The Sword Falls

By A.J. Smith

'Best described as George R.R. Martin meets H.P. Lovecraft, The Glass Breaks is a fine example of British fantasy writing at its most entertaining' Guardian
A MAN OF THE DAWN CLAW WILL BE THE ALWAYS KING.
It will ever be so. They will always rule... but they will not always lead.Prince Oliver Dawn Claw, heir to the Kingdom of the Four Claws, is thrust into a world he doesn't understand as he waits for his father to die. Away from home, with few allies – and too many enemies – he faces a new and otherworldly threat from beneath the sea. Alliances break and masks fall, as the Dark Brethren reveal their true master.

Meanwhile, Adeline Brand – called the Alpha Wolf – refuses to wait, and becomes the edge of the sword that swings back at the Dreaming God. Assembling allies and crushing resistance, she enters a fight she doesn't know if she can win, as the sea begins to rise.
PRAISE FOR A.J. SMITH:
'An epic feat of world-building from one of British fantasy's most innovative voices' Bookseller

'British fantasy writing at its most entertaining' Guardian

'Interesting and enticing, deftly sidesteps fantasy cliché and thrusts you towards the next installment' SFX

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Mar 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781786696915

A.J. Smith

A.J. Smith is the author of the Long War series, as well as the first two books in the Form & Void trilogy: The Sword Falls and The Glass Breaks. When not writing fiction, he works in secondary education as a youth worker.

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Also by A.J. Smith

The Long War Chronicles

The Black Guard

The Dark Blood

The Red Prince

The World Raven

Form and Void

The Glass Breaks

The Sword Falls

THE SWORD FALLS

A.J Smith

AN AD ASTRA BOOK

www.headofzeus.com

First published by Head of Zeus in 2021 An Ad Astra book

Copyright © A.J. Smith, 2021

The moral right of A.J. Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN (HB): 9781786696922

ISBN (XTPB): 9781786696939

ISBN (E): 9781786696915

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Contents

Welcome Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map

Prologue

Part One: Prince Oliver Dawn Claw at the Silver Dawn

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Part Two: Adeline Brand at the Severed Hand

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Part Three: Oliver Dawn Claw at the Silver Dawn

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Part Four: Adeline Brand aboard Halfdan’s Revenge

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Part Five: Oliver Dawn Claw on the Great Serpent

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Part Six: Adeline Brand aboard Halfdan’s Revenge

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Part Seven: Oliver Dawn Claw at Snake Guard

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Part Eight: Adeline Brand at the Starry Sky

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Part Nine: Oliver Dawn Claw in the Void

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Part Ten: Adeline Brand aboard Halfdan’s Revenge

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Epilogue

Appendix

Acknowledgements

About the Author

An Invitation from the Publisher

Map

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PROLOGUE

The Harp watched, as the brother attacked first, thrusting his heavy straight sword at the sister’s midriff. It was restrained, almost playful, but still met with a solid parry, and a powerful riposte. The sister was taking the duel, and the argument that had caused it, far more seriously than the brother. Only one of them smiled, as they danced back and forth, clashing blades in a well-trained flow of attack and defence.

Lucio and Alexis Wind Claw had been arguing for days, and the Harp had refused to break the deadlock. If he spoke out, in favour of one side or the other, he would be committing too much. The Harp preferred to wait, watching events unfold, before he chose a side. He felt no loyalty to the siblings, but knew they were powerful allies, devoted to the rising sea, and the Waking God.

You are getting slow, brother, taunted Alexis Wind Claw, displaying her swordsmanship with an elaborate flourish of her blade.

But I’m still stronger, replied Lucio, launching a series of overhead strikes, designed to overpower his sister.

They were spiteful creatures, but the Harp sensed little real aggression between them, as if they fought simply because that was what siblings did. They knew how to use their straight swords, and they knew how to use their skill, while still pulling their blows. They’d had an argument, and neither of them had won, so they fought to determine who was right. The siblings didn’t wear armour, and it was clear that neither would seriously hurt the other. Their black, satin clothes were tight-fitting, and made by the finest tailors, with glinting jewels sown into the fabric.

Why will you not see reason, brother? snarled Alexis, launching a combination of overhead attacks. Prince Oliver must be killed. As we all agreed.

Lucio laughed, countering the combination with one of his own. Such might should not be dismissed. The Eagle Prince could be turned. Just think of it, sister...

She didn’t reply. The Harp had heard each of them deliver their point of view a dozen times over. They’d argued back and forth about the best way to proceed, with the only point of agreement being how delicious the sight of Winterlord royalty leading the armies of the Waking God was.

Lucio began to take the duel more seriously, as Alexis drove him backwards across the grass of the Harp’s garden. It was a cloistered square at the bottom of the Owl House, and a place for the most private of duels. Dark Brethren rarely fought with an audience, unlike the less civilized Eastron at other holds. This was the Open Hand, raised in the thirteenth year of the dark age, by Lord Medina Wind Claw. Here, in the sight of the Night Wing, the Dark Brethren lived a more elegant life.

You will not defeat me, said Lucio, skilfully countering his sister’s attacks. And we will not kill Oliver Dawn Claw. The Waking God wants more from him. I see it in my dreams.

Alexis surged forwards, as if angry at her brother’s words. She pushed a glimmer of wyrd into her arms, and attacked ferociously. Her spiritual power was significant, appearing as ripples of fetid green light, framing every strike. Your dreams and mine are in conflict, dear brother. I see an end to the old royalty. We have no need of them any more. Beautiful chaos will reign in their stead.

The Harp was becoming weary of their games, and increasingly disinterested in the fate of the Eagle Prince. Initially, all three of them had agreed that Oliver of the Winterlords was their enemy and needed to die, but their assassin had missed. Much had happened since then, not least the treachery of Marius, the Harp’s youngest brother, and the partial destruction of the Severed Hand. These things had slowly convinced Lucio that the prince was more valuable as an ally than a corpse, though he’d yet to detail how such a thing would be accomplished, short of breaking his mind.

The duel became a tedious dance, as neither sibling was prepared to truly hurt the other. Spiteful banter swung between them as readily as their straight swords, with insults taking the place of blood and severed limbs. They even began to laugh at each other’s petty barbs, and renew old grievances that made sense only to them. The point of the duel was getting lost, and the Bloodied Harp was getting impatient.

He coughed loudly, just as Lucio and Alexis backed away from their latest half-hearted exchange. Apologies, he said, as they both looked at him, frowning at the sudden interruption. But I believe I can break your deadlock, if only to end this vulgar display. Any longer and I fear the sea will rise before we have prepared the world for Him.

The siblings shared a look, before sheathing their swords. Lucio adjusted his satin tunic, and thrust out his chin. Alexis re-tied her long, dark hair, and pouted.

Lord Santago, said Lucio. You have words?

Indeed, replied the Harp. Please, come, sit. He swept his black coat backwards and reclined on a wooden bench, at the edge of his garden.

They hesitated, unused to the presence of a man whom they feared. Santago Cyclone, the Bloodied Harp of the Open Hand, was perhaps the only Eastron closer to the Waking God than the siblings. When a high priest was chosen, all three of them knew it would be him, and in the meantime, he was custodian of the rotten wyrd they possessed. It had bubbled forth from the void and been given to him alone, and they harnessed it only at his wish.

I care little for the Eagle Prince, said the Harp, once Lucio and Alexis had sat down on an adjoining bench. "It was the Sea Wolves who haunted His dreams, and they are now a broken people. The others will not fight, they will run. It is my youngest brother we should be concerned with. Marius is far more dangerous. He certainly must be killed."

So I can kill the prince? asked the sister, clearly only hearing what she wanted to.

That’s not fair, snapped the brother, as myopic as his sibling.

If Santago doesn’t care, countered Alexis, "there’s no reason not to kill him."

The Harp sneered at their moronic immaturity. In that moment, he imagined killing them both, and turning their corpses into elaborate art. Perhaps their skin could be stretched into a frame, upon which a great work could be painted. Or maybe their blood and flesh could be frozen into pearls and worn around his neck. It would please him to do it, but he would have to find other willing servants, of equal influence. They were descendants of Medina Wind Claw himself, and their lineage amongst the Dark Brethren was second to none. Alexis was an envoy of the Silver Parliament, and Lucio commanded void legions.

But still they bickered. The sister was fixated on killing Prince Oliver, the brother on breaking his mind and turning him to worship of the Waking God. Both arguments had merit, but the Harp was now thinking about ripping out their throats with his teeth, and decided to end the conflict before he was forced to lunge at them.

Stop talking, he snarled, glaring from one sibling to the other. We will be witness to the end of this world… and the start of another.

They shut up. Lucio licked his lips, and there was deranged wonder in his eyes. Alexis started breathing heavily, and looking at the Harp like she wanted to fuck. They were vacuous and immature, but both had embraced the beautiful chaos of insanity, given freely by the Waking God and the rising sea. His dreams were now shallow, and he turned in his sleep, gathering strength before the stars were aligned and the time was right.

Marius will deny Him his rightful slaves, said the Bloodied Harp. What can this Winterlord prince do?

He is the strongest of Eastron, replied Lucio Wind Claw. And he is everything I hate. An ignorant man of the Dawn Claw, born to duty and honour, as if his very existence were proof of his worth. He should be shown true power.

Alexis shook her head, and playfully shoved her brother. We agree, she exclaimed. So why not see him die in agony?

The Harp bowed his head, and dismissed the impulse to drown each of them in the other’s blood. Stop talking! he repeated, louder this time. I will tell you what to do. Alexis, return to the Silver Parliament, and await the prince. Do nothing until the king is dead. Then you may indulge yourself as your twisted wyrd dictates.

Lucio was about to speak, but locked eyes with the Harp and thought better of complaining. As mad as he was, he still knew his place, and could still be cowed.

If the prince can somehow survive, continued the Harp, "he’ll have proven to me that he is worthy of turning. At which point I will take charge and visit him. Perhaps we’ll even become friends. If he survives."

The siblings were both bursting with the desire to speak, but neither dared, until given permission. The Harp let them wait, enjoying the brief moment of silence. You may speak, he said, after a moment.

Alexis, the happier of the two, let her brother speak. And what will I be doing, while my sister kills Winterlords? asked Lucio.

You will assemble two void legions, said the Harp. "The tenth will go to the Silver Dawn with your sister, and you will muster the eleventh at Ghost Fort, awaiting Marius. My brother will remain our priority. I have now finished talking, and you will both leave."

They left quickly, with just a hint of grumbling from the brother. They would argue and complain amongst themselves, musing upon Santago’s decision and his worth, but they remained craven, and neither would dare question him. The Bloodied Harp had seen the world yet to come, and his service to the Waking God went beyond simple devotion.

The gods of old were our freedoms woe and we were freedoms fool.

The Bright Lands they gave us, but our thrones of wyrd we stole.

Their power was their doom, and so the Bright Lands darkened.

Upon their graves the Eastron were born.

And the Eastron sailed across the sea.

Engraved in the Strange Manse. Attributed to Sovon No Moon.

PART ONE

Prince Oliver Dawn Claw at the Silver Dawn

1

The void sky was a shimmering black, with pinpoints of light, playing across my vision. In the realm of form, the landscape was filled with stone and wood, packed together as buildings, streets, and walls. Beyond the glass, in the realm of void, the world was more elegant. The hold of the Silver Dawn was visible only as a faint net, forming boundaries and structures. But only the most significant buildings had actual form in the spirit world. Everything else I could see was pale blue, flowing like sand dunes or rolling waves. Spirits flew through the air, as sparkling birds; or scuttled across the ground, as small, woodland animals, each with a distinct energy, unknowable to the mortal men and women of the Eastron from across the sea. There was a profound sense of peace, as if the troubles of the world could not reach me.

Highness, let us not stay here too long, said the man at my side.

I looked down at him. Does the peace of the void disagree with you?

It disturbs me, he replied, because I know it isn’t real. I prefer the realm of form.

His name was James Silver Born, called Silver Jack, and he’d come with me only because he refused to leave my side. He didn’t like the void, and distrusted spirits. We were both Winterlords of First Port and our people claimed kingship over the Eastron from across the sea. Our power radiated in the void, shining as globes of wyrd across our limbs and framing our heads. Jack’s wyrd was strongest in his arms and over his heart. Mine was a vibrant nimbus across my whole body, flaring at the head and torso.

We will speak to the Lord of the Quarter, I stated.

He hung his head. Silver Jack was short for a Winterlord, barely reaching six feet in height, and far shorter than me. But he was a cunning little bastard, and had been my closest adviser since I left First Port. I’d survived an assassin’s blade at the Severed Hand, and my father, the Always King, had insisted I be accompanied at all times. I’d disregarded the multitudes of hulking duellists who’d volunteered, and the knights of Falcon’s Watch, and chosen a middle-aged man named Jack. He hadn’t even volunteered. He’d been drunk in the Eagle House, waiting for one of his many reprimands. When I found him, he’d muttered that he was a terrible duellist and would rather drink his own piss than follow a prince around. It was broadly the answer I was looking for.

We’ll be missed, said Silver Jack. People will worry.

David will worry, I replied. And you. And you worry about everything.

What about the seven Dark Brethren who are following you, highness?

I sighed, my calm significantly eroded. It was easy to forget who I was in the void. It was the only time I wasn’t constantly required to be Prince Oliver Dawn Claw, Protector of First Port. One day I would be the Always King. I would be the seventh since Sebastian Dawn Claw arrived from across the sea and founded the Kingdom of the Four Claws. It was the kind of burden that was impossible to walk away from.

Why aren’t you wearing your armour? asked Silver Jack.

I looked down at my blue tunic and laced black trousers, tucked into heavy, leather riding boots. I had a short sword at my side, but was otherwise not equipped for combat. My broadsword and armour were in the Golden Keep, casually discarded on a coach. I didn’t like wearing them. Partially because they signalled my station, but mostly because they made my large frame even larger. People were always afraid of me, but with my armour and a sword I rarely saw a pair of eyes that was not pointed at the ground.

The Lord of the Quarter, I repeated, ignoring his question.

He screwed up his face, but resisted further nagging. He followed me across the soft grass of the void, towards a tall tree, with tangled branches stretching out like gnarled hands. Small spirits scuttled away from us, as if repelled by our powerful wyrd. But larger ones – mostly birds of prey – remained imperiously on their perches. On the highest branch, flaring its wings at my approach, was a huge eagle, with gold and silver feathers and ageless eyes of deep bronze. It was the Dawn Claw, totem spirit of the Winterlords.

Ninety years ago, when my great grandfather, King Hector, abandoned the Silver Dawn for First Port, he left the totem behind. The bureaucracy that remained became the Silver Parliament, and vowed to always protect and revere the mighty eagle. Opinion was divided on how faithfully they had kept their vow. Many Winterlords, my father included, believed that the parliament was unnecessary, and the Kingdom of the Four Claws should once again be under the absolute rule of the Always King. He used to muse that, one day, a man of the Dawn Claw would again be the Forever King.

I took a knee. My Lord of the Quarter. I am Prince Oliver and I bear your name. I pay you my respects and ask for your wisdom.

The huge spirit took wing and gracefully glided to the ground. Its majestic feathers ruffled in the gentle breeze, and all nearby spirits paused to marvel at its presence. It was the greatest spirit the Eastron had ever found, and the symbol of all that allowed the Winterlords to rule. It craned its neck downwards to regard me. I was tall and bulky, even for a Winterlord, but the huge eagle made me feel like a child. I would be a worm in its enormous, hooked beak, but I sensed warmth and recognition.

The glass has broken. Soon the sword will fall. Then the sea will rise. The Old Bitch of the Sea has been vanquished. The Night Wing has been corrupted. The Kindly One is ignored. But my voice can still be heard.

The spirit did not speak. Its thoughts vibrated into meaning and entered my head as words and emotions. I shared a glance with Silver Jack, confirming that he had also heard the words and felt the emotions. The Dawn Claw knew that the realm of form was teetering on the edge of something, and it struggled to make us understand. It wanted us to act, but its emotions felt like huge, churning clouds, with no definite form or direction. Perhaps I was just too simple to comprehend the thoughts of so mighty a spirit.

You will be king. You must be king. Or all is lost.

We should leave, said Silver Jack. I think it’s angry.

Angry? I queried, backing away. I’d have said it was scared. Maybe sad.

The Dawn Claw let us leave, but we did so only slowly, muttering to each other about what the spirit wanted us to know. It flared its wings, becoming even larger, and curling its huge talons into the shimmering grass of the void.

I will visit you again, I said, by way of a farewell.

We turned from the tree and left the presence of our totem. My time in the void was coming to an end. The glass was a thin barrier, but it held back a world of responsibility and a sea of questions I didn’t want to answer. Unfortunately, the Dawn Claw had offered no advice as to how best to deal with the Silver Parliament. And yet its cryptic words would linger.

*

The hold of the Silver Dawn was divided into north and south by the Great Serpent River, with two old bridges connecting the walled southern portion with the sprawling north. The older of the two bridges was here when the Eastron invaded from across the sea, and was one of the few Pure One relics left in the Silver Dawn. The native Rykalite tended to the bridge, and called it the Old Tree, treating it as if it were somehow alive. The second bridge was the larger of the two, and styled after the wings of an enormous eagle. Only Eastron were permitted to cross it, and it was the traditional route taken by ministers to and from the Silver Parliament.

Highness, do you not get sick of that view? asked Silver Jack, joining me at the window. We were at the top of the Golden Keep, in a suite reserved for the Protector of First Port. It was only the second time I’d used it, and only the fourth time I’d been to the hold of the Silver Dawn.

It’s the only view I’ve got, I replied. We’d been here three days, and I’d so far done nothing official. I’d ignored multiple summons and invitations, letting my adjutant, David, come up with excuses for my absence. I’d made extensive use of the phrase a prince will not be rushed. The reality was that I was waiting for my father to die, before I could claim my birthright.

Jack peered around me, and made a grumbling sound at the procession of black robes crossing the bridge towards the parliament building. Any silver robes?

I shook my head. Just Dark Brethren. Though I saw two red robes earlier. A young girl and a tall man.

Sea Wolves? The fuck are they doing here?

I raised an eyebrow at him.

Sorry, highness, he murmured. "Inappropriate language. But the glass broke over the Severed Hand… Half the Sea Wolves are dead. Why would they be here?"

Not known, but it changes nothing. I asked the Sea Wolves for help… They declined, so we attend the parliament. They know the world is changing; perhaps there is still wisdom around the First Stone. I’m not king yet, but I intend to act as if I am.

From the suite, an armoured young man approached, interrupting my thought. As soon as Jack and I had returned, he’d immediately begun the process of encasing himself in heavy, plate steel. It had taken a little time, even with his squire assisting, but David Falcon’s Fang now felt properly attired to greet me. Highness, I await instruction, said the young duellist. Many people wish to address you. Some wish to petition you. And a few desire to beg you. You even have an overture of peace from Lord Marius Cyclone of the Dark Brethren. He requests a private audience. Word is, he’s ordered the Dark Harbour evacuated.

I took a deep breath and turned from the window, attempting to smile at David. A prince will not be rushed, I replied. He can wait. Like everyone else. How many sessions of parliament have I missed?

He straightened, appearing slightly proud that I’d spoken to him. I’d spoken to him thousands of times since we first met, and he straightened a little each time. It had stopped irritating me a few months ago.

Seven, your highness, he replied. Three of them officially requested your presence. And still no word from Minister Elizabeth regarding your petition. Things are… tense.

Highness, are you listening? snapped Silver Jack. Because you don’t look like you’re listening. You look like you want us both to fuck off and leave you alone.

I rubbed my eyes. The Stranger is evacuating the Dark Harbour, and wants to talk. Seven sessions of parliament. Nothing from Elizabeth Defiant. Things are tense. Any word of my father?

David hung his head. The last ship from First Port brought nothing new. The Always King has not emerged from his sick bed. The Lady Natasha, your royal mother, remains at his side.

My two attendants carried on speaking, but I phased out their chatter and returned to the window. There were so many people below. They had families and lives, and expectations of a simple life. Or perhaps a prince naturally condescends, and they were each an island of complex emotions and untapped potential. Either way, there were a lot of them, and every single one knew my name.

Five hundred thousand Eastron and Pure Ones lived at the Silver Dawn. There were more Dark Brethren than Winterlords, and more Pure Ones than either. The native Rykalite and Ysalite lived without wyrd, and were vassals, servants and labourers, fulfilling any role the Eastron dismissed, and the hold could never function without them. Their homes were packed together in the Low Eclipse, but their service and labour stretched to every corner of the hold. I wondered if each of them knew my name. Or was I just another pompous Invader, expecting them to bow and avert their eyes?

My armour, I said, interrupting Jack and David. I should probably look the part if we’re going to the parliament.

Silver Jack screwed up his face. I didn’t think you wanted to be the centre of attention, he said. And you’re still being followed, so security is still a problem. And I thought we agreed that we needed more duellists if you were going to be seen in public, and—

—and a hundred other things, I interrupted. David, will Minister Elizabeth be in attendance?

He nodded. She’s one of the five envoys, they always sit before the main session begins.

She’s not answering my subtle messages, so I’ll be less subtle. I need to talk to her or we may find ourselves fighting a civil war. I sized up David and Silver Jack. Both were skilled swordsmen, though David was far larger and significantly younger. I’m sure you two will be adequate security.

They looked at each other. One was wiry, with a twitchy flicker in his eyes. The other was tall and muscular, with the look of man who would not accept defeat.

Personally, highness, began David. "I don’t believe you need an abundance of security. But if you kill a dozen Dark Brethren on your way to the parliament, we may struggle with future diplomacy."

Silver Jack let forth a controlled chuckle. Has time amongst the Sea Wolves improved your humour, Master Falcon’s Fang?

Possibly, replied David, with no hint of a smile.

The point is taken, I conceded. But waiting here for my father to die, or a Brethren assassin to find a way to attack me, is becoming tiresome. I am to be king, and I’ve waited long enough.

Very well, highness, replied David, with a bow. Something else I learned from the Sea Wolves – sometimes it is wise to rush in.

No, snapped Silver Jack. An aphorism won’t save your head when you’re answering for the death of the prince.

David’s lip curled and he made a sharp about turn, facing the older duellist. "You are his anointed guardian, I am merely his adjutant. But on this matter, the prince is correct. He will be king… and we have waited long enough."

*

I was six foot, nine inches tall, with wide shoulders and thick limbs. My armour was specially made to hug every muscle and accentuate my frame, while providing ample protection and complete freedom of movement. The steel was toned in shades of silver and gold, with the grasping talon of the Dawn Claw inlaid in the breastplate. I’d worn the ornate helmet once, many years before, and subsequently discarded it, somewhere in the Eagle House. I preferred to keep my vision open, and endured the fact that my face was visible. I had green eyes, unusual for a Winterlord, and a thin mouth that looked strange when smiling. I kept my dark-brown hair short and my beard shaved close, with no particular effort paid to grooming. I was thirty-two years old and the only surviving child of the Always King, Christophe Dawn Claw, called the Shining Sword.

But none of that made a difference when we exited the Golden Keep and were faced with half a dozen men in black leather armour, wielding straight swords. They were Dark Brethren, though not void legionnaires or Outrider Knights. Their swagger marked them as cutthroats or mercenaries. Men who didn’t care for the armour I wore or the name I was born with. I was probably just a bag of gold to them. Maybe a reason to brag to their fellows at the Open Hand or the Dark Harbour. In the three days I’d been here, I’d had to kill several such groups, every time I left the Golden Keep.

Do you know who you’re threatening? demanded David, striding down the wide staircase and onto the street of the Silver Dawn.

One of the mercenaries spat on the floor and hefted himself from the cart he’d been reclining in. I know one thing, he replied. You’re fucking idiots for leaving that building. He straightened himself on the cobbled street and ran a finger down the blade of his straight sword. "In there you’re something special. Out here, you’re a walking fortune."

The road outside the Golden Keep was wide, though the old building was on the coast and somewhat removed from the tightly packed streets of the hold. There were no easily accessible back streets, where reinforcements or additional enemies could hide. I looked across the faces of the Brethren. They were all armed and armoured, glaring at me as if I were a juicy steak. It was likely they believed they were enough to kill me.

Just the six of you? I queried. You can run away if you wish.

Please, offered Silver Jack. Run away. You might cause a diplomatic incident.

Our confidence startled the Brethren, but they reacted by assembling into a line and approaching the base of the stairs. They let jagged wyrd flow into their limbs, like a shirt of subtle, blue lightning. It was the gift of every Eastron, from the lowliest mercenary to the mightiest king. It set us apart from the native Pure Ones, but these Dark Brethren had little spiritual power. Unless something truly strange happened, they were about to die. Perhaps one or two would be maimed, lucky enough to receive a glancing blow and remove themselves from the fray. But the future was not bright for any of them. I felt a sadness, the same numb regret I felt before every fight.

I grasped the scabbard of my broadsword and drew the blade. It was called Zephyr and had been with me since I was thirteen. The blade was pattern-welded, with a faint greenish tinge along the fuller, and a wasting of the blade that made it resemble a long leaf.

I shrugged my shoulders, sending a subtle shirt of wyrd over my torso. These Dark Brethren were worth nothing more than a moderate use of power. Though David Falcon’s Fang appeared to disagree. The young duellist flared outwards, sending wyrd to each extremity and letting our assailants know that the time for talking was over.

I’ll just stand here, said Silver Jack, grumbling to himself.

David and I advanced, stepping away from each other and separating the Brethren into two groups of three. My group included the leader. He held his straight sword loosely, like a skilled swordsman. It would be easier if I killed him first, but I decided not to, hoping he’d tell me who else I’d have to kill on my way to the Silver Parliament.

You live. For now, I said to the leader, before casually driving Zephyr into the chest of one of his men. I flung the body from my blade and kicked away a feeble thrust from the third man.

David engaged to my left, and the grating chant of steel-on-steel filled the air. The few onlookers fled, not wanting to have to explain what they saw, or perhaps just out of fear. Two raging Winterlords, killing Dark Brethren, could conjure all sorts of nightmares for simple folk. But they didn’t have to endure the spectacle for long.

I swatted away their wild attacks, realizing that any skill they possessed was based on brutality, rather than intelligence. The leader knew how to swing his straight sword, but he simply couldn’t match my strength. The other man died quickly, his chest opened with a casual riposte. The leader could tell he was outmatched, but was knocked unconscious, with a punch to the face, before he could run.

David, stop trying to prove something, barked Silver Jack, drawing his blade and advancing to assist the young duellist. He’d killed one of the Brethren, and wounded a second, but was pushed back by frenzied sword swings. Three against one was a tall order for a duellist of his inexperience, but he’d shown great skill nonetheless, despite using too much wyrd. Once the other Winterlord joined him, the Dark Brethren mercenaries were cut down in seconds.

Diplomacy? queried Silver Jack, looking at me with a raised eyebrow, as he wiped blood from his longsword.

An ambush, snapped David. We had to defend the prince.

Up an eagle’s arse, swore Jack. Every Brethren we kill makes a war more likely. He was flustered and couldn’t hide his irritation. He looked down at the five dead Dark Brethren and rubbed his eyes. We have few friends here. The Cyclone brothers control the Silver Dawn. When the Always King dies, there will be no coronation, my prince… there will be a civil war. They’ll seize control. Why the fuck don’t we just go home and prepare?

David and I locked eyes. I saw doubt on the young man’s face, but also deference, as if he’d follow my commands, no matter where they led. "Because I must be king, Jack. I’ve said all I plan to say on the matter, I replied. I want to speak to Elizabeth Defiant… I trust she is still my friend?"

Silver Jack averted his eyes and chewed on his lip. Yes, highness. I forgot myself for a moment. He deliberately didn’t apologize, and I knew he’d forget himself again, probably within the hour. He knew my sense of duty would never allow me to leave before my father was dead and I’d fulfilled my duty as heir.

Perhaps we should cross the river by the Old Tree, said David. There will be fewer eyes to report our approach.

I kicked the mercenary leader, waking him up. Listen to me, idiot. Anyone else waiting for us?

The man rubbed his face and sat up. Fuck, he grunted, I’m still alive. He turned his eyes to look at me, his swarthy skin creasing into an expression of fear. I’ve no honour… no pride, no loyalty. Let me live and I’ll fucking sing.

Name yourself, I demanded, standing over him.

Jago Eclipse, he replied. I kill people for money, but I don’t die for it. He scanned the five dead bodies, sprawled across the street. "Three of them have children. One of them has five. Just simple folk, trying to earn a coin. They leave many hungry mouths, your highness."

Silver Jack kicked him, dismissively. Answer the fucking question. Every cunt that died was given a chance to run. And every cunt that died chose to fight. Any hungry mouths are of their own making.

This is Prince Oliver Dawn Claw, offered David. He will be your king.

Jago smiled at me, revealing several missing teeth. I fling myself upon your mercy… my prince. He spread his arms wide. I don’t know much about you Winterlords.

Is anyone else waiting for us? I repeated, ignoring the Dark Brethren’s slimy overtures.

Yeah, replied Jago. There are loads of people waiting for you. Lord Trego Cyclone or Yanos Wolf Bane will both make a man rich, if a man can wet his blade with your blood. It’s an open offer… since long before you actually came here. There are greasy men at every street corner. And the tenth void legion are skulking around the parliament building. He spoke to me like my question had been idiotic. If you’re dead, you can’t be king.

David, restrain this man, I ordered. He’s coming with us. And will provide a safe route to the Silver Parliament.

The Dark Brethren stood in anticipation, but was wrestled back to the ground by the young duellist, with his arm wrenched behind his back and a knee against his throat. It was a little unnecessary, but served to remind Jago who was in charge.

2

The last time I saw my father was two days before I left First Port. The hold was the oldest in the Kingdom of the Four Claws, with the white-brick of the Eagle House rising above every building, casting the eye of the Always King across each warrior, labourer, merchant, fisherman and child. Unlike other holds, First Port had few native Pure Ones, and relied on the wyrd of Eastron to fulfil most functions. Each man and women took pride in their constant improvements, repairs and modifications, using their skill to honour the Eastron from across the sea and the Always King. As such, the great hold of the Winterlords was unmatched for its beauty and spectacle.

It was a crisp day, with clear, blue skies and a cold wind blowing from the Outer Sea. I’d risen early, and eaten smoked eel for breakfast. I’d sat alone, on a secluded terrace, at the base of the Eagle House. I preferred to eat alone, though my thoughts habitually turned dark when no one was talking to me. I needed company, but disliked conversation. I had few friends, but many attendants. Their chatter kept my mind occupied, though my own lack of verbosity marked me as grumpy or sullen to most. I didn’t really care, as I found few people interesting. The commander of Falcon’s Watch, the order tasked with guarding me, attempted often to start a conversation. I enjoyed his company, and found him interesting, but I had nothing to say in return. Eventually he stopped trying to talk to me.

Your father wants to see you, said my mother, appearing in my isolated world and making me smile. The Lady Natasha