Witchsign. Den Patrick

Twenty-Eight: Steiner

      

       Chapter Twenty-Nine: Steiner

      

       Chapter Thirty: Kjellrunn

      

       Chapter Thirty-One: Steiner

      

       Chapter Thirty-Two: Steiner

      

       Chapter Thirty-Three: Kjellrunn

      

       Chapter Thirty-Four: Steiner

      

       Chapter Thirty-Five: Steiner

      

       Chapter Thirty-Six: Kjellrunn

      

       Chapter Thirty-Seven: Steiner

      

       Chapter Thirty-Eight: Kjellrunn

      

       Chapter Thirty-Nine: Steiner

      

       Chapter Forty: Kjellrunn

      

       Chapter Forty-One: Steiner

      

       Chapter Forty-Two: Kjellrunn

      

       Chapter Forty-Three: Steiner

      

       Chapter Forty-Four: Steiner

      

       Chapter Forty-Five: Steiner

      

       Chapter Forty-Six: Kjellrunn

      

       Chapter Forty-Seven: Kimi

      

       Chapter Forty-Eight: Steiner

      

       Chapter Forty-Nine: Kjellrunn

      

       Preview of Stormtide

      

       Acknowledgements

      

       Also by Den Patrick

       About the Publisher

       CHAPTER ONE

       Steiner

       The Holy Synod has done much in the last decade to expunge all mention of the goddesses Frøya and Frejna. We have had less success in the Scorched Republics, whose people still hold affection for the old ways. It is the Synod’s hope that veneration of these goddesses passes into history as our grip tightens on Vinterkveld.

      – From the field notes of Hierarch Khigir, Vigilant of the Imperial Synod.

      The furnace burned bright in the darkness. The old timbers of the smithy were edged in orange light, tools hung from iron hooks, gleaming. Steiner loved it here, the smell of hot metal and coal dust, the pleasant ache of muscles hardened from work, jobs in need of doing and jobs well done. The product of his labour lined the walls: small knives; pots and pans; hammers; scythes and the odd sickle.

      The anvil chimed as Steiner brought the hammer down on the white-hot metal. Sweat dampened his brow and ran down his back with each breath. A deep contentment settled upon him; something was being made, something was being created.

      ‘That’s enough of that,’ said his father. ‘Looks like you’re making a sword. And you know how the Empire feels about that.’

      Steiner grinned. ‘Could I at least finish it? I’ll melt it down afterwards.’

      Marek allowed himself a smile, caught up in Steiner’s enthusiasm. ‘A sword does a strange thing to a man’s mind—’

      ‘Being beaten over the head with one thing is much like another, I reckon.’ Steiner shrugged and gave a chuckle.

      ‘I mean wielding a sword, you oaf.’ Marek returned Steiner’s chuckle with one of his own. ‘It makes a man think he has some destiny or privilege.’ Marek’s tone made it clear exactly how he felt about the latter.

      ‘Not much destiny or privilege in Cinderfell,’ said Steiner, feeling the joy of creation grow cold despite the searing heat of the smithy.

      ‘No, there isn’t. It’s why I moved here.’ Marek rolled his heavy shoulders and rubbed one scarred forearm with an equally scarred hand. ‘Come on, we’re done for the day.’

      They stepped out beneath overcast skies. Every day was overcast in Cinderfell. The Empire said it was a legacy of the war with the dragons, that the terrible creatures had scorched the skies above the continent for decades to come.

      ‘Must it always be so grey?’ muttered Steiner, as the wind chilled the sweat on his skin.

      ‘It’s not like this in the south,’ said Marek. ‘They can see the sun in Shanisrond.’

      Steiner gave an incredulous snort. ‘Next you’ll be telling me the dragons still live.’

      Marek shook his head. ‘No, the Empire saw to that. And you know that when the Empire take an interest in something—’

      ‘It usually