Quickfish can feel the weight of Kinghammer behind him as they run upwards. The Deadsingers are quiet and slight in his shadow. Bone charms, polished amber, yellow teeth.
He glances at Icecaller and watches her tattoos move, pulled between arm and shoulder, ‘Is it Crowkisser?’ He hates how his voice sounds.
She looks across, shoves him with an elbow. ‘Chill out spunk, you’re not fucked yet. But, we do have guests.’
He lets out a tight breath. ‘Who then?’
The Deadsingers hum and click their tongues. ‘The debt-collector. The thread-weaver. Render. God-builder.’ Their necks sway, their fingers wide in the body-cut light. ‘Promise-taker. Voice-holder. Opener. Heart-binder. And his salt-eyed slut.’ Their laughter scurries like rats in a hold.
‘People we owe a great debt,’ Kinghammer interrupts as they reach the upper galleries.
As Thell opens out to the air, sunlight hits Quickfish’s face. In front of him, steel upon steel, held against a bright blue sky – the people of Thell painted, armoured, and waiting.
Roofkeeper nudges him. ‘We never got any of this.’
Icecaller shoves her face between them. Her skin smells fresh, clean and cold. ‘Of course not, pups. We’re not nearly as scared of you.Youdidn’t save half the people in this mountain.’ She winks. ‘Now be good. Watch the sky, watch the ground. Fall into the hush.’ She turns to go, then moves back to Quickfish, taking his wrists in her hands. ‘If you see anything strange. Anything wrong, you tell me.’ A hand against his cheek, ‘Nigh’s down below with Steel. If anything comes for them, kill it.’
Her eyes flick to Roofkeeper. Her fingers tracing a line to his axe blade. ‘That means you, hot stuff. Anything moves towards my sis, put that fucking axe in its teeth until it chokes on them.’
Roofkeeper grins. ‘If she doesn’t get to them first.’
Icecaller bites down on a laugh, and turns to take her place beside her father. Kinghammer nods at them, gazing down to the stretch of the Barrowlands below.
The bell tolls again. The blue air swallows it.
Hushed chatter falls away to the clink and shuffle of restless armour.
Quickfish presses himself up against the parapet, Roofkeeper’s arm light around his waist. A thrill of excitement pulses in his chest.
The flanks of the Stump lurch down to the ground impossiblyfar below, two hundred feet or more. The grass shows green beneath the fading frost, the brief shadows of hawks and the familiar slender splints of the cairn flags. The outbuildings are empty now, their population drawn up and into the mountain like a startled breath.
Approaching between the abandoned walls, shrunk by distance, come two figures. Hand in hand, one broad-shouldered, walking with a slow, steady roll, blonde hair pulled by the wind. The other leans against her, slight as a shadow, hands loose at his sides, red thread trailing in the wind. Quickfish’s heart lurches. He hasn’t seen them since he was a child. He remembers those strong hands bouncing him on a toy horse, remembers the soft voice behind the blonde hair and the gentle, quiet man who talked to him as if he was already twenty years grown. Shipwright and Shroudweaver.
The bell tolls again.
The wind drops. The flags hang slack. He can hear the breath of the people next to him, watches it frost in the empty air.
A spear is dropped. Someone’s clumsy, nervous fingers. The sound rings out, down, down and down.
The pair draw closer, slowly, slowly.
He can make out their faces now. She is stoic, the blunt lines of her face set against the mountain. His lips are tight, his eyes closed. Perhaps that’s why he’s holding her hand so tightly.
Roofkeeper leans forwards, murmurs in his ear. ‘They look …’
‘Terrified,’ Quickfish finishes.
The bell tolls. The air thick with its echoes. The clouds drag against the sharp blue of the sky.
There is moss growing in the parapet stone, sprouting thin bright alpine flowers. Quickfish picks one, twists it anxiously. He feels Roof’s ribs press against his back as he breathes and leans into the soft scratch of his shirt, the smell of his neck. His heart hammers a little quieter.
The bell tolls.
A figure leaves Thell. Skinpainter, alone, their rags hanging slack and lifeless in the still air. The pair stop. Quickfish watchesthem. Shipwright says something terse, makes a few economical gestures.
In response, Skinpainter stretches their arms wide. Turns to face the mountain.
Shipwright glances upwards, seems about to speak again before Shroudweaver puts his hand on her shoulder. He steps forwards into the space between the two of them, raising his red ribboned right hand.
