The Iron Ghost by Jen Williams

quarry that split the ground above Skaldshollow, following a rarely used path that headed deep into the mountains. Below them, Wydrin could see men and women and werkens working in the pit. She could hear their voices on the cold air, the chilly chink of hammers on rock, and every now and then the soft
crump
of an explosion as they delved deeper into the mountain. ‘Safer?’
    ‘The Narhl attacks weren’t so frequent then.’ Bors tugged at his knot of hair, not quite looking at her. ‘My mother and father were both murdered by the Narhl just after Nuava’s fifth birthday. They used to be Edeian trackers. It was their job to look for new veins of Edeian out in the northern territories.’
    ‘I am sorry to hear that.’ Wydrin thought of her own brother lying in his cabin, half his body covered in burns after their deadly encounter with the dragon. Thanks to Frith’s magic, Jarath had survived, and that wasn’t something she’d forget in a hurry. ‘You and your sister are close, then?’
    He nodded. ‘We lived with Tamlyn after that, and Nuava has flourished under her tutelage,’ he said reluctantly. ‘She will be a fine crafter one day.’ He paused, and shook himself. ‘Anyway, I meant how does it feel to be riding the werken?’ He smiled at her, his honest face lighting up. Wydrin smiled back. ‘I imagine it is quite strange for you.’
    ‘Well, you know,’ Wydrin leaned forward and urged her werken beyond Bors and his mount, dragging stone legs through powdery snow, ‘I was always quite useless with horses. Big, flighty creatures, altogether too nervous. They can tell when you’ve had a drink, did you know that? I was brought up on an island, you see, not much call for them. I spent more time on boats than on horseback. This, though,’ she patted the werken on the space between its arrow-like stone ears, ‘this is easier. It’s an extension of myself, like the dagger in my hand. I think about doing something, and the werken does it.’
    Bors looked pleased. ‘I think you are a natural. You must have the mountains in your blood somewhere.’
    ‘Nah, that’s Sebastian.’ She looked down at the chip of green crystal nestled in her palm. It no longer hurt at all. ‘Although I suppose with this, now I do, in a way.’
    They moved on further, following a rough trail almost lost under fresh drifts of snow, until the quarry was out of sight and in front of them was a shallow dip in the terrain. Dark trees lined the far side of it, and above them rose the face of the mountain proper.
    ‘Are you feeling up to a race?’ Bors’ bear-shaped werken rose up briefly on its hind legs, displaying stony paws, before thumping back into the snow. ‘First one down to the treeline buys a round of drinks.’
    ‘Ho, that’s hardly fair!’ crowed Wydrin, although she moved her werken to the edge of the ridge, and curled a hand around the leather strap attached to the saddle. ‘You’ve been doing this all your life, and I’ve only just started. I would need at least a week to get used to how this stone beast handles and even then – GO!’
    She focussed all her thoughts into that single command and the werken leapt, surging forward with a burst of speed she had barely guessed at. Screaming with delight, she held on for dear life as the werken sped down the steep incline, sending snow flying in all directions. She could hear Bors shouting something – she couldn’t make out the words but his surprised amusement was clear – and then there was a startling thunder as his bear-shaped mount came after her, now struggling to keep up.
    ‘This bastard can move!’
    All at once the dark treeline was looming very close, and Wydrin yanked back on the leather strap, in her panic resorting to the little experience she had with horses, but the werken was suddenly turning, skidding into a stop with its back legs stretched out. Snow flew up in a wave, pelting the tree trunks with a wet splatter. Such was the violence of