Fearless (7 page)

‘I’ll give you Sixty-five,’ Jacob replied. ‘If we leave tomorrow morning.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

TOGETHER

E
lven dust and red wine. When Jacob took Fox to her room, Valiant was sitting in his oversize chair, his feet on his oversize table in his ridiculously oversize and crumbling castle, and he was talking to the paintings on the walls. They were all chasing their childhood dreams.

Fox’s shoulder was aching, though she tried to hide it. Jacob found a sleepy servant down in the kitchen who heated a bowl of water for him. A Man-Swan’s beak was not the cleanest of weapons, and so he also dressed the wound with some of the salve Alma had mixed for him.

Bites, knife wounds, burnt fingers . . . like him, Fox had probably lost count of how often they’d patched each other up over the years. To Jacob, her body was as familiar as his own, but as he touched her now he caught himself feeling self-conscious. She belonged to him like his own shadow. Younger sister, best friend. Jacob loved her so much that the other kind of love seemed like something he had to protect her from: the hungry game that was best ended before it got too serious. He wished he’d observed that rule himself with the Fairy.

Fox didn’t say a word while he put a fresh bandage on her shoulder. Her silence used to be an expression of the wordless familiarity that connected them. But not this time. Jacob opened the window and poured the bloody water into the night. A few snowflakes drifted in.

Fox stepped to his side and caught them with her hand.

‘What’s your plan? Are you going to trade the Dark Fairy the crossbow for your life?’ She leant out the window and inhaled the cold air as though it might drive away her fear.

‘A few hundred thousand dead, for my own skin? Since when do you think so little of me?’

She looked at him. ‘You would have done it for your brother. For him you would have done anything. Why not for yourself?’

Yes, why not, Jacob?
Because he’d grown up with the certainty that Will’s life was more precious than his own? Did it matter?

‘I’m not planning to trade or sell the crossbow,’ he said. ‘The Witch Slayer used it three times. The first bolt killed an Albian general who took Fifty thousand men with him to his death. The second killed the commanding general of Lotharaine and Seventy thousand soldiers. A few weeks later, Guismond had himself crowned King of both kingdoms.’

Fox held out her hand into the falling snow.

‘I think I know the rest. I’d forgotten that story. It always frightened me.’ The flakes planted crystal flowers on her skin. ‘One day’ – she spoke the words into the night as though snatching them from the darkness – ‘Guismond’s younger son was dying. Gahrumet. I think that was his name. A Witch had poisoned him to take revenge on his father for killing hundreds of her sisters. His son was in such terrible pain that Guismond couldn’t bear it any more. He shot a bolt from the crossbow into his son’s heart, but Gahrumet didn’t die; he was healed. They say he hated his father later on, but he lived for many years.’ She closed the window and turned around. ‘It’s nothing but a fairy tale, Jacob.’

‘And? Everything in this world sounds like a fairy tale. I’m dying for having uttered the name of a Fairy!’ He stepped towards her and brushed the snowflakes from her hair. ‘Why shouldn’t there be a weapon that brings death when it’s yielded in hatred but gives life when it’s used out of love?’

Fox shook her head. ‘No.’

They both knew who was going to have to shoot the bolt.

Jacob took her hands. ‘You heard Valiant: nobody came out of the tomb alive. You know we can make it. Or shall we just wait together for death to catch up with me?’

What could she say to that?

CHAPTER TWELVE

LIVING SHADOWS

L
ooking at the valley where the Dwarfs had found the tomb, no one would have guessed that it had once been famous for its flowering slopes. Mirror-blossoms could make even the ugliest face irresistible for a few hours. But the sale of iron ore made riches faster.

The valley lay in the steep mountains of Helvetia, a little under a day’s ride from Valiant’s castle. The country was so small that it spent a lot of effort and gold on appeasing its mighty neighbours. It had once been part of Lotharaine but had won its independence with the help of an army of mercenary Giants. And since a Stilt had stolen the last King’s only heir, a parliament had been ruling the tiny country, keeping peace with the Goyl by allowing them to move troops through its mountains. When Jacob had asked what price the Dwarfs had paid for the permission to scour iron ore from Helvetia’s blooming valleys, Valiant merely replied with an indulgent smile. The country needed tunnels if it wanted to keep up with its neighbours’ railways and fast highways. And nobody could blast holes through mountains the way the Dwarfs could.

Jacob’s boots sank into deep snow as he climbed out of Valiant’s carriage. The cowering huts around the mine’s buildings did not show any of the wealth that was being scraped out of the earth, and the smoke rising from the chimneys scribbled a dirty future into the sky.

A crowd of Dwarf children were waiting by the cages that would take them down into the belly of the earth. They could crawl deeper into the tunnels than any human could, and they weren’t afraid of the mine-gnomes that made mining behind the mirror even more dangerous than in the other world.

‘Is that what you call good business these days?’ Jacob asked the Dwarf as they passed the pale urchins. ‘Children scraping for ore?’

‘And? They’d be doing it without me,’ Valiant retorted blankly. ‘Life’s an ugly affair.’

Fox eyed the women who were unloading the tenders as they came up from the tunnels loaded with ore. She whispered to the Dwarf: ‘Did you hear about the mine owner in Austry whose workers sold him to mine-gnomes?’

Valiant gave Jacob an alarmed look. ‘You should keep a close eye on her,’ he hissed. He disgustedly shoved back one of the children who’d been stretching a little hand towards his wolf-fur coat. ‘She already sounds like one of those anarchists who smear their slogans on every factory wall.’

‘I liked you better when you were less of an honourable businessman,’ Jacob said. He helped the little tyke back to his feet. ‘Go on, show us the tomb before this cold drives someone to kill you for your coat.’

A rusty chain-link fence, surrounding three buildings with copper roofs to keep out the mountain wraiths . . . rail tracks, chimneys, a drainage ditch . . . nothing here gave away that the Dwarfs had found anything else but ore.

Fox looked around. ‘Can we see the Dead City from here?’

Valiant shook his head and pointed westwards. ‘Unless you can see through that mountain there.’

The Witch Slayer had built his city after Albion, Austry and Lotharaine had been united by the crossbow, and Helvetia had become the centre of his gigantic empire. Silberthur was what he named it, but now it was only known as the Dead City, for all its people had disappeared the day Guismond died. There were stories that their faces still looked out from the crumbling walls like fossils. Jacob had never seen the ruins with his own eyes, for even Chanute had always steered clear of the Dead City. Even after four centuries, it was still considered unhealthy to walk its deserted streets.

Valiant opened the gate in the rusty fence. The chain was loose, and there were footprints leading through the grey snow towards the mine lift.

‘I thought you closed the mine,’ Fox said.

Valiant shrugged. ‘A foreman comes by here every now and then to check on things. They sent in the last treasure hunter about a week ago.’ His face showed a satisfied grin. ‘And I’ve got three ounces of gold on the idiot never coming out again.’

Jacob pushed open the gate. ‘Three ounces of gold? Not bad. And what did you bet on me?’

Valiant’s smile turned as sweet as elven honey. ‘How stupid do you think I am?’

Fox shone one of the mine lamps into the pit with the lift cages hanging above. Valiant looked around furtively, but none of the men who guarded the workers on the other side of the fence had taken any notice of them. ‘Right. Once more, just to avoid any trouble,’ the Dwarf whispered. ‘I only brought you here to consult with Jacob.’

Fox climbed into the swaying cage. ‘You’ve told us so often, your dogs can probably repeat it by now. But I forgot the next part. We steal the crossbow, and you get dragged off by mine-gnomes before you can stop us, right? Or is it we who drag you off after we steal the crossbow?’

‘Very funny!’ Valiant growled. ‘You obviously have no idea of the risk I am taking here! The Dwarf council will have me shot should they ever suspect anything. And nobody outside the council knows of this tomb.’

‘Nobody except the council members, their secretaries, their wives, the mine workers who found the tomb . . .’ Jacob lifted the Dwarf into the cage. ‘I wouldn’t count on your secret being safe. And about you getting shot? Nonsense! You’d talk your way out of anything. I should know. I wanted to shoot you a dozen times already.’

The cage descended endlessly into the deep. When it touched firm ground, the light of their lamps exposed the roughly hewn walls of a chamber with a number of tunnels branching from it into the darkness. Wooden beams supported the low ceiling. Pickaxes and shovels leant against piles of rubble. Laid out on a flat stone were the usual offerings for the mine-gnomes: coffee powder, scraps of leather, coins. If the mine-gnomes disappeared, the miners could breathe easy. If they stayed, one had to expect sharp cries in the dark, rock falls, and spindly fingers stabbing into ears and eyes.

Valiant picked a tunnel leading west, towards where, high above them, the Dead City lay nestled among the mountains. At some point, they reached a crude drill that in Jacob’s world would have stood in a museum but that Valiant proudly pointed out as the pinnacle of Dwarf engineering. The drill had exposed an arched entrance in the rock face and, beyond it, a broad staircase leading steeply down, lined with burnt-out torches. The metal clamps were covered with soot. At the bottom, the steps opened into a wide chamber. A few forlorn gas lamps created a pale pool of light on the stone floor, and in the middle of it lay a sleeping Giantling. He wore the uniform of the Dwarf army and lumbered to his feet only after Valiant kicked him hard in the side.

‘You call this standing guard?’ the Dwarf yelled at him. ‘Why are we paying you thrice what we’d pay any human guard?’

The Giantling picked up his helmet and anxiously snapped to attention, even though Valiant barely reached his kneecaps.

‘No incidents to report!’ he mumbled with a sleepy tongue. ‘I have orders not to—’

‘Yes, yes, I know!’ Valiant interrupted him impatiently. ‘But I have brought an expert who has travelled here from afar. This is his certificate of authority.’

He pulled out an envelope so small that the Giantling’s gross fingers could barely take hold of it. Valiant gave Jacob a wink while the guard looked helplessly at the tiny thing.

‘What?’ Valiant barked at him. ‘Look at me! I know to you all Dwarfs look alike, but you should at least try to remember my face. I’m the owner of this mine.’

The Giantling suppressed a yawn and adjusted his helmet. Then he pushed the tiny envelope into his uniform and stepped aside.

His huge body revealed a door, framed by a frieze of skulls. The slits above the noses clearly identified them all as the skulls of Witches.

Guismond the Witch Slayer. Chanute had once told his story to Jacob in some filthy tavern. He’d been so drunk, he’d barely managed to pronounce the name. ‘Guismond, yes, there’s no man ever knew more about witchcraft. You know what they called him?’ Jacob thought he could hear his own voice answer, the high voice of a boy: ‘The Witch Slayer.’ That name resonated with everything that had made him follow the old treasure hunter in the first place: danger, mystery, the promise of enchanted treasure to gild his life. His life, which on the other side of the mirror had tasted only of boredom and yearning.

Already Chanute didn’t have to explain to Jacob how Guismond had earned his byname. No human on either side of the mirror was ever born with magical powers, but in this world there was a way to acquire them. It was a sinister way, and Guismond had not been the first one to follow it: one had to drink the blood of a Witch when it was still warm. ‘How many Witches did he kill?’ Chanute had refilled his glass with the acrid liquor that had cost him one arm and almost his mind. ‘How would I know? Hundreds, thousands. Nobody counted them. He’s supposed to have drunk a cup of blood every week.’