The Iron Ghost by Jen Williams Page A

their sudden stop that some of the snow hit the back of Wydrin’s cloak, and she cried out in mingled delight and disgust as some of it slipped down the back of her collar. A handful of seconds later Bors joined her, although much slower; the bear-shaped werken thumped over to the trees at an amiable pace, having clearly given up the race.
    Wydrin grinned and leaned forward, patting the werken between the ears again.
    ‘You know, I think he likes going fast. He may not be as quick as yours over deep snow, but give him space to run and he’ll make the most of it.’ She laughed. ‘Mine’s a mead, by the way, none of this grut nonsense. And a bowl of stew while you’re at it, I’m starving.’
    Bors smiled, although he seemed to have lost some of his earlier humour. ‘They don’t
like
anything, Wydrin, they can’t. Your werken is a sleeker model, and it moves fast over short distances. Saying it likes going fast is like saying . . . like saying a table enjoys having food on it.’
    Wydrin wriggled in the saddle. The snow had melted and was now trickling down her back. ‘How can you know that for certain?’
    Bors and his mount moved closer. The edge of the blue sky was tainted with heavy clouds, promising a storm later. His hair, smoothed back into its tight knot, looked very black against his grey furs.
    ‘My friend, I have been down in the quarry myself, I have chipped the rock from the mountain. It is solid, inert, as you would expect. And I have seen it carved into functional shapes by my aunt, crafted into forms that will move. It is the magic of the mountain that gives it a semblance of life – it is that, that causes the werkens to follow our actions. They are a mirror, that is all.’
    ‘This one moved without a rider. You said it was defective, but what if it was something else?’
    Bors smiled again, his expression tight. ‘You’re an outsider here, so it’s not surprising you don’t understand. But listen, don’t go talking like that around my aunt, all right? The Narhl believe that the werkens are feeling creatures, and that belief fuels this war between us. Tamlyn – Tamlyn wouldn’t care to hear such views from guests, particularly guests she is giving large amounts of coin to.’
    Wydrin shrugged. Just for a moment, she tried to reach out with her mind to the werken – instead of issuing a command, she left her mind open.
Are you there? Can you hear me?
There was nothing, only the cold presence beneath her, and a potential for movement. ‘If you say so.’ She leaned forward in the saddle and wrapped her hands around the leather strap again. The werken had almost been as swift as the griffin, and she wanted to see how fast it could go. ‘How about another race, then? Back down to Skaldshollow, last one back buys the bottle.’

12
    Tamlyn and Bors Nox came to see them off. Frith thought that the older woman looked unsure of herself, her wide brow furrowed into lines. She kept touching the beads at her throat, and whenever her nephew spoke to her she snapped at him, until the younger man hung back, not making eye contact with any of them. Not for the first time Frith wondered whether or not hiring them had, in fact, been Tamlyn’s idea.
    ‘We have given you all the tactical information we have on the Narhl,’ she said, when they were loaded up and ready to go. They stood on one of the winding paths that led up out of Skaldshollow; they would follow it out of mountain and into Narhl territory. ‘You must remember that they are savages, and that they care more for the dead stone of the mountain than they do about human life.’
    Sebastian, adjusting the way his broadsword hung over his back, frowned at this. ‘We shall see.’
    It was a five-day journey to the outskirts of the Frozen Steps, across cold, inhospitable hills and around winding paths that, half the time, Frith couldn’t see until they were right on top of them. Wydrin’s werken came along after them. Frith had protested at