Witchsign. Den Patrick

      ‘Your figurehead. It’s a crow?’ Steiner asked, keen to change the subject.

      Romola nodded. ‘The ship is called the Watcher’s Wait. I’m hoping we appeal to Frejna so that she spares us misfortune.’ Romola reached under the chair and brought forth a weighted sack, the fabric straining with the load.

      ‘This is for you. An old acquaintance of mine insisted I bring it on board.’

      Steiner approached knowing it must be the sack his father had offered back at Cinderfell. There was a wave of relief, but also of regret that he’d refused it, and beneath both feelings the undertow of betrayal remained. Had they thought him too stupid to be a spy, or too weak? He wasn’t a child any more.

      ‘You can take it, it’s yours,’ said Romola, noting his hesitation.

      The lurching motion of the ship tipped him towards Romola and the bundle she offered. The rough cloth parted to reveal a wooden handle. He drew it out of the sack and eyed the stout metal head at the opposite end.

      ‘Verner gave it to me,’ said Romola. ‘Apparently this is your great-grandfather’s.’ Steiner blinked and held up the sledgehammer, the wood filigreed with dust, while the metal was dull. It was not beautiful in any way, a simple tool for a simple task. The sack was not empty. Further investigation revealed a pair of heavy boots.

      ‘Those belonged to your mother,’ offered Romola. ‘She must have been a half ogre judging by the size of them, right?’

      ‘Ogres don’t exist,’ scoffed Steiner.

      ‘No, you’re right,’ said Romola, looking away. ‘Not any more.’

      Steiner ignored the comment, thinking she was gaming him, more interested in the boots. His own mother had laced these boots and worn them on cold days and long walks. He’d never seen such fine craftsmanship and the boots reached to his calves when he tried them on.

      ‘We have the same size feet,’ he mumbled.

      ‘Maybe you’re a half ogre too.’ Romola smiled.

      ‘Hardly.’

      ‘You’re still young. There’s plenty of growing to be had.’

      ‘What in Frejna’s name am I supposed to do with this?’ He gestured to the sledgehammer.

      Romola waved off his question. ‘I’m just the messenger, right?’

      ‘Am I supposed to use it on the island? What will happen when we get there?’

      ‘I don’t know, and if I did know I could be killed for telling you.’

      ‘Please, will we be executed, or drowned, or—’

      ‘I don’t know. I’ve been no further than the gatehouse at the top of the steps—’

      ‘What steps?’

      ‘You’ll see.’ Romola cocked her head on one side and smiled. ‘Why don’t you come up on deck to get some fresh air?’

      ‘What about the Vigilants?’

      ‘They’re asleep, or throwing up everything they’ve ever eaten.’

      ‘Don’t even speak of it.’ Steiner held a hand to his mouth.

      ‘You think you’ve got it bad, you should see Shirinov,’ said Romola, stifling a laugh.

      Steiner followed the captain out of the hold and emerged on deck to see a touch of gold along the horizon. The sun was brightest at dawn. Only as the day progressed was it subdued by the endless grey of Nordvlast’s skies.

      ‘I don’t think much of your ship,’ said Steiner. ‘It’s taken all night to sail twenty miles.’

      ‘It’s not been the crossing I’d hoped for,’ admitted Romola. ‘Come up on the quarter deck with me.’ She took the ship’s wheel from a sour-looking sailor with a scar that had healed badly and left him with a permanent sneer. The sailor ignored him and slunk away.

      ‘He must be related to Håkon,’ said Steiner.

      ‘The infamous butcher of Cinderfell.’ Romola smiled. ‘That Kristofine is a fine-looking girl. Were you two …’ The pirate arched an eyebrow and Steiner felt himself blush at the implication.

      ‘Looks like it ended before it began,’ said Steiner. He realized he’d lost more than just his family, and a swell of bitterness rose within him.

      ‘If I can get word back to her I will, let her know you’re safe and all.’

      ‘And will I?’ Steiner shook his head. ‘Will I be safe?’

      Romola shrugged. ‘That’s up to you.’

      ‘And my father, will you get word to him?’

      Romola nodded. ‘Your father and I go back a way, and you’ll keep that bit of information to yourself.’ She gave him a stern look at odds with her usual wry demeanour. Steiner felt a dozen more questions beg to be answered, but the look on Romola’s face said he’d get no answers from her.

      They stood on the deck in silence as the ship heaved itself over rising waves, Steiner clinging on to a railing and trying not to shiver. This might be the last bit of freedom he’d have, and he was keen to grasp it with both hands.

      Romola shook her head, then pointed out to sea. ‘Those are the Nordscale islands. They keep the worst storms from battering Cinderfell.’

      Steiner squinted into the distance and sighted near two dozen pinnacles of dark rock emerging from the sea. Some were slender, like huge fangs, others were squat, cracked things. The largest formed an imposing mass that dominated the sea ahead, the stone reached far into the sky and a steady plume of smoke emerged from hidden places.

      ‘Is it a volcano?’ asked Steiner.

      ‘It’s no volcano,’ said Romola. The smoke formed a dark halo about the island, fading to dark grey as it rose higher, staining the sky in all directions.

      ‘Vladibogdan,’ whispered Steiner.

      ‘Right.’ None of Romola’s wry amusement remained in the shadow of the island. ‘Your new home, I’m afraid.’

      The vastness of the dark rock gave no clue of habitation, there seemed no way to live there at all. Romola barked some orders and the ship began to circle the island.

      ‘I don’t suppose you’re looking for a new deck hand, are you?’ said Steiner. ‘I’m a hard worker.’

      ‘Nice try, and I like you and all, but our paths don’t lie along the same route.’ She turned the wheel until the Watcher’s Wait sailed in a channel between Vladibogdan and the smaller Nordscales. The ashen pall was darker here, an ominous presence lingering in the sky.

      ‘It would be no bad thing if this whole island slipped beneath the waves,’ said Romola.

      ‘Before I disembark would be preferable,’ said Steiner.

      The cliffs grew ever higher as they approached, sweeping down at the rear of the island until a wide cove revealed black sands and dark-eyed watchtowers. Gulls drifted on the morning air, calling out to them with mournful cries as the Watcher’s Wait cut through the water.

      ‘What happens now?’ said Steiner.

      Romola shrugged. ‘Can’t say. I’ve never set foot in the Dragemakt Academy.’

      Steiner raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘I’ve never heard of any academy before.’

      ‘You’ll see when you get there.’ Romola frowned, annoyed that she’d said too much.

      ‘An academy. That’s just what I need.’ Steiner shook his head and drew an anxious breath.

      ‘Something to do with the Vigilants,’ added Romola. ‘I