Slowly, so slowly, he unpicks the threads.
They fall carefully, lazily.
The bell is still.
The air is still.
Thell is still.
The red binding uncoils from his fingers. The grass takes it. The cairns take it.
Soon enough, it’s done.
He holds his bare hand to the mountain, fingers spread wide, steady for the briefest moment, before he staggers, curling in on himself like he’s taken a punch in the gut. He straightens eventually, but slowly, like a dry leaf uncurling.
Shipwright moves to stand behind him, her feet planted square, her hands on his shoulders. Quickfish recognises the gesture and kisses Roofkeeper’s hand appreciatively.
Below, Skinpainter steps towards the pair. Their rags flare, though the air remains hollow and still.
When the trio embrace, Quickfish feels his breath fall through his lungs. He almost drops over the side as the mountain erupts with deafening cheers.
The sky fills with them.
The barrows roil with them.
As the noise swells, Icecaller threads her way through faces mad with relief. She slings her arms around Quickfish, palms wet with sweat.
A long sick laugh slides out of her.
Quickfish looks at her in confusion. He’s not quite sure what he’s witnessed, but he felt a weight leaving these people. A greatfear evaporating, like mist under morning sun. He can read it on Icecaller’s face as she collects herself, and grins at him,
‘Shipwright and Shroudweaver come to Thell. Fuck me. Never thought I’d live to see that.’
67
Light the hearts that love the sea
Bright the face that seeks the sun
Light the bones that crave the lee
Draw the web until its spun
—Midlands waulking song (trad.)
He slips his hand into hers. It’s rough, solid.
His thumb traces the calluses on her palms. Ropework and sea-strain.
The nails of his right hand worry at the red threads around his wrist. Keeping them loose. There’s not much worse than a binding ribbon wound too tight. His timing needs to be impeccable. If he unwinds the threads at the wrong moment, he’ll tear his chest apart.
The dead are still for now, but he can feel them moving beneath his ribs, coiling around his heart, calling out to the older souls buried in the barrows. He senses a pulse of movement in response, like eels below ground, nudging against the deep-driven cairn posts, flowing over stone, through mud. Following the trail of his footsteps like wolves after spoor. Seeking unity.
In the far distance, the people of Thell line the battlements, high ridges of stone that jut out from the Stump, piled with drystone and shale. Parapets that open anyone approaching across the fields below to a rain of spears, fresh from the nervous hands of the men and women above. The stink of their fear is sharp, even from here. A whole mountain brought to bay at the sight of two old fools. He’d laugh if he wasn’t so shit scared of dying on those spears.
As they walk closer, Shroudweaver squints against the sun.
He can’t make them out from this distance. He sees painted faces, tattooed skin, a bulk in the middle that might be Kinghammer. He can’t see Belltoller, but he can hear her, the echo of iron bells lingering over the landscape.
