‘If Onkmarr is here then that can mean but one thing.’
‘Which is?’ hissed Gilias as they neared the edge of the jetty.
Forek replied in the same guarded tone, ‘That King Brynnoth is not.’
Heglan awoke to a hammering against his chamber door.
He was face down in a scrap of parchment, ink smears on his cheeks from where he had fallen asleep pressed against his still-wet scribblings, exhaustion forcing him to eschew his bed in favour of the first available place to collapse.
At first he was disorientated. This last session in the workshop had been the longest, several weeks in isolation with only stonebread and strong beer to sustain him. Dawi had survived on less, he had told himself at the outset of his labours. His avian menagerie startled him and he gasped aloud at the talons of a crag eagle bearing down from on high. Belatedly, he came to his senses, still slightly fuddled by strong drink but at least now able to make out someone calling his name.
‘Heg? Open the door, brother. Heg?’
Tripping on a stuffed griffon vulture that had fallen from its perch, he stumbled to his feet and hurried over to a crank that would seal off the hidden vault where he kept his secret labours. Setting the mechanism going, he quickly gathered up the scraps of parchment he had been sleeping on, rolled them up and stuffed them in a drawer.
By the time he reached the door and opened it, the vault was shut and Nadri Gildtongue looked less than impressed.
‘What are you doing, Heg?’ he asked bluntly.
‘I was sleeping, brother. What’s your excuse for being here?’
Nadri barged his way in and began to look around.
‘I haven’t seen you in months. I’ve spoken to your guildmaster,’ he said, rifling through tools and sketches, drawers of cogs and nails and bolts. ‘Your absence has been noted.’
‘If you tell me what you’re looking for perhaps I can help you find it.’
‘You are doing it again, aren’t you?’
‘Doing what?’
‘Building the airship. I am no wazzock, Heg, do not treat me as one.’ Nadri rapped his knuckles against the room’s back wall. ‘What is behind here?’
Heglan feigned confusion, but inwardly stifled a pang of anxiety. Nadri was certainly no fool. ‘It is a wall, brother. Solid rock is behind it.’
‘Every other surface in this workshop is covered in designs and formulae and notes. You have papered it in parchment scribblings, Heg. Yet this wall is barren.’ Nadri shook his head, his face clouded by anger. ‘Don’t lie to me. Show me what you’re hiding.’
Heglan closed his mouth – protesting his innocence would be pointless now – and opened up the vault.
The skylight beamed weak winter sun onto the hull of a magnificent ship. It was lacquered black, fully restored and even larger and more impressive than before. Gone were the rotary sails and the sweeps, but there was more rigging and a sack that looked like a stitched animal bladder draped the deck.
‘It’s unfinished but an inaugural flight is close, I think.’ Heglan’s eyes widened, his hangover all but forgotten in his excitement. Like an artist with his latest masterwork, he relished the opportunity to show it off.
Nadri was less enthused but couldn’t hide his awe.
‘It is incredible, Heg. But you will be expelled from the guild for this. Strombak will see to it that you are given the Trouser Legs Ritual and kicked out.’
‘When he sees what I have crafted, when he witnesses its first flight he will–’
‘He doesn’t care, Heg! He will expel you and further shame will be heaped on the Copperfists. First Grandfather Dammin and now you… Our father, Lodri, will never be allowed at Grungni’s table. He will wander forever at Gazul’s Gate.’ Nadri tugged on his beard, fighting back the tears in his eyes. He rasped, his voice choking, ‘Dreng tromm, brother.’
‘The skryzan-harbark will fly, Nadri. I know it. And when it does our family’s shame will be expunged, our seat in the Hall of Ancestors assured. Please don’t tell Strombak what I am doing, not yet. I must–’ He stopped, as if seeing his brother for the first time since he’d entered his workshop. ‘Wait… why are you wearing your armour?’
Nadri was clad in ringmail. A helmet was tethered to his belt by its strap and there was a small round shield on his back, an axe looped by his waist.
‘It’s why I came to find you, brother,’ he said with a hint of melancholy. ‘King Brynnoth is going to war. Our kalan marches with him.’
Heglan was shaking his head, fear for his beloved brother lighting his eyes. ‘No. You are a merchant, not a warrior.’
‘We are all warriors when the horn blows calling us to war. The elgi are to be held to account for Agrin Fireheart’s death at last.’ Nadri’s face darkened, his mouth becoming a hard line. ‘And I shall seek vengeance for Krondi.’
‘But war? When did this happen?’ asked Heglan.
‘It is happening now, brother. The king has already left Barak Varr and another two thousand dawi of the kalans follow in his wake.’
‘But what of trade, who will bring gold into the Sea Gate if you are at war?’
‘There is no trade! It ended years ago and has been drying up ever since. The only currency now is that of axes and shields, war engines to break open the elgi cities. It’s why Strombak has not been to find you. He is in the forges, as you should be, fashioning weapons for our king.’
Like a hammer blow had struck him on the forehead, filling his skull with a sudden realisation, Heglan went from being stupefied to urgently casting about his workshop.
Nadri frowned. ‘What are you doing now?’
Heglan was ferreting around in drawers and racks, sweeping aside tools and materials. ‘Looking for my axe,’ he said. ‘I’m coming with you.’
Nadri went over and held him by the shoulders to keep him still.
‘No, brother. You are staying
