The Ember Blade (The Darkwater Legacy, #1)

by Chris Wooding BA

there comes a time when faith must have its reward,

Kroda was an ailing country once, beset by barbarians and menaced by its neighbours. Its ancestral territories in Ozak and Brunland had been lost to independence movements they were too weak to oppose. Then came Tomas and Toven, one a charismatic and radical preacher, the other a young war hero. They brought word of the Primus, and the people listened, for the Aspects of old hadn’t served them well. At last they were brought before the Emperor, Steppen III. He was convinced by them, and declared them heralds of the true god. He outlawed all other religions and gave his support to the nascent Sanctorum, the followers of Tomas and Toven, so they might spread their credo of discipline and martial order throughout the land.

Kroda had never looked back. In the two centuries since, they’d reclaimed their lost lands, annexed Estria and invaded Ossia. Even mighty Harrow would rather make alliance with them than oppose them, and Klyssen was confident that they’d one day become part of the Empire in their turn. If they were not conquered by force of arms, they’d collapse from within. Ossified by tradition and heritage, they were a culture incapable of change. They’d crumble like the ruins of the Second Empire, or be crushed in the fullness of time beneath the wheel of Krodan progress.

Even now it waited at the Burned Bear for Keel, and a dozen Iron Guardsmen waited with it. The jaws of the trap were set. All that was left for Keel to walk in.

The Shacklemarket was aswarm, a bewildering churn of people of all ages and races milling beneath a webwork of bunting and banners.

Arms wheeling, he dropped through the air, throat locked shut with the terror of the plunge.

Fortune favoured the treacherous, apparently. The thought made him feel sick.

He was dirt. He was lower than dirt. But he’d smear his soul with all the filth the world had to give if it would keep Cade from Klyssen’s clutches.

‘In thirty years I’ve seen a lot of traitors and turncoats, boy,’ said Garric from the doorway. ‘You’re not half as subtle as you think.’ ‘You knew?’ Aren gasped.

So good! Irony overturned!

He thanked them both and headed downstairs, looking for Cade. Last night in the ghetto, Overwatchman Klyssen and his men had lain in wait for a fugitive who never arrived. At some point, Klyssen must have realised that his gamble hadn’t paid off, that the boy he’d released wasn’t going to bring him Garric. He’d have been made to look foolish in front of his men, and he’d be murderously angry. Aren took no satisfaction in humiliating the man.

‘The Divide between this world and the Shadowlands is thinner than it has been since the days of the Second Empire, and it is thinning by the day. This is no natural waning. Something, somewhere is causing this. Chaos grows, and grows close. Urd shamen are uncovering lost arts in the lowlands. In the south, the chimericists, so long only charlatans and fakes, have learned how to breathe life into their creations. The Theocracy of the Incarnate tightens its grip to the west and the witches of Skara Thun find their scattered bones tell the truth more often than ever before. I fear the dreadknights are only a glimpse of what is to come. Something stirs, and brings the doom of the world with it. We are no longer fighting for Ossia. We are fighting for everything.’

Grub snorted sceptically. ‘And maybe Grub have the gateway to a magic kingdom hidden in the crack of his arse.’

Aren stared out at the city, a heavy weight on his heart. No longer was he numb. It was impossible not to feel, with her hand in his. He wondered how much cruelty the world could hold. How many other stories like hers were out there, hidden behind darkened windows, kept secret by doors and walls? How many men who beat their wives near to death, how many starving and neglected children, how many who planned treachery against those they professed to love? Weighed against that, his own despair seemed a small thing. He had life, strength and liberty. If his dreams had come tumbling down, well, at least he’d been allowed them in the first place.

You will find us a champion, she’d said. And perhaps Vika had. Or perhaps she’d misread the signs and they’d all die here. Perhaps the only voice she’d ever heard was her own, and the gods she’d met merely the conjurings of a damaged mind.

One stroke. Another. Now his lungs were twin balls of fire and his vision writhed with sparkling worms.

she’d pore over this meeting and relive the chill agony of his anger like hollow icicles in her guts. But

As his senses faded and his thoughts went still, he’d reached the borders of death and glimpsed what waited for him there. Nothing. Emptiness. No Bone God to welcome or damn him. He wouldn’t even be afforded that grace. Not for him the ice fields of Quttak, where heroes hunted mighty shabboths and battled giants in the snow. He wouldn’t see the halls of Vanatuk, where there was feasting and merriment and hearths that burned eternally. His fate was the Forgetting, where the Unremembered went when they died. He’d seen it as he sank into the black abyss, and it struck fear into him such as he’d never known.

Aren’s mouth was dry with excitement and fear, muscles trembling with the anticipation of combat.

Her vision had been clear all along, it was just that she failed to understand it. She’d been so certain Garric was the champion that she’d forced all the evidence to fit that theory, and then blamed the Aspects when he’d disappointed her. But it was her mistake. They hadn’t shown her Garric. They’d shown her Aren.

‘Mudgrub

Right and wrong were just a matter of perspective. Stories and histories changed depending on the teller. Justice was an illusion. All that mattered was what you believed.

No, no, please! Meshuk, Joha, Primus, anybody, no!

But he was one of them, and that meant more than any sword did.

There were no heroes or villains here, or anywhere. He was just a man, flawed as the next, and he made his choices like the rest of them. Whether they were good choices or bad was a matter of perspective.

‘We are all Dawnwardens!’ Aren said, swept up in the moment. He held the sword before him. ‘I swear I will protect the Ember Blade with my life, until such a day when it can be put into the hand of one who deserves to rule this land. I pledge myself to any who share this purpose, an unbreakable bond, unto death. Will you swear with me?’

‘These mountains will be crawling with Krodans soon,’ Vika said. ‘Whither now?’

Overt LOTR reference.