The Vagabond King E-Book

Jodie Bond

• Herausgeber: Parthian Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 580

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

In a land where immortality can be bought, cruelty thrives... Exiled and alone, Threon is torn from a life in the palace to scrape a living on the streets of a foreign land. Once a prince whose every whim was obliged, now this vagabond must adapt to survive. Throwing his lot in with a witch, a rebel soldier and a woman touched by a god, he seeks retribution for the wrongs committed against his family. Slavery and famine are rampant, and the struggle to avenge his kin soon becomes a battle to restore justice across the Empire. Together Threon and his new companions must rekindle old allegiances, face an immortal army and learn to trust one another. But when the gods begin to interfere with their plans, is it a curse or a blessing?

Leseprobe

Contents

About Jodie Bond

Title Page

Dedication

Map

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

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

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

Acknowledgements

Parthian Books: Recommended Fiction 1

Parthian Books: Recommended Fiction 2

Copyright

Jodie Bond is a writer, dancer and communications professional. She has worked for a circus, a gin distillery, as a burlesque artist and has sold speciality sausages for a living, but her biggest passion has always been writing.  The Vagabond King, the first in a trilogy, is her debut novel.

THEVAGABOND 

KING

Jodie Bond

For Luke, with love

PROLOGUE

Even now, in the dark and after countless journeys across this stretch of ocean, the land ahead stole the attention of every eye on board the ship. Green and fat and arable, and ready for taking.

An orange glow nestled at the shoreline marked their destination: the city of Maradah.

Lleu breathed deep, rolling broad shoulders to warm his muscles. The night air tasted cold like calculation; the way it always felt before battle. Soldiers crowded the deck completing weapon checks and pulling on armour. Their silence betrayed a mix of apprehension and steady readiness. He reached a hand down instinctively to his sword, gripping the pommel with a sweaty palm.

This journey was familiar, but never before had he travelled to the Waterlands on a raid. It was necessary, they said. The country ahead gorged on fertile land.

The people of Thelonia were starving.

Lleu didn’t feel starving. Most of the spoils of the raid would go back to feed palimore soldiers like him. Maybe some would make it to the villages and the mines. Maybe.

It had been a long time since he’d seen combat. Real combat. The world of the arena was a far cry from battle. In battle you can taste fear in the air, feel adrenaline in your blood. He didn’t doubt that the soldiers of Maradah would fight fiercely. He didn’t doubt that they would give it their all. Nor did he doubt that there would be deaths. It had been long years since the last palimore soldier had died in combat. Strength and experience were on their side.

‘Ready to fight at home, Blue?’ Deryn elbowed him as she whispered the words.

Lleu ignored her, keeping his eyes on the horizon. Blue eyes. The feature marked him as an outsider. They didn’t forget it either. It was said the prominence of blue eyes in the Waterlands was a reflection of their devotion to Athys, the water god. But to his fellow soldiers it was a mark of inferiority. Of impure blood. He didn’t care. He’d proven himself their equal time and again in combat. Tonight would be another such opportunity as he faced killing his own kin. Shrugging the thought away, he wiped sweat from his palms and tightened the straps of his armour.

The ships anchored hidden among rocky crags, and the soldiers emerged on the shore wet and panting from the mile-long swim. Leaving the rowboats behind would help them warm up, promised the commander. Lleu paused for a moment, letting water drain from him as he regained his breath on all fours. He pulled himself to his feet. Swimming in armour had been tougher than he’d thought. He was cold but his heart beat hard. The workout made a pleasant change from training on the confinement of a ship deck.

Fellow soldiers were shadows in the pale moonlight, each gathering themselves for the fight ahead. Behind him, horses were being led down a wide gangway to splash through waves and join them on the beach. Lleu spotted his own among them, but there would be no immediate cavalry charge. Tonight would be won by stealth. The captain waved instructions to move forward to the barracks. They stole silently through the town, dealing out quick deaths to beggars and dogs who might deign to raise an alarm.

It didn’t take long to find the barracks. Lleu’s company paused outside its large wooden doors. The smell of meat, alcohol and the sweat of undisciplined men stretched out into the night. It was the eve of midsummer and the city’s soldiers had been celebrating. Drunk, asleep and unprepared. That’s what the palimore hoped for. They would win this the easy way, honour bedamned.

There were fifty men in Lleu’s party. They gathered in formation outside the door.

The captain held up three fingers. Two. One.

The company moved forwards with force. The main door yielded far too easily and beyond it they found the men at the heart of Maradah’s defence. Startled from sleep, unprepared and stinking of drink. Just as planned. Some scrambled for weapons. Others fled like cowards.

Lleu’s party spread out to fill the width of the room. No one would escape by the main entrance.

The Maradah army numbered just over two hundred men. A myopic number for a city of such size. Decades of peacetime meant they were unseasoned, never tested in battle. And they were young, so young.

Swords lined the walls. Several barracks men were quick enough to grab one, but it would do little good. Muscles still slack with sleep, blinking hard to clear their vision, these soldiers already knew they faced cruel odds. As Lleu drew his sword his pulse quickened with the dark excitement that comes from facing, and delivering, death.

His troop moved forward with fatal efficiency.

The palimore ceased being individuals. Long years of battle drills made their movements second nature. Matching stances, blades poised to attack, they encroached on Maradah’s men, eating up the remaining space of the barracks. Fear paled the men ahead. A handful ran, scrambling to crawl through windows. They would soon be picked off by one of the other troops in town.

Those who held their ground had to be admired. They faced death head on. A large bearded man surged at the wall of invaders, arcing his sword through the air. His eyes singled out Lleu, marking him as his target. He brought the weapon down. Sword met sword as Lleu defended the blow. He pushed back where their blades touched and the bearded man staggered backwards. Before he could correct his footing, Lleu thrust his sword forward. It tore through the man’s sternum and he jerked the blade up towards an astonished face, ripping him open. Lleu allowed himself a satisfied snort as the body fell backwards.

His party cut forwards through Maradah’s remaining men in a similar fashion, with shameful ease. Some had failed to wake in the commotion. These Lleu killed with a grunt of distaste. A humiliating end for any soldier.

The last of them died backed up against the far wall with nowhere to run. Some dropped their weapons and begged. None were spared.

The mission was finished within minutes. Lleu hadn’t even built up a sweat. Limp bodies filled the room, some groaning final breaths. Blood pooled around the far wall, where most had died. Lleu wrinkled his nose. He could handle the iron smell of blood, but it had been a long time since he had been faced with the earthy rot of torn innards.

‘To the castle,’ barked the lieutenant. Her words jarred against the quiet of the dead. Lleu was happy to turn his back on the scene.

It was a poor fight. The bastards hadn’t stood a chance.

The road to the castle danced under Threon’s feet, limbs ungainly with drink. An ingrained homing sense always dragged him back after a night drinking with the soldiers. On arriving at the front gate, he nearly walked straight into it. It stretched up far above him with a smaller door set into its thick wood. The guards usually remembered to leave it open until he returned. He cursed under his breath.

Bringing a fist against the door, he called out. ‘Guards.’ No response. ‘Where the hell are you?’ More silence. ‘Guards! Open the gate.’ He held out a hand to steady himself against the wood, then kicked the door in frustration.

Where was everyone? He looked around, listening in the darkness. No sound came from the stables, the kitchen, the guard room. The entire castle was silent.

Wariness sparked a little sobriety in him. He pulled a knife from his boot and levered it at the bolt on the door. It swung open with surprising ease.

Inside, the main courtyard was empty. No torches burned. The shadows of night-shift workers were absent. A lone horse snorted as it paced across the cobbles, loose from the stables.

He trod a careful path across the yard towards the main building, glancing around, eyes straining in the darkness.

Then he saw the guards. He froze. His heart quickened. Their bodies were piled against the stable walls, lifeless.

Death changed the way a body looked; the skin, where it wasn’t bloody or bruised, was pale and waxy; the flesh hung heavier on their bones. And there was something about their stillness, their inert chests and unblinking eyes that made him shudder. He knelt down, shaking as he scanned the faces. Tonight’s guards. Two young stable boys. A maid. Their throats gaped dark crimson.

Raiders. They had come at last.

And they might still be here.

He searched the guards’ bodies for a weapon larger than his knife, but found none, then skirted around the wall to the cover offered by the stables. His drunken shouts were sure to have drawn attention.

Here the floor was slick with blood. Each of the horses lay dead in their stalls. The bodies of stable hands were clustered together, as though they had died fighting in unison. The smell of flesh made him retch. His head spun. Pressing up against the wall, he breathed deep, willing away his drunkenness.

A covered stairway ran from the stables to the top of the castle walls where he might get a better view of the devastation. Knife clenched in fist, he stepped into the dark tunnel. His heavy breath echoed in the stillness as he staggered up the steps, faint moonlight outlining the open doorway up ahead.

He reached the top and looked out over the city below where five thousand people made their home. Fires burned, cattle grazed, people slept. Would they wake to plunder? Would they wake at all?

A hand clasped over his mouth. An arm gripped his waist. A dagger pinched at his ribs. He had been immobilised before he was even aware someone was behind him.

Threon’s eyes darted to the city alarm bell. It was ten strides away.

‘Well, look at you in your finery,’ a woman breathed in his ear. ‘I’ll wager you’re someone important.’

The knife moved from his ribs to his throat. The flat of the blade pressed hard against it, stifling his breath. Unable to move, he could see nothing of his captor, just feel her grip tighten as she pulled him back to the tunnel.

‘Geran,’ she called.

Another figure dropped down from the roof of the corridor and stood before them. This one a man, and huge. Threon had heard stories about the palimore, broader than gladiators and stronger than bulls; it seemed they were an understatement. This one had arms twisted with sinew, chest broad as a prow and a face gnarled and square with muscle. A quick glance down showed the woman’s arms were equally thickset.

‘Must be the prince,’ the man said. ‘Careful, he’s got a knife.’

Threon cursed himself for not being quicker to move with the weapon. The woman laughed quietly. ‘He’s probably better trained to slice oyster shells. And he reeks of booze.’

Threon’s hand shook as he gripped the handle of his paltry weapon. If he was going to die, better to take one of these bastards down with him. He stabbed backwards quickly, aiming for his captor’s side, but missed. They both laughed. The man drew a blackened sword. Threon met his eyes. There was no malice in his gaze but the soldier’s calm was chilling. Threon tensed, heart punching his ribs.

The man lunged the blade forward.

Risking his throat, Threon put all his weight into forcing the woman over the edge of the wall. Taken by surprise, she let go of both him and the knife to catch herself from falling.

It was not enough to stop the other soldier’s sword.

The length of metal plunged through his side. A stab of cold, and then burning pain. It was quickly drawn back out again for another swipe. He clutched at the wound, eyes wide. A stumble towards the ground. But then, pulling on a reserve of strength, he forced some momentum into the fall, pushing past the soldier with the raised sword. His vision blurred, but adrenaline gave him the strength and sobriety to reach the alarm bell. Falling on the rope, he used his weight to pull it to chime. He hoped it was enough to wake the city.

The shock of the wound sapped all his strength. Too weak to run, too weak to fight. Pain seared through his body. As warm liquid spurted from his flesh, the edges of night closed tighter on his vision.

Both soldiers were in front of him now. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. With a marathon effort he pulled himself up onto the wall and let his body fall back into the courtyard.

The cold wind felt soothing as he fell. In that fleeting airborne moment, he thought of his family. Maybe they had escaped. The thought seemed wistful.

Then the cobbles hit.

‘Get down there. Finish him off.’

The voice was distant. Threon was on the edge of deep sleep.

Eyes fixed on the cobbles. Short shallow breaths. So much pain.

It felt an age before the soldier’s shadow loomed over him. Threon tried to raise his head to meet the eyes of his killer, but moving only caused black to bloom in his vision. A boot in the ribs. He groaned and managed to roll onto his back, retreating a whole foot from where the soldier stood. A grunt of contempt. Then another boot, this time harder.

Another distant sound. The thud of steel on wood. People at the gates.

‘Quick. Call the others.’

Shouting. Banging. Wood shattering. Rushed feet pounded the floor. More screams, more cries, and the sound of death.

He closed his eyes, unable to help, unable to care, and slipped into oblivion.

The light of dawn was blinding. Threon closed his eyes again. How long had he been out? His head jostled against stones as he was dragged across the courtyard. Vaguely aware that he should be in pain, his body felt numb and a foreign heat burned his insides.

Through blurred vision he cast his eyes around. A figure in dark robes was pulling him across the courtyard towards the now broken gates. He could smell burning and his stomach churned when he saw pillars of smoke rising from the town.

Where were they taking him? He was helpless. A limp body, bleeding and frail. Perhaps they’d dug a mass grave. Wavering on the edge of consciousness, he lacked the capacity for fear. So was this it? Unceremonious, compassionless death?

He was dragged for a long while. Out of the gates, past mounds of corpses. Past the servants’ entrance. Down the slope towards the miller’s cottage. Then the palimore stopped and propped him against the miller’s barn. The miller’s wife and dog lay dead on the grass nearby, her once familiar face changed by a concave blow to her skull.

The hooded figure looked around before taking out a flask from his robes and putting it to Threon’s lips. Water. He grabbed it with shaking hands, forcing the cool liquid down. It left him spluttering.

The man removed his hood revealing the hard, muscled face of a palimore soldier. ‘Ranar ardell,’ he said in greeting. Peace to the Waterfolk.

Threon tried to speak but no words came, just a piercing cough. Blood filled his mouth with a sharp tang.

Ranar ardell? Maybe this man wasn’t going to kill him after all.

‘I can’t guarantee your safety,’ the soldier said, standing over him. He was broad, tanned and stern-faced. This close, Threon could appreciate the size of these born fighters, a force his people could never hope to face and win. His eyes were cold and unnerving, but they were as blue as his own. Palimore never recruited soldiers from the Waterlands. Who was this man? He crouched down so he was at eye level with Threon. ‘No promises, but I’ll do what I can for you.’

‘Why?’ Threon’s voice was a whisper wet with blood.

The palimore ignored him and ripped one of Threon’s trouser legs, revealing bone that pressed up against the skin at a grisly angle. Threon felt dizzy and looked away. The soldier growled in annoyance. Broken. Threon touched a hand to his chest, wincing at the tenderness. Broken ribs too, most likely.

The palimore strode to the miller’s log stack and picked out a straight branch. He knelt and bound it to Threon’s leg using strips of fabric torn from the prince’s cloak. Threon tensed, gritting his teeth in anticipation of what was to come. ‘Ready?’ He didn’t have a chance to respond. A grinding snap and pain seared up his leg, forcing a tide of black over his vision. The palimore tightened the bindings over the straightened bone as Threon squeezed his eyes closed, trying not to cry out.

‘Your ribs will heal themselves in time. If you can avoid infecting that gash in your side, you might live.’ The soldier reached into his robes and pulled out a glass vial. ‘This will help.’

Vish’aad.

Threon had never seen it before. Even royalty in the Waterlands couldn’t afford such riches. The soldier must have seen the expression on his face. He grunted, amused, and handed him the small bottle.

Threon held it to the light. The violet powder was packed down tightly in the container.

‘Don’t take it yet. The first time can induce shock. Let me fetch my horse first.’

He disappeared behind the cottage and gave a loud whistle, which was soon followed by the sound of approaching hooves. Threon opened the vial with shaking hands and breathed in the smell. Sweet, earthy, with a hint of decay.

‘I said wait,’ the soldier commanded as he came around the corner of the building, leading a horse by the reins. The beast was jet black and enormous, more than eighteen hands high. His muscles rippled under a shining coat. A Thelonian stallion. He was magnificent. ‘This is Bloodbringer,’ said the soldier. ‘He’ll get you out of here.’

Threon screwed the vial shut. He tried to push himself forward to stand, but weakened muscles betrayed him and blood rushed to his head to steal his consciousness. He fell back and opened his eyes again on the floor.

The palimore grabbed him under both arms and lifted him like a child. Threon groaned. The wound at his side released more blood as he moved. He was pushed up on top of the horse. Unable to sit upright, his face lay in the beast’s mane.

The soldier pushed his feet into stirrups and tied them down. His leg pounded horribly. Then a rope came around his waist which was secured about the horse’s neck. ‘You’re going to fall unconscious again. This should keep you steady.’

He ripped Threon’s shirt around the gash in his side. ‘My horse will take you south. He knows the roads that lead to Bannvar.’ Threon knew of the aptitude Thelonian horses had for unaided navigation, but he’d never expected to experience it himself. ‘You’ve been?’ Threon shook his head. ‘It’s a long journey. Far enough, I hope. You should be safe there for now.’ The soldier eyed Threon’s side critically. He took the vial out of Threon’s hand and emptied the powder into his palm. ‘Brace yourself. I’m going to put it on your wound; it’ll go straight to the bloodstream.’

Ice shot across Threon’s body as the vish’aad touched the lesion that was already halfway to killing him. It fired lightning through his bones. His eyes widened and he snatched in air. The throb in his side, his leg, his head, fell away instantly. He jerked up to sit, but the rope held him down. He dug his fingers into the stallion’s mane as his heart raced. The colours of the world brightened. Sounds and smells and touch magnified a thousandfold. His senses were on fire.

‘Gods be with you,’ the palimore said. His voice was like crystal.

He slapped the horse’s rear and the distance soon stretched between them.

With sharpened senses, the prince tore through Maradah, tied to the back of the stallion. He saw death, smelled blood, heard the final cries of the dying. With his heightened senses, he could feel the life being torn from his city. It was agonising. The horse skirted burning buildings, dashed along unwatched alleys. When they reached the slopes of Mount Anthor, Threon could see the full extent of the devastation. Palimore ships filled the harbour, and more approached in a pillar of wood and sails that stretched from his home to the horizon.

A new flag flew from the castle.

He wanted to stop. To take the whole horrifying scene in. To grieve. But the horse pushed on.

As his body began to adjust to the drug coursing his veins and his heart slowed again, the pain began to return, thudding and persistent. Each step the stallion took no longer felt like floating on water, but jarred his body like a knife. It wasn’t until the vish’aad had fully worn off, hours later, that he was granted respite in unconsciousness, speeding away from his home.

CHAPTER ONE

‘We did it. We bloody did it!’ Savanta rushed into her mother’s arms, forcing a burst of joyous laughter from the old woman.

Her mother hugged her tight. ‘You’re back late. Thank the gods you’re okay.’

Her father followed Savanta through the front door, and a scampering of feet heralded little Erin’s appearance at the bottom of the stairs. Savanta turned to meet her daughter’s eager greeting. The four of them nearly filled the small room that made up the ground floor of their home. They lived in a modest terrace house, three generations squeezed into undersized accommodation. Their ground floor comprised one room that was mostly kitchen, but they had managed to cram in a dining table fit for all four of them to sit together.

‘You did us proud, love,’ said her father.

‘We’re going to be rich.’ Erin jumped up and down and Savanta placed a kiss on her copper-haired head, unable to hide her smile.

‘Calm down,’ said Savanta. ‘Nothing’s certain yet.’

‘She’s not wrong to be excited,’ said her father. ‘The island’s first flying machine. Imagine.’

‘Dad! It was just a test flight.’ Savanta had been trying to control her expectations all the way home. Her machine, which she had named Windracer, had flown for a whole five minutes, and she was confident she could fly it longer. The Empress was throwing money at projects like hers. If she could take it to the city… gods knew, they could do with the money. ‘We’ve no idea what will happen tomorrow. Maybe they won’t buy it. Maybe Windracer won’t be able to sustain the flight.’ Her family shone with hope and she didn’t want to dampen spirits, so stopped talking.

‘Can you really fly, Mummy?’ Erin was still wide-eyed with excitement. ‘What was it like?’

Savanta threw her head back. ‘Scary,’ she said to her little girl with a grin. ‘Scary and extraordinary. I felt like a bird.’ This seemed to please Erin and she clapped her hands, giggling.

Savanta collapsed onto a chair, the adrenaline of earlier leaving her tired but elated. Today was just a test. The real challenge would come tomorrow.

The next morning Savanta and her father took the long walk to her workshop on the far edges of town. She hadn’t slept all night.

Their route took them past the slums on the outskirts of the town, and then up a steep grey hillside. It was here that she’d discovered an abandoned barn and adopted it as her workshop. The place overlooked an old open pit mine and must have once been used as storage for the mines.

Now they stood together in the barn, making final checks. Shafts of light fell warm on the machine’s wing-like structures, a thin metal frame clasping enormous fabric sheets. Years of work had gone into the thing, and now this modest rig held the weight of her future fortune.

A breeze stirred in the windows of the workshop, ruffling tattered curtains. It played along the wings, and the thing looked, not for the first time, as though it lived. As she pulled open the barn doors, letting fresh air flood the musty room, her father circled around to the front of the machine.

‘Are you sure you’re ready?’ he asked, wrinkled brow pinching above a neat silver beard.

She nodded. ‘I’m sure. Today’s perfect. Just feel that wind.’

It was evident he was apprehensive, but he tried to hide it with a smile. ‘I’m so proud of you,’ he said.

No point in putting things off. She clapped her hands together. ‘Okay. Let’s do this.’

She unwound a rope that hung on the nose of the machine and pulled it towards the doors. It rolled behind obediently.

Outside, bright daylight caught on a landscape swirling with dust. The hill they stood on fell away to a steep cliff face revealing a grey vista from here to the horizon. The mine that once tore into the hill now lay deep and dark, abandoned below them.

She looked out beyond the mine, to the only colour in the scene; a faint blue line on the horizon. The sea.

Her father helped her unfold the fabric wings until they stretched out so far that the thin metal bent and kissed the ground.

Savanta hugged him tightly. ‘Thank you. For everything.’

He kissed her auburn hair, clinging onto her like he didn’t want to let go. ‘Are you sure you want to do this? The city is so far.’

‘You saw how it worked yesterday. Don’t sound so worried.’

‘You made Erin stay at home.’ The warning in his voice was justified; if she was certain she would make it, she would have brought her daughter too.

‘The workshop isn’t suitable for children. She’ll have plenty more chances to see it in action once I’m commissioned.’ She broke off the hug. ‘Wish me luck.’ Despite the excitement in her voice, she felt her stomach turn. It would all be fine. It had to be.

Windracer consisted of two large wings with thin metal wires connecting them to handlebars at the nose of the machine. There was a sling of fabric for her to lie on set beneath the wings, from which she could reach the controls.

A gust of air pushed past them, and lifted Windracer a foot from the ground. It crashed softly back down as the breeze passed. She grabbed hold of the rope to hold it still and ducked under the wings, climbing onto the fabric sling beneath. ‘Ready, Dad?’

‘Be safe, love,’ he said, and she could see his knuckles pale under the force of clenched fists.

He took the rope from her and pulled hard, running down the hill, towards the cliff. The wheels of the machine bounced against the uneven floor, scattering dust until a cloud formed around the pair. Another gust of wind came and the bounces doubled in size as Windracer took air under her sails.

The cliff edge neared. Savanta struggled to keep her eyes open through the dust, but she could sense her runway was nearly over. She clung to the handlebars and glimpsed her father let go of the rope. He fell flat to the ground, Windracer bounding over him.

The wheels touched the ground once, twice, and then the dust stopped. She was away from the ground, over the cliff. It began to plummet nose first and she pulled up sharply on the heavy controls, forcing the wings against the wind.

Buzzards circled ahead, and she guided the machine in their direction until Windracer rose on the same thermal air as the birds. Slowly, the machine began to edge upwards. The ground spread out far beneath her. She laughed. Another success.

She nudged the controls around until she could see her father on the ground ahead. He waved both hands in the air, joyous laughter filling his face.

As she rose higher, more of the island came into view. Thelonia’s dull, grey landscape stretched out for miles. The extent of the abandoned mine spread out below, and beyond it many more operating mines scarred the land. Ahead of her lay the town of Tishrei, plumes of black smoke rising from the vish’aad purification process. To her right was her hometown, Tannit.

Angling the wings in its direction, she was soon above the slums where she watched in delight as people stood shock still, eyes fixed on her machine. The slums melted into suburbs, tiled roofs and crooked brick buildings squeezed tightly together. She could see her street. Her mother would be playing with Erin in the kitchen no doubt. She soon glided past her home, and past the wealthier city centre.

If the Empress granted her a commission there was a chance she would be invited to work in the capital. Her parents wouldn’t need to worry about where their next meal came from. Her daughter could go to school, have a real future.

The palace lay at the coast in the east. She pushed on toward it, willing Windracer to make the journey.

Following the lines of the main road, she watched groups of slaves and their ponies pull carts of waste material from the mines. They never looked up, plodding on with solemn determination. The grey landscape below stretched on and on. As the land sped below, she grew more accustomed to the machine, daring to glide higher and to take sharper turns. She lost track of time, but when a glimmer appeared in the distance she realised how far she must have come. Rumour had it the palace was made of gold. The capital was in sight. She was going to make it. She ran through her pitch again in her head, reciting the practised words over and over.

Then the calm sky was torn with a sudden sharp wind. It slammed into her wings and threw Windracer sideways. She let go of the controls with one hand to keep herself steady on the sling.

The delicate balance keeping her airborne was broken. The craft began to spin at an angle. Her body was thrown from the sling, and she clung desperately to the handlebars as Windracer sped towards the ground. She was tossed like a feather in the air, the land beneath growing ever nearer. Her heart raced as she tried to re-balance the craft. Hooking a leg back into the sling, she tried pulling her body back into it. Another gust of wind forced the wings over again, this time tipping the craft past the point of return. She hung upside down from Windracer’s belly, her whole weight on the bars at the nose of the craft. Unable to reach the sling again, they plummeted down.

She struggled to haul herself up, thinking all the time about how foolish this was.

The gamble hadn’t paid off.

She hit the ground.

A tangle of metal. Fabric dashed across rocks. And the body of a woman sprawled on the surface.

Savanta had landed in a working mine. She opened her eyes, afraid to move. A dozen slaves ambled past, sullen eyed, apathetic.

She was alive. Miraculously.

Propping up on her elbows, she noted scrapes, blood and deep bruising. But she could move; nothing broken. The fall should have killed her.

The wind picked up again and she shielded her eyes from dust that stirred from the mine’s surface. She mustn’t be caught here. Punishment for trespassing was enslavement or death, and she knew which she would prefer.

She stood, glancing around, looking for a way out.

Where do you think you’re going? The voice arrived on the wind.

‘Who’s there?’ It was not the voice of a slave. Nor the voice of any man. It rang in her skull, bypassing any means of hearing.

Oh, come now Savanta. I think you know, it said. The voice was male; musical and darkly playful. It arrived in her mind like an invading thought. She picked up a stick that lay on the ground, ready to defend herself. You wanted to be me, it continued. You wanted to play god.

She dropped the stick. Bile rose at the back of her throat.

Colours began to manifest on the wind, and they outlined a male form. His skin was opaque and his slender body shifted with the moving air as though he had been drawn with ribbons that played in the breeze. His long pale hair streaked out like cirrus clouds in the wind.

She fell to the floor in prostration. ‘Lord Zenith,’ she said, face against the ground.

The voice laughed quietly, the sound now reaching her ears. ‘You are the first human to conquer the air. I’m impressed. It takes a lot to impress me. The first to join the birds and the stars in my domain.’ She kept her face to the ground, eyes clasped shut. Drawing a Vyara, one of the three gods, into the living realm was seldom met with reward. ‘Stand up.’ She glanced up, uncertain. ‘I said stand.’ The air under her body seemed to swell and grow in pressure, and she was forced to her feet.

‘Pretty thing,’ he said. As he circled her, a cool wind ruffled her hair and shirt. ‘So you were seeking to make a profit by giving the key to the skies to your race. Who gave you the right?’ The humour left his voice as he bit off the last words. She couldn’t read his face, transparent and wavering against the grey sky.

She wanted to say something, to ask for forgiveness, to beg for mercy, but no words came.

‘I am the canopy above, the night and the day, the air you breathe. And what are you? A peasant from Tannit, with no deference for the gods who keep this world. You dare to defy the natural order.’

Tears streamed down her face. Her body shook. She wanted to run but found herself immobile.

Zenith stopped circling and moved closer. He stood several feet taller and his pupilless eyes bore down on her. ‘You want to know what I’m going to do next.’ A cruel smile played on his lips. ‘I can see the anticipation is killing you.’

He reached a hand forward and she saw it slide through her chest. She more than saw it. His translucent fingers disappeared under her skin. Her insides froze, and she felt pressure on her organs as he twisted his fingers around them. The breath was squeezed from her lungs and a dreadful sickness filled her.

His hand pushed to the back of her chest and she could feel his palm between her shoulder blades.

‘Wait for it…’ he teased.

Savanta let out a cry. An unbearable pain. Like two knives forcing themselves from her spine, into the cool air. The pain lengthened, and she felt new bones growing out from her back. Like new branches stemming from a tree, two stumps of flesh pushed up and out of her body. They grew to her left and right, beyond her peripheral vision.

She gasped for air.

More thin bones branched down from the protrusions, forming a pair of skeletal wings. Thin fronds of flesh weaved between them and she could see veins entwining with the new skin.

Zenith removed his hand and stepped back.

Savanta collapsed to the floor and vomited. She retched until her throat was raw, and nose and eyes streamed with water.

Her body felt false, unnatural. A new weight pulled at her back.

Then a sharp tingle spread across her shoulders and spine making her shudder. The new appendages moved with her. Fist pounding the dirt, she tried to will the sensation away.

It spread from her back, along her limbs and through her chest. Hot and cold pinpricks. She saw the colour drain from her hands as they turned from tan to a deep grey. They matched the stone on which she cowered. Her red hair turned black.

A scream forced itself from her throat. In the distance a handful of slaves looked up, but didn’t stop.

‘There, there,’ Zenith said, above her. ‘You didn’t think I was going to kill you, did you?’ She didn’t meet his eyes. Every slight movement felt unreal.

‘What’s happening to me?’

‘I couldn’t let you go totally unpunished. But to waste such a fine mind as yours… that would be madness. You really should be more grateful that you’re still alive.’

He proffered a large, formless hand. She daren’t offend him now and went to take it, surprised to find it solid, and warm like flesh. He pulled her to her feet.

Two large bat-like wings framed her small body, her skin now the colour of slate. Her shirt fell in tatters about her shoulders where it had been ripped by the wings.

‘You look marvellous.’ He gripped her by the arms. ‘Now, this is a creature that belongs in my sky.’

Savanta shuddered as chills wracked her body and sweat blistered on her forehead. The skin on her back felt strange. Tightly stretched. She found she could control the wings as easily as any other limb, but the alien movement made her nauseous. Zenith was watching her. His translucent face wavered in the wind, flickering between amusement and impatience.

She felt currents of air billowing around her. They forced her wings open to a staggering span. She looked down. This wasn’t her body. Grey skin like soft leather, a tapered waist and legs that were garishly thin. Her ribcage was rounder and she could see the light imprint of thin bones there. She felt light and delicate, like a twig easily snapped. The winds made her unsteady on her feet, and she worried that the fragile wings would break if she resisted against the mounting air pressure.

Fly. The word echoed in her skull.

Impulse drove her to beat the wings down, once, twice, then again and again. Her feet left the ground.

That’s it. Beautiful! Zenith’s form had swirled away with the wind, and she heard only his voice now. Let me take you higher.

Another few beats of her wings, and Savanta found herself high above the mine. She could see the Greylands stretch out for miles around.

This way. The wind changed direction, and she was forced east towards the capital.

Her eyes grew hot with tears. Fear and shock had hijacked her mind. She allowed Zenith to carry her on the wind with no knowledge of where he might lead her. She had never been overly devout, and the few offerings she made to the Vyara had always been for the Earth, never the Sky. The thought was chilling. But she also felt a sense of wonder growing as she acclimatised to the wind in her wings, the steady beating, the freedom of the empty sky.

She soared on through the blue. It was a long while before she gained the confidence to try forcing her wings against Zenith’s guiding wind. When she did, a harsh gust nearly knocked her from the air. She spiralled downwards for a few seconds before regaining her form.

You’re mine now, Savanta. You do as I say. Don’t play games.

‘What do you want from me?’ she shouted into the air. Her question went unanswered.

She endured the rest of the journey in silence, allowing his current to lead her directly to the capital.

The sun was low on the horizon when they neared, and the landscape faded from the harsh grey of the mines to a patchwork of lush green. She saw farms. The first she had ever laid eyes on. People toiled in the fields, just dots on the landscape from where she flew. Ahead were gardens. Verdant patches of land, filled with flowers, with the wealthy classes strolling, sitting, contemplating life. There were more birds here too. They gave her a wide berth, this strange new hawk in their sky.

By now she was feeling more secure in the air. The sickness had abated. She was curious and wanted to see more of this rich landscape. She swooped down to get a better view, prepared to meet resistance from Zenith. But he let her.

Houses began to appear below. Grand houses with vast tiled roofs. Servants scurried in the streets and in the gardens. Some saw her and pointed skyward, some ran, fearing the dark figure overhead.

She flew over the largest building in the city. Its plain walls and four turrets marked it out as the palimore’s barracks. The size of the centre courtyard took her breath away. A thousand troops practised their art in the evening air, shooting bows, engaging in swordplay, wrestling. She had heard new recruits would train here for fifty years before seeing combat.

The palace emerged from the city ahead, golden and shining brightly in the last of the day’s sun.

Beautiful isn’t it? She had nearly forgotten that Zenith was with her.

‘More than I imagined,’ she said.

Head for the top window in the eastern tower. The one overlooking the sea. Oh, and look out for arrows from below. I can’t guarantee you’ll be a welcome sight to the guards.

‘And if I turn back?’

Try if you must. I think you’ll find it’s an impossibility. She pressed on towards the tower, curiosity overriding any desire to flee.

Sure enough, there were shouts from the guards on the walls surrounding the palace, and these soon transformed into a volley of arrows. A sharp gust of wind sent most off course.

But one hit. It flew through her right wing. She was surprised to find it didn’t cause much pain, but it did disrupt her balance in the air. She veered to the right and flapped hard to correct her path. She was nearly at the window but flying too low.

The golden wall came up to meet her fast, too fast. The window was just above her head. She pushed her feet against the palace walls and reached up quickly, grabbing the ledge and pulling herself up.

Two pairs of hands grabbed her and hauled her through the window. They forced her hands behind her back, squeezing her wings together painfully.

As her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room, she recognised her restrainers as palimore soldiers. She had never seen one up close before. Both men had dark hair, dark eyes, and shoulders as broad as a doorway. Between plates of royal armour, she could make out bulges of muscle thick as tree trunks. Their size and power was staggering. She didn’t resist.

‘What are you?’ one of them barked. ‘And what is your business?’

‘Zenith,’ she whispered, half in answer and half in a call for help. None came. What was she doing here?

‘Let it go,’ said a woman’s voice from across the room. They released her.

The room looked like it had been chiseled out of rock. Exotic plants climbed the walls, and the floor was rough stone, swirled with lichen in intricate patterns. She had never seen anything like it. Flowers were rare in the Greylands, but here, even in this dim room, they flourished in a collage of colour.

The woman stepped towards her on bare feet. She wore no fabric, but her body was heavily ornamented in gold, silver, copper, iron and stone. An intricate metal belt sounded musically as she moved. Her arms and legs were ringed with bands of multi-coloured stones and metal. A heavy slate torc sat about her neck and chestnut hair curled down to her hips. The Empress expressed her devotion to the Earth god even in the way she dressed. Her close relationship with the god Deyar was known by all on the island of Thelonia. She had married him.

Savanta dropped to one knee. ‘Empress,’ she said.

‘What a marvellous creature,’ the woman said. She knelt down to Savanta’s level and stroked a wing, pulling it out gently to reveal the thin flesh between her bones. ‘What are you?’ she asked.

‘My name is Savanta, Empress,’ she spoke into the floor. ‘I come from Tannit.’ She faltered. What was she? A question she didn’t have an answer for.

‘Get up.’ Savanta rose. ‘What brings you here?’ The Empress circled her, looking her up and down.

‘Zenith brough–’ She was silenced by a sudden tightness in her lungs, as if all the air had been snatched from the atmosphere. She couldn’t speak. A light wind swirled the room, and Zenith appeared before them. She gasped in a deep breath as he released the hold on her lungs.

His translucent appearance became more solid this time. His outline formed a regular sized man, long blond hair, a flowing blue courtier’s outfit stitched with a large sun, and a black cloak which glinted with jewels like stars. His face was handsome, androgynous features offering a singular beauty.

The guards behind her knelt as they recognised the Vyara.

‘Ah, my Lord Zenith,’ said the Empress. A note of displeasure played just under the surface of her voice. She did not kneel.

‘Keresan,’ he replied, and flourished a bow matched with a mocking smile. ‘I bring you a gift. This is Savanta. A loyal servant to the Empire. I plucked her finest details from my dreams and weaved them into this beautiful tapestry for you and your dear husband.’ He smiled broadly. ‘She was on her way to present a gift to you when I found her. But I thought it much more fitting that she should give her whole self to you.’ He gave a magnanimous wink. ‘Consider her a gift of friendship; put her to good use for my brother’s sake. Her wings are far more swift than ships that cross the sea, and her reports more fluid than notes carried by birds.’

Savanta shifted uneasily on her feet. She had wanted to come to sell her design, and now faced being gifted like a slave. She gauged the distance to the window behind her to be about two metres. Both soldiers stood blocking the way. She would have to find another means of escape.

‘I’m sure my husband will be delighted,’ the Empress said. ‘Your brother was beginning to worry that he had fallen out of your favour?’

‘Oh, never, my lady. I wouldn’t dream of giving dear Deyar offence.’ Scathing sarcasm radiated from his smile. ‘My powers dwindle here since you so wisely outlawed my worship. I bow to him on your shores. For now, at least.’

‘I wouldn’t want you to forget it.’

Savanta saw his face twitch in anger. She had long known the power their ancient Empress held, but to see her speak down to a god made her skin shiver.

‘No, no. Impossible. Especially since you gave him that title. King of the Gods. How resplendent!’

‘I sense envy, Zenith. You deny his title?’ She flexed her fingers with the impatience of one speaking to a peevish child. ‘His worshippers far outstrip those who follow you and your sister. His power grows daily as yours fade.’

‘Does an Empress outrank a King, I wonder? It’s hard to know if you’re his puppet or if it’s the other way around…’

‘Enough!’ He seemed amused by her anger, but still fell into silence. There wasn’t a man, woman or child who didn’t know the Empress’s devotion to the Earth god was all-consuming. It had shaped their land, their laws and their history. Zenith’s accusation that she might be using him seemed to have struck a nerve. She met his eyes in confrontation and then released a breath, calming herself. ‘Enough,’ she said, more quietly. Then, changing the subject, ‘Any news from your sister?’

‘None, my lady. She hasn’t left the water for some time. Honestly, I think she prefers the company of fish to our family. But who could blame her?’

‘It’s about time she came to pay tribute to the Earth. Her absence hasn’t gone unnoticed.’

‘I’m sure my brother will find some way to dry up the seas if she continues to offend.’

‘Don’t doubt that he couldn’t. It’s entirely within Deyar’s power.’

‘I’m sure.’ He nodded vigorously, with a patronising purse of the lips.

‘I don’t need your petulant attitude, Zenith. Need I remind you what happened the last time you overstepped your mark?’

The smile dropped from Zenith’s face. ‘Some people show all the gratitude. I was leaving anyway. Enjoy the gift.’ His form shattered into dozens of singing starlings. Savanta ducked as they flew at her and streamed past the guards, out of the window, into the sunset.

Keresan looked pleased. ‘Wyn,’ she said to one of the guards, ‘take her to the Minister of Secrets. Ask him to find something for this creature to do.’

‘Yes, your grace.’ Hands like iron took hold of her, and thoughts of escape were replaced with fears of the damage a man this size could inflict. She stared around wildly and allowed herself to be led out of the chamber, deeper into the palace.

It was late that night when Savanta was shown to what would be her new home. A room in the House of Eyes. The palimore who escorted her gave a gentle push at her back when she hesitated going through the door. She stepped in. A simple room, small and undecorated; a single bed, a wooden chest and a chamber pot. There was a bowl of food at the foot of the bed. She turned to say something to the guard, but he was already closing the door. The bolt slid across. When the sound of his footsteps had faded, she forced her shoulder against the door. It wouldn’t budge.

She was both physically and emotionally drained, and soon lost the energy to continue beating herself against the door. She picked up the bowl of food. Rice and vegetables. Real, fresh vegetables. And rice from across the sea. She devoured them in moments and sat down on the bed.

Tracing a finger along her arm, she was unable to identify the grey skin as her own. Falling back onto the bed with a sigh, she landed painfully on one of her wings, then rolled onto her side and pulled the wool blanket over her head. The bed was far comfier that the one she had at home. But it was missing something vital. Erin. She clutched the blanket in one hand, willing herself not to cry, but her bottom lip was already trembling and she let out a sob. How long would they keep her here? What would Erin think when she didn’t come home? She would have given anything to hold her little girl.

She reached out to Zenith with prayers for forgiveness and prayers of mercy, until tears soaked her pillow and sleep took her.

CHAPTER TWO

Five years after the raids, the land was beautifully familiar and bitterly changed. Threon shifted the weight of his pack and straightened his stance. The weather was colder in the north, colder than he remembered it to be, and he pulled a stolen sheepskin close around his shoulders. It hadn’t been cured properly and the fleece was oily, the strong ovine smell punctuated with growing rot.

The South was dry and hot, dusted umber by desert sands; five years there had bronzed Threon’s skin and bleached his sandy hair bright blond. More than that, his time away from home, from the comforts of a princely life, had changed him. Dropping over the cliff edge of royal privilege into the life of a refugee felt, at first, like an insurmountable adjustment. Life became a constant stream of the unimaginable: stealing, sleeping rough, begging, prison, hunger. He lost his physique, growing thin, and he buried his sense of self deep within.

His last copper went on a piece of shit mule that had carried him for almost a month. It had limped and stumbled as often as he did before it keeled over and died. The break to Threon’s leg and hip had healed badly, the old wound accosting him throughout his years in Bannvar and now growing more painful as he slumped north through the harsher climate of home. But it didn’t bother him now. In the distance the city gates rose, flooding him with a renewed energy.

A hulking figure stood at the gate, watching his approach. A palimore soldier. Threon had seen more and more of these soldiers as he grew closer to home. They had spread across his country like a disease. Seeing one here, guarding the gates to his home city, made his heart pound. He clenched his fists.

‘What business?’ the soldier called. Threon slowed his pace and tried to relax, doing his best to look non-threatening. An easy task given his current physique. The man towered a full foot above him and bore a figure twice the width of his own. Eyes flicked across his clothing. Stained and battered Bannvarian robes. ‘You’ve travelled far.’ Gods, it had been a long journey; it had nearly broken him, destitute, penniless and far from the life he had built in the South. But he was home. He had to force a smile down. Palimore soldiers favoured the meek.

As of yet, his worn clothes, haggard appearance and uneven beard had made a rather fitting disguise. Though his face wasn’t familiar to the palimore, he thought locals might recognise their prince. In Bannvar, he had told everyone he met who he was. Some foolish part of him believed that the South might offer a kinder welcome to a foreign royal in need. How wrong he was. His arrival was preceded by news of the raids and few wished to harbour a man who was a target of the palimore army.

The people of the Waterlands would remember him as an arrogant young prince, draped in fine clothing. So far the beggar he had become had gone unrecognised. After five years’ absence they likely thought him dead. He was grateful for that, wishing to keep a low profile. A royal welcome from the palimore would prove deadly.

He gestured to the instrument on his back. ‘Musician. Come to play for a coin or two.’ The six-stringed kestro had saved his life in Bannvar. As a child, Threon had never been a scholar, his only academic pleasures were the pursuit of swordplay and music. After months on the streets, the theft of this instrument had changed his fortunes. It wasn’t long before he began to earn a meagre but honest living playing at inns across the city. His repertoire was fresh and exotic there, and though perhaps they didn’t believe it, locals enjoyed hearing about how a prince had escaped death to live a peasant life in their city. He was easily recognisable, standing out against dark skinned locals, and soon won a name for himself. They called him the Vagabond King.

The soldier snorted. ‘Must be down on your luck. You won’t find much coin here.’ Threon shrugged in agreement and the man gestured for him to come through the gate.

The city was empty. The throngs of people who would beg, barter and brawl at the gates were gone. Half the wooden houses had been eaten by fire in the raids and never rebuilt. In their place were canvas shacks. Two small children played at the end of the street. Their clothes were oversized, hanging on emaciated frames. It was a familiar sight. The further north he had travelled, the thinner people became. And the fewer they numbered. He hadn’t wanted to believe the rumours that reached the South, but they had all turned out to be true.

It had been a long and hungry journey, punctuated with reminders of the danger he was walking into. Even as far as the Southlands border he encountered villages marked by the raids. Many had one, sometimes two, palimore soldiers posted to a village. They stomped out any whispers of rebellion and kept a stranglehold on the markets. Farmers in these towns were forced to sell entire harvests for a pittance to the army. At first Threon heard grumbles from market stallholders about being short for the coming winter. As he continued north, the grumbles became more and more desperate. Storehouses were depleted, wealthy houses were forced to trade in fine meats for soups. Poorer houses lived on bowls of grain.

The towns that had already been captured teemed with palimore, and for those who had not been enslaved or killed, a hard life on the land ensued. Taylors, bakers, smithies, stable hands and potters all gave up their crafts to farm or forage the land in search of food. Their long days toiling in fields were rewarded by the soldiers collecting their harvests and shipping any decent food across the sea.

His first instinct was to head to the castle, to find old friends. Five years away from home and he was desperate to find out what had happened here. He longed to stand in the courtyard again, to feel the hearth-warmed slates against his feet in the hall, to gaze out to sea from the highest point in the city. But he knew he could not go there. He tore his gaze away from the place. It would be swarming with palimore. Instead, he turned down a side street in the direction of the Honeydew. It was the largest pub in the city, considered the heart of Maradah for many of its citizens. He had never been inside, and balked at the memory of how his former self considered the place beneath him. He couldn’t even afford a bed there now.

He knocked on the closed door, praying to Athys that someone still ran the place. A soldier paced past him on the street, eyeing Threon suspiciously. He knocked again, eager to get out of sight.

The door opened a crack. ‘What d’you want?’ In the darkness beyond he made out a grey-haired woman, slim and deeply wrinkled, her voice a grindstone.

‘I’m looking for a room.’ Her eyes narrowed. Renting rooms was a thing of the past. No one had money to waste on such inessentials now. ‘I can’t pay much, but I can play.’ He gestured to the kestro. ‘I’m good.’ He offered her a smile.

She began to close the door. Threon jammed a foot in it.

‘Ranar ardell. Please, let me in.’ She studied his face and a vague look of recognition passed her eyes.

‘Do I know you?’

‘Please. Can we talk inside?’

She looked up and down the street, then pulled the door open.