He grabs a shirt from the floor, glances down at the mess of legs and brown curls beside him. ‘Out. I’ll see you later.’
The woman in the bed flees with haste, clothes pressed to her chest. The Deadsingers’ heads pivot slowly to watch her leave.
Kinghammer pours water into a bowl, knuckles his eyes, runs a hand through his hair, turns. ‘It’s them, isn’t it?’ There’s resignation in his tone.
The Deadsingers incline their heads. ‘The sailor,’ the left hisses. ‘The binder,’ the right adds.
Kinghammer swirls water, spits, and looks at them wryly. ‘What would I do without you both?’
The pair don’t reply, but tilt their heads upwards like a cat watching a bird. Distantly a bell begins to toll, gathering strength as it echoes down into the depths of the mountain. He hasn’t heard these particular chimes for almost twenty years.
‘My little daughter’s safe?’ Another nod.
He lets out a breath. ‘And my other daughter?’
The pair turn to look behind them as raucous laughter fills the antechamber. Sly smiles flick across their lips, as they glide to one side. The brown-haired woman’s shriek punctuates thespace they leave. Icecaller strides in not long after, a grin sloping across her face. ‘Morning, Dad,’ she says. She glances back over her shoulder. ‘Nice choice.’
Kinghammer grunts, laces up his breeches. Above, the bell tolls again.
His daughter skips to his side, ruffles his hair. ‘Listen, Dad. They’re playing our song.’
And the song is iron and motion.
The song is iron and ice.
The song is iron and air.
Elsewhere in the mountain, Roofkeeper raises his head as the bell tolls again. ‘What’s that?’
Quickfish turns to him, fuzzy from sleep. ‘Who cares? This entire mountain never stops ringing.’ He burrows deeper into the blankets.
Roofkeeper puts a hand on his chest, pushes himself into a sitting position. He can see feet by the entranceway. Men and women slipping from beds. Buckles, belts, blades. ‘No, Quick. We have to get up. Something’s happening.’ An edge to his voice.
Roofkeeper pulls on his boots, buttons his shirt. Reaching under the covers he finds his axe. Solid wood in his hands calms him a little, but not much. He readjusts his grip, his palms sweaty. ‘I’ll be by the door. Come on love. Move.’
Quickfish takes a while yet to come to. He’s been caught in the shreds of a dream. Something was pushing insistently against his hand. The scorched heart of a city stretching around him. The taste of smoke on his tongue and the rhythm of a small heart drumming rapid and insistent against his fingers.
For a second, he could have sworn that his mother was there.
The sound of movement pushes him awake, shouts, feet, the persistent clatter of preparation. Roofkeeper stands by the doorway, his jaw set, an axe loose in one hand.
Quickfish dresses quickly, awkwardly. His palm aches. ‘So, what is it?’
Roofkeeper shrugs. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was war. But there’s no way Crowkisser can be here yet.’ He pauses. ‘Can she?’
A twist of the lips as Quickfish wriggles into his trousers. ‘Depends who you talk to. My dad always said she had to drag herself across the land like any other snake. I’ve heard others say she rides the wind. Moves on whispers, lies.’
He cinches the belt. Roofkeeper grins. ‘Plenty of both around here.’ Quickfish smiles nervously. ‘Maybe, but I don’t buy it.’
Another clot of soldiers hammers past, buckling helmets under loose swung chins. Roofkeeper catches one of them by the shoulder. ‘What’s happening?’
The young man smiles, laughs nervously. ‘Visitors out of the Barrowlands. We’re the welcoming committee.’ He looks over Roofkeeper’s shoulder, as he backs up and turns. ‘Ask her!’ he shouts, before he’s lost in the throng.
Roofkeeper pivots to see Icecaller striding through the crowds, slick as a scalpel, the bulk of her father looming behind her. The Deadsingers flutter on the edge of his footsteps, fingers weaving in arcane anxiety.
Icecaller grins when she sees the axe. ‘Wood-chopper! I like a boy who’s prepared.’
Roofkeeper smiles, turns and catches Quick’s wrist. ‘Come on. We’re safest with them.’ Quickfish says nothing, but his expression speaks volumes. Still, they slip into the press and keep pace. The spear blades bob as they weave their way through low tunnels, more and more soldiers joining them from side passages. Whoever’s drawing near, Thell is turning out for them, and the city is nervous. The entire throng moves like a chattering steel snake to the high battlements that overlook the Barrowlands, and the gate into the mountain.
