The City of Ice Read online

  THE CITY OF ICE

  First published 2017 by Solaris

  an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,

  Riverside House, Osney Mead,

  Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK

  www.solarisbooks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-84997-912-2

  Copyright © 2017 K. M. McKinley

  Cover art by Alejandro Colucci

  The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 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 the copyright owners.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  PROLOGUE

  The False Pantheon

  ADAMANKA SHRANE KICKED her way through guano and dracon-bird skeletons. The ancient floor creaked under her weight. Hundreds of feet below the whispered devotions of Bishop Rousinteau hissed around giant columns of polished granite. Up there, in the forgotten lofts of the Pantheon Maximale there was no sign of the divine, only dust, and shit and dead vermin.

  It amused her greatly that she, harbinger of the Iron Gods, should find sanctuary in the house of the false gods of Ruthnia, that the spokesman of the false gods should be the pawn that would usher in the return of the iron, and that she wove her schemes under Rousinteau’s nose. Ironies within ironies.

  The Pantheon Maximale had seen better days. Worship of the false gods had ceased to be fashionable once Res Iapetus had ejected them from the world. Until recently, and the spread of Rousinteau’s apocalyptic cult, the pantheon had been left half-abandoned. The city councils had squabbled over what to do with the Pantheon, it had seen use as a venue for the arts, a school, even a barracks for a brief time. Gradually, it had fallen into decay, until Rousinteau and his mysterious backers had taken it off the city’s hands and restored it as a place of worship.

  She could think of no better place to hide.

  She passed under huge beams holding up a lead-roofed turret, and into her lodgings. There was little in there: a bed, for even she needed to sleep, her holy book, a change of clothes, a flask of wine and one of water. Vessels for ablutions, all hidden away when she was absent. But it was clean, swept free of the choking dust of bird droppings, and safe.

  She got down on her knees. Already last year’s rejuvenation at the pool of the Iron Fane was fading. Next year, the one after at the latest, she would need to visit it again, if the world was not about to change.

  She sketched a double circle on the floor, meticulously filling in the band with words she could read but could not speak. When done, she scrutinised it a few moments, then stepped carefully within, sat down, and placed her wooden staff across her knees.

  She fell into a trance quickly. Her spirit left her body, and soared up over the many roofs of the Pantheon Maximale, up over Perus, past the so-called Godhome, and onward into the sky. Only a year ago she did not have this ability. As her masters grew in strength, so did she.

  Ruthnia spread itself at her feet. She saw from the Tiriatic ocean in the west to the distance-faded mountains of the Appins.

  Her destination was in neither of those places, or anywhere in between.

  She flew higher, up into thin air, where the sky turned thin and purple, then beyond into the endless black, and toward the Twin. No other could pursue a sending so far, no other but her, for she was summoned by her masters, and they aided her where all others were sent away. Four times she had done this. Four times she had been to commune with the iron masters, and each time her power grew.

  The Twin grew black and huge, the Earth blue and insignificant. Once more she was in its inimical atmosphere, and descended through black clouds to a landscape of bare rock and flame.

  A palace awaited her. Its fabric offered no resistance, and she passed through it as a ghost and into the interior.

  No building on the Earth was this big, for the palace was scaled for giants.

  She arrived in a hall dominated by a giant throne. Upon it sat the king of the Iron Gods, his advisers at either arm. They too were gargantuan, but childlike in stature compared to their lord. Whereas she… What was she? A sparrow, a gnat, a nothing.

  “I have come as commanded,” she said.

  The great lord stood, taller than a mountain.

  “Ute-mene arbani kulleat…” it said in a voice as loud as the death of worlds.

  A quieter voice, speaking Maceriyan, spoke over it.

  “Servant of the Draathis, you are welcome. The time has come. You are able to come between the worlds, and so the wards of our enemy are weakened. Soon, we shall leave this place. Soon, we shall take our birthright.”

  “Kandan irrit makane arban…” went on the god’s voice.

  “Yet there is much for our servant to do. The last of our enemies must be destroyed. The first of the gates must be opened. You are not sufficient alone for this task.”

  Shrane lifted her head from the floor.

  “My lord, I…”

  The god ignored her interruption.

  “Kandan mendene zeebar arbanak,” it said.

  “You shall be divided. You shall do the work of two in one.”

  Two of the Iron Gods came from the shadows, and set her on her feet with burning hands. How different they were compared to the last example of their kind upon the Earth. He was battered, hidden in the depths of the fane. The skin of these was still black and lustrous, free of the corrosion that crippled the other.

  “Zeebar acckin arbani,” said the god.

  “The servant will take these staves,” said the quieter voice.

  Her hands flew out to her side. Two rods of red hot iron appeared in her hands. They burned her soul, and she screamed.

  “Zeebar arbanak ute zeebar acckini,” said the god king.

  “From two staves, two servants.”

  The king himself rose from his throne. He held out his giant’s hand. A blade of fire sprang up from his fist, and he smote her with it, splitting her spirit in two from the crown of her head to her crotch. She came apart, her being consumed with agony.

  An unmeasurable time passed. The pain faded.

  “Makanak,” said the king.

  “It is done,” said the voice. “No longer Iron Priestess, but Iron Mages! Return to the Earth and serve us well.”

  Shrane had so much to ask, but no opportunity. The halves of her soul whirled away through the palace roof, back through the clouds and into the void between worlds, falling toward the Earth.

  She slammed back into her flesh.

  When Adamanka Shrane opened her eyes, she was staring at her own face. Eyes identical to hers looked back. Their movements mirroring each other perfectly, the two Adamanka Shranes sat up. In their hands were twinned iron staves, her original wooden staff was a line of black charcoal on the floor between, bisecting the magical circle.

  “Truly,” they said together, “the gods are mighty.”

  Winter was nearly over. In a few weeks time, Vardeuche Persin’s ships would set out on their race to the pole and the city of ice there.

  And one of her would be with him.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Rel Pursued

  ARAMAZ SPED OVER the desert, head bobbing mechanically back and forth. After so long a gallop the dracon was tiring. His breath whistled in his nostrils. Foam sheathed his jaw.

  The lights of the moons glittered off the Black Sands. A star field of infinite depth and intensity filled the sky horizon to horizon, the glittering of the sands made a second cosmos beneath
the dracon’s feet.

  Cold, pure air burned Rel’s nose and tore tears from his eyes. It seemed he rode in the void between the stars. He was at one with Aramaz, they were a single being made of two, flying like thought through the sky. His recalled his brother Aarin saying that the moment of purest clarity came before death. Rel had laughed, asking how anyone could possible know. Aarin had been so pompous when first invested, and Rel loved to rile him. Rel’s laughter had died in his throat at the look in his brother’s eyes. Aarin already knew so much about death, even then.

  Silence fled. The hounds of the modalmen bayed upon the sands, coming ever closer. For hours the hounds had been chasing them. Soon it would all be over.

  Finally, years later, Rel understood what Aarin meant.

  Rel looked grimly ahead, the rhythm of his movement matched to his mount’s, willing the reptile to find the strength to run until morning, though he could not conceive of why daylight would bring any reprieve. Deamathaani was far in front. In his blue robes the warlock was a pale ghost skimming the ground, his black dracon, Mordicar, virtually invisible underneath him. Deamaathani was a fine rider, Amaranth-born, raised on the savannahs bordering the Red Expanse, but none could outmatch a Khusiak in the saddle. Zorolotsev outpaced the warlock, so matched to the motions of his surging mount he appeared motionless. The two Karsans trailed, Rel ahead of Dramion who brought up the rear. Dramion swore loudly. If the exact content of his speech was lost, its sentiment was clear enough; terror had the trooper in its claws.

  Rel risked a glimpse behind. Shapes moved over the dunes, starlight glinted from rippling flanks, and then cold fire ignited upon them. Ripples of colour spread over the hounds, showing their patterns. Ghostlight shone in their eyes and mouths. They no longer had need for stealth.

  Dramion whipped at his dracon with his reins. His movements were out of synchronisation with his mount, and its bobbing run became a lurch. Rel rated Dramion a better rider than himself. Panic undid his expertise.

  “Move damn you! Move!” screamed Dramion.

  “Hurry!” shouted Rel.

  The hounds sped across the desert. Rel got his first good look at them: grey skin, almost black, inset with whorled patterns of shifting gold, green and pink light. They were nothing like a man’s dogs, more like dracons, larger than the biggest dray, six-legged, heads the shape of spearheads tipped with shear-edged beaks, high shoulders sloping steeply to stubby tails. Dramion screamed as the hounds closed. His mouth was wide, eyes terrified, reason fleeing the approach of death.

  Face death calmly, Aarin had once said. Show no fear. At the end, the loss of dignity is a teardrop away, as is the cessation of pain.

  Two hounds split around Dramion’s dracon. It weaved from side to side in an attempt to throw its pursuers. Matching pace, the hounds snapped at the dracon’s neck, forcing it to pull up. The dracon screeched. With a powerful bound it leapt over the snouts of the modalhounds, stumbling ahead. The hounds increased their speed, heavy feet thundering on the sand. They crossed in front, tripping the reptile. The dracon fell heavily, and rolled, springing back up, heedless of its rider. With a cry, Dramion tumbled from his saddle. He had his sword out before the hounds were on him.

  “Come on you bastards!” he shouted.

  Rel saw no blow land, and Dramion’s defiant shouts became screams of agony as the hounds ripped him apart. The dracon fought hard. Modalhounds yelped as its sickle killing claws ripped into their flesh, but they were too many, and the dracon was dragged down. A hound caught the mount by the neck, twisted its beak violently, and sheared the dracon’s head off.

  Rel turned from the carnage and leaned further forward over Aramaz, crouching low. Wind roared in his ears, muffling the growling and snapping coming from behind. Zorolotsev had drawn far ahead. Deamaathani looked back at Rel, slowed his dracon and dropped back to ride alongside. Mordicar snorted.

  “We will not survive this,” said Rel. “If it comes to it, save yourself.”

  “Rel, I—” shouted the warlock.

  “Get yourself away, by any means possible, Deamaathani. There is no need for you to die today. Get back to the fort. They will need you.”

  “I could,” said Deamaathani. “Zorolotsev is going to get away, but we will only live if we fight.”

  “You can get away. Use your magic.”

  “It is too dangerous here, there is too much raw magic locked into the sands. I will not be able to control where I go, and my departure could set off the glimmer here for a mile around.”

  “I don’t see a better alternative,” said Rel.

  “I do. We must attack.” Deamaathani plucked a lance from its holder on the saddle, and turned back.

  “Deamaathani!” said Rel. He swore furiously, grabbed one of his own lances, and followed.

  They galloped at the hounds, scattering them. Rel counted a dozen, far too many to kill. Deamaaathani shouted out a warcry in his own language, and charged. He placed his lance exactly, skewering the hound through the heart, releasing the weapon as the hound flipped over and skidded some way on the sand, dead before it came to a halt. Mordicar snapped at a second hound coming for them, driving it away. Deamaathani wove between two more, and plucked his second lance free from its holster.

  Rel drove at his own target. The monster was almost as tall as Aramaz’s shoulder, and far stockier. It was difficult to miss, and Rel took it in the middle leg. It fell whining. He glanced back. It was alive but limping, out of the fight. Deamaathani hit a second, but his lance caught on the ribs, opening a long gash and broke in two before it penetrated deeply, enraging the creature. The warlock drew his sword. Rel urged Aramaz forward, digging his heels in to make it leap. Back legs extended, the dracon pounced onto a modalhound, raking its foot down its ribs and ripping it open. Aramaz jolted as he disengaged from the hound, a half-leap that turned to a sprinting stumble. Rel dropped his lance, barely keeping his seat. Aramaz levelled out and Rel drew his own sword. They jinked past a charging hound and Rel swept his sabre down. A yelp told him he hit.

  Rel circled back to the warlock. Deamaathani was surrounded by hounds. Mordicar’s claws and thrashing tail kept them at bay. Deamaathani slashed at them. The dracon was low to the ground in a threat display, hissing at the hounds with his mouth wide.

  Another hound came at Rel. He slashed at it with his sword, opening a dark line across its glowing markings. It was unperturbed, and came at him again. A second joined it. A third came from behind. Aramaz slapped the first hard across the face with his tail, stunning it, but was forced to stop as the others crossed in front of him. The hounds stalked around Rel, snarling and clacking their beaks. Both sauraliers were surrounded.

  “Deamaathani! Get away now! That is an order!”

  Deamaathani looked helplessly back.

  “I am sorry!” He closed his eyes. A hound leapt.

  A bloom of lightning burst from the warlock, expanding rapidly into a sphere of energy, arresting the hound mid-leap. The front end was caught in the bubble. The rear fell away, trailing steaming guts.

  The bubble imploded. Searing blue jags raced away over the desert. The glimmer trapped within the sands responded, liberating their load of magic in a titanic blast that lit up the desert for miles around. Rel was thrown clear of Aramaz in a tumbling chaos of flying hounds and grit. Somehow, he kept conscious. He got to his feet, ears ringing, sand in his mouth. The explosion echoed out over the desert endlessly, racing for every horizon. Lightning crackled in the sky. Zorolotsev was nowhere to be seen. Where Deamaathani had been, a circular depression of hot glass cooled to red. Hounds lay all around, three blasted to pieces. Those further away staggered round in shocked circles. Rel searched for Aramaz, catching sight of him heading over the crest of a dune. Five modalhounds remained, and they were recovering. He paused a moment, hefting his sword indecisively, then turned on his heels and ran after his dracon. The dune was steeper than he anticipated, and his feet slipped in the sand.

  Moments later, the hounds
followed.

  The baying at his heels lent him speed. If Aramaz had halted on the far side, he may have a chance. Expecting to feel the hooked claws of the modalhounds ripping into his back at any moment, he made the dune’s crest and looked out over a sea of black crowned by moonlit crescents that receded into the distance.

  Aramaz’ tracks led down the other side and away. Rel could not see him.

  He could not outpace the hounds, not on foot. He would not escape even if he could run faster than a train.

  The baying of the hounds came closer. Rel was done running.

  “Come on!” he cried, spinning around. “Finish me!”

  Rel felt a strange elation. Everything was beautiful, each mote of light, each pain, each breath.

  The hounds had learnt caution. They bayed madly but came up the dune slowly, fanning out and prowling back and forwards thirty yards away. There they remained, and howled.

  Rel and the hounds waited.

  Reptilian howls answered away over the sand, many from behind Rel. The twelve he and Deamaathani had faced were but the vanguard.

  “This is it. This is the end. Screwing the wrong girl,” he muttered to himself. “I really wish I had listened to my mother.” He laughed again. The hounds were stationary on the dune, awaiting reinforcement.

  “What are you waiting for?” he yelled. “Get on with it!”

  Three more hounds appeared. Two from the right, one from the bottom of the dune behind him. Strengthened in number, they advanced.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Veremond, Olb. I’m sorry. Too headstrong. Another thing I should have listened to. ‘Our shortcomings are a long enough a rope to hang by’, that’s what father said. Well, damn him I say!” He brandished his sword, circling to keep all the hounds in sight.

  Glittering sheets of sand ran behind the hounds down the dune. Their glowing mouths and eyes swept like lighthouse lanterns. Twenty yards, ten.