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M
organ was lost. But he didn’t know it at first.
Everything had been going so well.
Morgan was a spy. He’d always been good at pretending, and his older brother Henwas had taught him how to use that gift to his advantage – the gift of mimicry, of altering the sound of your voice, of changing the way you moved and looked. To become someone else. Whoever you wanted to be.
Henwas had used that gift for his own purposes. He’d lived the life of a particular kind of thief; one who got what he wanted not by breaking into houses or waylaying people in the street, but by fooling people into giving him what he wanted. It was the subtlest way of stealing, and maybe Morgan would have followed his elder brother into the same kind of life one day.
But when he had been taken into Malvern’s Eyrie as the King’s own adopted son, Morgan had eventually begun to use his gifts for a far nobler purpose: not to serve himself, but to serve his King and his people. He had been the first of King Caedmon’s followers to go through the Northgate Mountains and into the South, and once he had done that he had infiltrated the Southern city of Liranwee along with his partner, Echo.
That was where he had met Captain Redguard. And when Red had escaped the destruction of Liranwee and gone to warn the other Eyries with his new partner Kraego, Morgan had gone after him Echo. He had chased Red through the South of Cymria, never coming close enough to catch up to him.
Until Eagleholm, that is. Until Red and Kraego had flown on past Dead Mountain which had once been the city of Eagleholm. Morgan had followed them, with Echo, and Arwydd and her partner Essh. They had hoped to ambush the two of them while they were asleep, and kill them quickly.
But Morgan had made a mistake. The master spy had been caught out. Red had woken up at just the wrong moment, and he was much stronger than Morgan.
He and Kraego had captured the spy, and for a few horrible moments he had thought his time was up. After all, Red had plenty of reasons to kill him.
But Red hadn’t killed him. He and Kraego had captured Morgan and dragged him away through the shadows, leaving his partner Echo behind.
They had taken him to a city he had never seen before, a city nobody in the North knew existed.
New Eagleholm.
It was tiny, only half built, and occupied by only a few hundred people. Northerners were absolutely forbidden to enter the city, but Morgan had been allowed in as a prisoner.
That was when he had realised Red’s true motivation. He had expected the big Southerner to kill him by way of revenge, but this was far better. Morgan wouldn’t be killed. No, instead he would be delivered into the hands of his enemies. Handed over, as Red had been. Imprisoned as he had been. Tortured to try and force him to betray his people, just as Red had once been.
Morgan had seen it all as he sat in the cell underneath New Eagleholm’s half-finished Eyrie. He had seen the poetic justice of it all. And he had seen, too, that he deserved it.
But that didn’t mean he would let it happen to him, and he hadn’t. And, at first, everything had been going his way.
The guards watching over him were badly trained, inexperienced, and no match for a master spy. Morgan had escaped with ease, and killed three men in the process. He had slipped out, into the city, his mind already focused on a plan. Sneak out through the city, get out through a side gate, and find Echo. Then he would return to his King and give his report, and hopefully be allowed to stay by his side from then on.
Morgan was used to planning like that, and in the past it had always worked out. Like his brother before him, he led a charmed life.
He reminded himself of that now as he moved quickly and quietly through the night-time streets of New Eagleholm. It helped to reassure him.
Everything’s going to be fine, he told himself several times. You were born lucky, right? Born lucky.
All was still, more or less. As in most cities, the lamps had been lit out in the streets, and there were a few people still out and about. Morgan avoided them with his usual skill. If only he had something with him, he could have made himself a quick disguise, but he had nothing with him but a dagger and a lock pick, and a short sword he’d stolen from one of the dead guards.
He could cover his eyes and play at being a blind man again, but he didn’t have a razor to shave off his hair as he’d done last time, and by now more than enough of it had grown back to give him away. Nobody but a Northerner had black hair.
He could bluff well enough that people wouldn’t notice the tall, narrow-shouldered build and long fingers, but hair colour wasn’t something you could draw attention away from so easily. This time, he’d have to rely on stealth.
But that was all right – he could be stealthy when he needed to. He had crept out of Liranwee by the secret tunnel several times to liaise with Echo, and never been caught.
But while he had known his way around Liranwee, he didn’t know his way around New Eagleholm. And in Liranwee he could rely on his disguise.
He slunk along a darkened street, keeping to the shadows. The best he could manage was to head towards the city walls, which were the most complete part of the partially built city. If he could make it to them, he could follow their length until he found a way through – and he would just have to hope that the guards posted on it wouldn’t spot him.
As he hurried on, he saw someone coming towards him up the street. He quickly moved closer to the wall of the building to his left and kept going, hoping they wouldn’t notice him.
The stranger came on and drew level with him. Morgan resisted the urge to pull away, which would make the man suspicious, but he couldn’t stop himself from watching him as they passed close by each other. The stranger looked back with the kind of incurious stare of one man passing another he didn’t know. Morgan was in the shadows, and he hoped they would hide his face. His heart beat faster.
The stranger looked away and kept going, and Morgan had to bite back a sigh of relief.
Thank you, Night God, he prayed silently.
Above, as if hearing his prayer, the clouds shifted away from the moon and the shadows retreated. Morgan quickly turned away to hide his face.
‘Hey,’ a voice said from behind him. ‘Hey, you!’
Morgan put his head down and hurried on.
‘Hey!’ the voice called. The stranger was coming after him. ‘Hey, wait a moment...’
Before Morgan could slip away, the man came up behind him and touched him on the shoulder. ‘Hey—,’ he said again, but Morgan didn’t wait to find out what he was going to say. He pulled the dagger out of his belt, turned and stabbed the Southerner in one smooth movement.
The man jerked and gasped. The dagger had been expertly aimed, and he collapsed without a sound.
Morgan put the dagger back in his belt, and ran.
A shout suddenly split the air, from somewhere up ahead of him. ‘Murder! Holy gods, murder! Guards!’
Morgan saw the witness appear from a doorway further along the street, and started towards him, reaching for his dagger. But it was already too late. The man’s shout brought others running. Morgan swore and ran back up the way he had come, searching for an alleyway he could duck into.
Too late.
Two more people were coming down the street towards him, and there were no convenient alleyways in sight.
He kept going, intending to just shove the newcomers out of the way, but they had already noticed the commotion.
‘Stop him!’ one of the people behind him shouted. ‘He just killed that man!’
The two in front hesitated and stared at Morgan.
‘He tried to rob me,’ Morgan lied with practised ease, putting a Southern accent into his voice. ‘It was self-defence.’
‘That’s no—,’ one of the two men in his way began, and then stopped. His eyes narrowed. ‘Wait.’
His friend stared too, and then gasped. ‘Holy Gryphus, he’s a Northerner! That’s a Northerner!’
Morgan could have done a dozen things to get out of this. He could have kept on lying, could have made a run for it, could have ducked into the nearest hiding place and lain low until things died down. But tiredness, hunger, and sheer terror stopped him, and the moment those words hit his ears he panicked.
He drew the dead guard’s sword, and stabbed the speaker to death. The man’s friend cried out and lurched towards him, and Morgan caught him by the hair and slit his throat. His pursuers were already on him, and as he tried to run again someone caught him by the arm.
Shouts rose from half a dozen voices, and more people were already emerging from houses to see what was going on.
‘He’s a Northerner!’
‘It’s a blackrobe!’
‘Murderer!’
Morgan fought back. Cornered now and desperate, he drew his dagger with his free hand and lashed out, trying to make them back off. It worked for a moment, but then someone hit him from behind and he went sprawling onto the dirt. Someone stamped on his hand to make him drop the dagger. His sword was already gone.
Hands grabbed at him.
Morgan struggled. ‘Get your paws off me, you filthy sun-worshippers!’ he roared.
But the hands only took him by the arms and twisted them behind his back, and they pulled him up until he was kneeling.
Someone else pulled out a clump of his still-short hair. ‘I don’t believe it! He really is one of them.’
Others started jeering.
‘All right, lads, we’ve got ourselves a blackrobe,’ one man said loudly. ‘What’re we gonna do with him?’
‘Let’s hand him over to the guards!’ a woman suggested.
‘What, and let them have all the fun?’ another interrupted. ‘No way – he’s ours!’
‘Hang him!’ said a man. ‘Let’s take him to the square an’ hang him.’
The others gave shouts of approval.
‘Go on, go an’ tell your friends!’ the first man said, taking charge. ‘They’ll all want to see this. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a hanging.’
Several people ran off, some of them shouting as they ran. ‘A hanging! We’re gonna have a hanging!’
Morgan started to throw himself forward with all his strength, trying to make them let go of his arms. His shoulders screamed agony, but he didn’t stop.
‘No!’ he yelled. ‘Are you mad? Give me to the guards! You’re breaking the law!’
One of his captors smacked him in the head. ‘Ain’t you heard the law in New Eagleholm? You see a blackrobe, you kill him on sight. Now shut up, scum, an’ come quietly. We’re gonna send you straight back to the Night God.’
They dragged him to his feet and made him walk. He tried to go along with them, but they didn’t make it easy. Someone kicked him in the back of the legs, and he nearly fell over.
His captors jeered and wrenched on his arms to make him cry out. Morgan held back as well as he could, but a gasp of pain escaped him, and the Southerners laughed at the sound of it. Their voices were loud and crude, and full of hate.
Morgan made another effort to free his arms, and failed. Struggling only made them hit him again.
They took him away down the street and along another, many of them calling for others to join them. A mob had begun to gather, and as it grew the procession ground to a halt while the newcomers started to shove at each other, all trying to get at him.
Some of his original captors gathered themselves around the two holding Morgan and pushed through the crowd. ‘Get out of the way!’ shouted the man who had put himself in charge. ‘We’re taking him to the square!’
The mob only shoved harder. Some of them even started to fight each other. Morgan could hear them shouting.
‘C’mon, let me at him! Get out of the way!’
The mob surged, and the people holding Morgan fell forward under the pressure. Morgan fell out of their hands, and an instant later he was on the ground. He curled in on himself, trying to protect his vulnerable parts, and gritted his teeth as the blows started to rain down on him.
Pain slammed through his back and shoulders. Something smashed over his right knee. Hands pulled at him, trying to make him expose his stomach. A boot caught him in the groin, and he screamed.
He vaguely saw someone pull out a knife, and feebly rolled over to try and get away. But before the mob could finish him off, someone grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him away.
‘Stop it!’ a voice yelled. ‘We’re gonna hang him – come on!’
The mob jeered again, but backed off and let the man take Morgan. This time they didn’t try and make him stand up, but took him by the arms and the back of his tunic and dragged him along the ground. His attackers followed along in the rear, some of them throwing things or yelling threats.
A broken bottle hit him in the face, but he was only vaguely aware of the pain. His mind seemed to have frozen. He felt the blood, though, trickling hotly down his chin to his neck.
The mob moved on, taking him with it, until the streets around them opened up into a square. There was a stone plinth there, and a statue stood on it. A woman with her arm extended.
Half a dozen people climbed over the statue and started throwing ropes over the arm, all wanting to be the first. One of them finally succeeded, and the others retreated. Morgan looked up through fuzzy eyes and saw the noose. The woman who had tied it brought it down while several others grabbed at the other end.
‘C’mon, bring him over!’ she yelled.
Two people started to pull Morgan to his feet, and he made one last wild effort to escape. The people nearby shoved him back and he fell again, and several more brutal blows smashed into him before his original captor managed to pull him away.
The noose went around his neck, and tightened.
‘No,’ Morgan choked. ‘No...!’
But the Southerners only jeered louder, and started to pull the loose end of the rope over the statue’s arm.
Morgan went up, and up; up until his feet left the ground and he dangled, kicking and clutching at the noose around his neck. He couldn’t speak any more. He managed one last feeble gasp of air before the noose crushed his windpipe.
His tongue bulged and his eyes pushed out. His whole head and face started to throb. He could feel his heart, thudding, racing, drowned out by the screams and shoutings of the crowd that hurled stones and rotten fruit at his dangling body, and pulled on his legs to make him die faster.
The screams rose higher. Were they his? Could some part of him reach out past the noose and scream out his pain and terror? Or could he still hear the mob, somehow frightened by its own violence?
The sound grew louder, and stronger. Through the darkness that had started to close over him, Morgan thought it was strange that people – even people like this – could make a sound so loud, so powerful. It even seemed to frighten the ones pulling at him; their hands fell away.
‘Run!’ a voice shouted from somewhere far away.
Morgan’s legs continued to kick feebly, as if they wanted to obey.
The rope suddenly went slack, and he thumped down onto the ground. He thought he was too far gone to even think, but it was as if his hands had a life of their own. They went to his throat and pulled at the noose. It loosened, and his mouth opened wider and sucked in air. It felt like knives in his throat.
It was all he could manage. His body had gone numb, and he lay there pathetically on his back and just breathed. Spots flashed in front of his eyes.
Something hit the ground close by, so hard the ground shook. Only half conscious, Morgan tried to turn his head and look, but he was too slow. Something hit him in the middle, something heavy, and a crushing grip closed around him and lifted him. A great gust of air blasted over his face, and he went up again, carried away by something with sharp points that stuck into his back. He realised that he was flying.
Morgan looked up, and saw a wall of feathers above him. He could see the great scaled foreleg that held him.
Echo.
He let his eyes close, and slid away into unconsciousness.
