes left the beach I picked up two bits of information. Somehow Siggy Blackeye had escaped into the forest by pretending to be dead, and the Dark Brethren leader was called Inigo Night Walker. Neither piece of information improved our immediate prospects, but I was glad a Sea Wolf had escaped.
With my arms tied behind my back, and my head resting against wood, I fell into a strange world of dislocation. For hours, I was twisted into a hundred different shapes, as the war canoe negotiated the Red Straits at high speed. I couldn’t tell east from west, let alone see where we were going. I wanted to fall asleep, but I couldn’t stop twitching. I tried to focus my wyrd, but I was too agitated. All I could do was wait and get angrier. I waited for hours that felt like days, rolling the same few thoughts around my head. Why would the Dark Brethren be so bold as to attack a Sea Wolf ship so close to the Severed Hand? But mostly that I didn’t deserve to be alive, when so many better Sea Wolves had died. I always hoped that, when I was tested, I’d find a way to shine. But, so far, everything I’d done had been spontaneous, chaotic, and undeniably dangerous. Why couldn’t I wield a sword, join the battle and contribute? I might have died, but I’d have been a proper Sea Wolf, fighting alongside the Second Fang, if only for a moment. I cried.
When the canoe finally stopped, I could hear sea birds and smell grass. The grating of wood on rocks and the stomp of heavy feet told me that the boats were being hefted up a beach. I was still crying, with tensed limbs, covered in pins-and-needles, and I wailed in pain as I was lifted from the boat and dumped on the rocks.
My hood was removed, revealing a crisp, blue sky that hurt my eyes. I was scared to know where we were, but looked anyway. Inland, I saw wooden structures and an encircling wall. Further away, over dense woodland, was a murky black cloud, belching forth rain and flashes of lightning. It was the island of Nowhere, and the cloud was called the Maelstrom. I’d never been here, but pictures of the Maelstrom hung in my father’s hall on Moon Rock. It was the ancestral home of the Ice family, ruled by Xavyer Ice, called the Grim Wolf, and the churning cloud was a void storm. The glass on Nowhere was chaotic. It was fractured in places, like a stone wall in others. It was said that only the practised or powerful could summon their wyrd on the island, and breaking the glass was impossible. Though falling into the void, if you got too close to the Maelstrom, was a very real danger. I wondered if the Brethren void paths would still work. The only ones I could see were Loco and the three others tasked with pointing arrows at my head. And beyond that was a larger question. Why would the Grim Wolf allow the Dark Brethren to berth on his island?
“Why are we here?” I asked one of my guards. “This is a Sea Wolf island.”
“Some Sea Wolves are wiser than others,” replied Loco Death Spell, moving to stand behind me, with a heavy short sword in his hand.
Along the coast of Nowhere, a hundred Pure Ones stood guard over eleven survivors of the Dead Horse. They were conscious and heavily restrained, and most were wounded. All of them, including Vikon Blood, were looking at me. Snake Charmer and David Falcon’s Fang were the only ones not glaring. In Sea Wolf eyes I saw hate, pity, anger and revulsion. Cold Man had said that they didn’t know who I was or how my wyrd flowed. I wanted to make them understand that I didn’t know either. I thought I knew who I was, but I’d never known how my wyrd flowed.
Then a crackle in my fingertips alerted me to something beyond the glass. I looked up and saw a flash of white light, and two void paths opened along the beach. In lock-step, appearing from nowhere, came fifty void legionnaires.
“Lord Inigo returns,” observed Loco.
The Mirralite who guarded the few survivors took a step away, allowing the Dark Brethren to take over custody. They were smaller than Sea Wolves, barely larger than the Pure Ones, though their movements were quick and precise. Their armour was all black, made of segmented steel and thick fabric. Each warrior wore the same tabard, showing the haughty Night Wing.
There were now fifty Brethren and a hundred Pure Ones, guarding a broken group of eleven survivors. A Winterlord, a Kneeling Wolf, a Pure One, and eight Sea Wolves.
A Dark Brethren, older than the others and wearing no armour, was staring over the wounded form of Vikon Blood. His skin was a deep bronze, and under his heavy black robe he wore loose clothing of thin fabric that fluttered in the wind. He had two straight swords, belted at the hip, and soft boots that made little sound on the rocks. He approached the Second Fang.
“We are both Eastron,” said Lord Vikon. “As a defeated warrior, I demand to know your name.” He was in pain, struggling to stay upright. There was blood at the corners of his mouth, and bruises across his cheeks and neck. I wanted to help him, but I was too far away to do anything useful.
“As a victorious warrior, I give it,” replied the Brethren. “I am Inigo Night Walker, Sentinel of the Dark Harbour and commander of the third void legion. You are my prisoners and will be treated with respect, whether you live or die.”
“A sentinel?” queried Vikon. “A position of note amongst your people. Not the leader of a raiding party of cowards. Have we hurt the Stranger’s feelings?”
Inigo Night Walker turned his dark eyes to the other survivors. “Accept my apologies, Lord Vikon. We did not know you were aboard, and underestimated your prowess. We thought to kill a few and capture the majority.” He fixed his eyes on me. “Then your young wyrd-master killed dozens of my warriors. That was unexpected.”
“This will mean war,” replied the Second Fang, shifting position and looking at me out of the side of his eye. “Trying to kill Prince Oliver, trying to kill me. And why the fuck are you on Nowhere? Scouting the assassin’s next target? Two hundred ships will descend upon the Open Hand and hang Marius Cyclone by his entrails.”
“You don’t listen!” snapped Inigo. “I told you, I am Sentinel of the Dark Harbour, not the Open Hand.” He turned away, gritting his teeth. “Please try not to be too much of a Sea Wolf, howling at the moon whenever your feelings are hurt. All Dark Brethren are not the same. We sent no assassin to the Severed Hand, and we attacked the Dead Horse out of necessity. We had to stop you returning to your father. This island must remain secure.”
The other survivors moved in closer, edging towards the Second Fang in muted solidarity. I rubbed my eyes, trying to focus enough to join them, but was stopped by the four Brethren guards. Loco reacted to my small movements by holding his bulky short sword to my throat. “You will not be contributing,” he said. “I see one flicker of wyrd and you lose more blood than you can spare.”
The majority of the void legionnaires were in loose formation behind their commander, being faced down by the battered survivors of the Dead Horse. Eleven warriors, their hands tied and their weapons taken, refused to submit to fifty well-armed Dark Brethren. I so wanted to be with them, to be able to think and act like them. I wondered if they were as confused and afraid as me. I wanted to stop time and speak to Lord Vikon. I wanted to say sorry and ask him if I could ever really be a Sea Wolf. But all I did was stay seated and scratch at my thorn clinch.
“You won’t believe me,” continued Inigo Night Walker, “but I am not your enemy. If you’d not set sail for Nowhere, we would perhaps have met under more formal circumstances. But your people are not ready for my words, or the words of the Stranger. Perhaps in a year or two, when the sea has risen.”
Vikon Blood laughed at the Dark Brethren, keeping his pain under control. “You will never understand us. You’ve conspired against the Winterlords and now you’ve conspired against us. That was a mistake.” He did his best to stand, but fell back to the rocks. Weathervane Will and Lydia Hearth helped him upright, so he could face Inigo Night Walker. “Our code demands open war. You would do well to prepare yourself. Run back to Marius Cyclone, where your dishonour may be celebrated.”
Every Sea Wolf who could stand, did so. We’d all heard of Marius Cyclone. He was the youngest of the three Cyclone brothers and, as the elder of the Dark Harbour, was called the Stranger. My brother, Kieran, talked of him often, as if he were our greatest enemy. It was ships from his hold most frequently targeted by Sea Wolf pirates. By invoking his name, Inigo had given the survivors all the reason they needed to thrust out their chests and remain defiant. For the first time since I’d boarded the Dead Horse, they had something other than me to focus on.
I tried to slow my breathing and feel my wyrd, but there was nothing to hold on to. Twist was scratching at my leg, but the glass of Nowhere muted the pain. I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t protect the Second Fang or even lash out at the Dark Brethren. Focusing the slightest bit of power required leaching it through the glass, like drinking water from a tiny hole in a dam.
“We’re going to take the boy,” said Inigo, directing Loco to bring me closer. “The rest of you will stay here as prisoners.”
“No!” shouted Vikon Blood. “We. Will. Not.” He locked eyes with me and tried to smile, as if he knew how much I admired him. We were both sons, living in the wake of our fathers, and I again found strength in his presence. “He is Duncan Greenfire, and he is a Sea Wolf. He stays with us. Do as you will, but he’ll be with us when you do it.”
The word of the Second Fang was enough for the other survivors, and I felt goose bumps as they all looked at me. The hatred was gone, and every man and woman used me as a focus for their defiance. A freak I may be, but I was their freak, and was infinitely more worthy than any Dark Brethren. I wished things were different. I wished I’d not unleashed my wyrd aboard the Dead Horse. I wished I was normal. But, for a moment, I felt like I was a Sea Wolf.
Unfortunately, Inigo Night Walker didn’t care about sentiment. He slowly walked over to me, his thin, black clothing swaying in the wind. “Someone may have a use for you, boy,” said the Brethren. “But these others …” he shook his head. “If you hadn’t complicated things, we would have taken forty prisoners. We killed many Sea Wolves out of vengeance, after you erupted. What are you? Some kind of spirit child?”
I shook my head, but couldn’t speak. Hearing that I’d been responsible for killing the crew made me feel sick. Behind my eyes, I saw the stern face of my father, shaking his head, as if he had been proven right.
“Speak, boy,” said Inigo. “How does your wyrd flow?”
“I … I don’t know. I stopped one of your assassins in the Bloody Halls and we brought him here. He had a second target on Nowhere. Then you attacked us. But, my wyrd … it’s, it’s … I don’t know.” I babbled the same few sentences, until the commander of the third void legion waved his hand and made me shut up.
“Leave him alone,” shouted the Second Fang. “He’s one of us.”
Inigo Night Walker rolled his eyes. “Lord Vikon, I promised you would be treated with respect. Please remain silent and accept your fate, or that may change. You have lost, you are helpless. Remember that.”
I struggled to think of a worse thing he could have said to a group of Sea Wolves. We’d been defeated in battle, albeit with subterfuge and trickery, but to call us helpless was like lighting a short fuse. I stood apart, but I felt everything they did. My blood rose, as all eleven survivors, their hands still bound, took a stride forwards, forming a line behind Lord Vikon. None could summon their wyrd, and dried blood covered their exposed flesh, but their bravery gave me strength.
Inigo grunted, shaking his head, as if he fought an internal conflict. His legionnaires moved slowly to flank him, but they kept their blades sheathed, unafraid of a dozen battered Sea Wolves with their hands tied behind their backs.
Then the commander raised his head and took a deep breath. “It’s easier if I kill you,” he stated, frowning at Vikon. “If open war is already inevitable, why would I keep you alive, Lord Vikon Blood, Second Fang of the Severed Hand?”
I tensed my arms and held my breath, wanting to summon a dagger of wyrd to drive into the commander’s throat. But there was nothing there. Even the pain of the thorn clinch was dull, and my wyrd didn’t appear to care that I was a Sea Wolf. If ever there was a chance to prove myself it was now, at a time when swords and strength were irrelevant. I could summon all my chaotic power and decimate the Dark Brethren with a surge of wyrd, but the glass of Nowhere wouldn’t let me.
“Kill him,” ordered Inigo Night Walker. “And his Sea Wolves. Subdue the rat, the Winterlord and the Pure One.”
Fifty void legionnaires drew wide-bladed short swords and advanced. I panicked, feeling more helpless than I thought possible. I was pulled back to a dark dwelling in Moon Rock, where I’d first known pain and helplessness. I saw my father, and I saw Clatterfoot, as if they were presiding over my torment. It was them, as much as Loco Death Spell, who kept me captive, and stopped me rushing to help Lord Vikon.
None of the Sea Wolves retreated. Nor did Weathervane Will or David Falcon’s Fang. They were all wounded, exhausted and restrained, but each and every one of them ran forwards to meet the void legionnaires. The Second Fang growled, baring his teeth as if he could bite his way to victory. None of them could summon their wyrd, but they didn’t care. I wanted to be one of them, and I saw their hopeless charge in slow motion, with each face burned upon my memory. They knew they would die, but it didn’t occur to them to accept their deaths. Only Snake Charmer, David’s Pure One squire, remained behind, bowing his head as the survivors of the Dead Horse ran onto fifty Dark Brethren blades.
I couldn’t do anything. I was forced to watch. I was a volatile, dangerous little bastard, and I’d killed a hundred people without meaning to, but I cried like a child as I watched them all die. I didn’t even feel pain. I just felt empty.
David Falcon’s Fang was beaten unconscious, William Vane was choked out, but everyone else was cut down. Vikon head-butted the first man and drop-kicked the second, but he was overwhelmed. Lydia Hearth screamed herself to death, as a contemptuous swipe opened her throat. Another man was kicked to the ground and had his head stomped to a pulp. Most met their end at the point of a short sword, driven into stomachs and chests. The void legionnaires may have been highly skilled, but this was simple butchery, and Loco’s blade stopped me reacting. Even when the Brethren began to laugh, all I could do was hold my head upright and cry.
“You fucking cowards,” slurred Vikon Blood, rising to his knees as the last surviving Sea Wolf. He was cut from head to toe, with blood seeping from every crease of skin, but still he smiled.
“Hold,” said Inigo, drawing his own blade and striding towards the dying man. “Are they your last words?”
Vikon’s bloody face contorted into a huge grin. His eyes sought me out, and he blinked to clear his vision. With deep breaths and a look of peace on his battered face, he smiled at me. “She spoke to you, Duncan. She spoke to you. She never spoke to me, or my father. The Old Bitch of the Sea knows more than all of us. More than me, more than these fucking Dark Brethren. She sees you, and she sees what you can become. Live, Duncan. Live and honour us. Honour the Sea Wolves.”
Inigo Night Walker held his sword to Vikon’s neck. The Brethren glanced back at me, frowned, and delivered the killing blow, opening the Second Fang’s throat. Vikon Blood’s battered face was calm, even as he took his last breath and fell dead onto the rocky ground.