The captain’s voice was little more than a harsh whisper. He’d lost an arm and almost his life when a sleuth of Adlin—who were eight-foot-tall hairy humanoid creatures with razor-sharp teeth and claws to match—had attacked the train he and six other Nightwatch officers were escorting to Winterborne from the Eastridge outpost. He now had a mechanical arm, but neither the surgeons nor the healers who’d saved his life had been able to do much for the vocal chords that had all but been destroyed when his throat had been ripped open. How any of them had survived let alone made it back to Winterborne was already the stuff of legends.
“Could it be an Adlin beacon?” They were certainly capable of rudimentary assault weapons and, in the last few months, we’d seen some evidence they were using glimmer stones—a black rock that drew in light and shone like a star at night—as a basic signaling device.
“None of the beacons we’ve found to date have had the capacity to be seen from such a distance,” the captain replied. “Whatever it is, I doubt it’s Adlin.”
“Well, there’s definitely something out there, Cap, whether it’s Adlin or not,” I said as the light flashed again. “It’s too regular to be a random.”
“Anyone else spotting it?” he asked.
Affirmatives ran down the line. There were ten watchtowers in all—eight along the curtain wall’s curvaceous length and an additional two guarding the front of the gatehouse. All of them were occupied by Nightwatch officers who were as close to full Sifft as anyone got these days.
Not that any of us really knew our true heritage. All who were declared unlit were taken away within hours of being born. We were told nothing of our lineage, and given no idea whether we were commonly born or from one of the witch houses. Our birth month always became our surname, but our first names were selected by whoever accepted us into government care. As names went, Neve March wasn’t bad; some of my fellow Nightwatch officers had not been so lucky. Poor April had certainly been the butt of many a good-natured joke, not only because April was also his birth month, but because it was a name more suited to a female.
“There’s nothing reading on the radar,” someone else said. It was obviously one of the newer recruits, because I didn’t recognize the voice.
The captain grunted. “Neve, looks like this is your baby. Requisition a scooter and go check it out.”
I groaned. “Come on, Cap, I clock off in twenty minutes.”
“You know the drill,” he growled back. “You spot it, you deal with it.”
“Can I least have some support?”
“No. The Adlin haven’t been active in Tenterra for over a month, so there shouldn’t be a problem.” He hesitated. “I’ll approve use of a rifle, however. Report to armory three.”
Relief stirred. The blaster strapped to my right leg might be capable of bringing down the average person, but the Adlin were as far from average as you could get. But access to more powerful weapons had been restricted of late, and generally reserved for escort details rather than mere scouting missions. According to rumors, metal supply from the smiths of Salysis had been severely curtailed thanks to a recent collapse in one of their major mines. “Appreciate it, Cap.”
He grunted again. “I’ll send Lort over to finish your shift. Get your ass into gear.”
“On my way.”
“Keep vigilant out there, Neve,” Ava said. “Don’t get dead.”
“I suspect dead is not a look that would suit me.”
“I suspect you could be right.”
Grinning, I pulled off my right glove and pressed my hand against the reader. Once my fingertips were scanned, the light above the blast door flicked from red to green and the door slid open. I grabbed my helmet then clattered down the metal stairs, my footsteps echoing forlornly across the night. Some of the guards hated the solitude that came with being one of the Nightwatch, but I loved it—especially after twenty-eight years of being forced to share space in every other aspect of my life. There was no such thing as privacy for the unlit—not since half the city had fallen into the sea, anyway. Space was at such a premium here in what was known as the outer bailey—although Winterborne itself was a major city rather than any sort of castle—that there were now six of us sharing one tiny bunkhouse room and a bathroom. The only reason no one had come to blows was thanks to the fact Ava not only looked like a goddess, she had the persuasion powers of one, too.
Armory three was situated midway between my tower and the secondary wall, and was tucked underneath a huge claw of black rock that protected it from any possibility of attack from the sea. Jon May, the grizzled veteran who’d been in charge of this armory for as long as I could remember, pushed up from his seat and hobbled over to the scanner as I approached.
“Everett told me you were coming,” he said. “I’m to supply you with a nitrate rifle and a couple of gut busters.”
A gut buster was the nickname for a very serious handgun that fired multiple metal pellets in one round, and could literally tear anyone or anything other than an Adlin warrior apart. Which was where the rifle came in—silver nitrate bullets were basically the only things capable of stopping them in their tracks. And if the captain had ordered me supplied with both, then he obviously hadn’t been entirely honest about the lack of recent attacks.
“Here’s hoping I don’t actually need any of them.”
Jon’s smile flashed, revealing stained teeth. “Amen to that, sister.”
I followed him into the armory’s shadowed confines. While most of the larger weapons such as the canons were stored deep underground, and were accessible only by special lifts that hoisted them into position whenever needed, there were three other armories like this strategically placed around the Lower Reaches, and four more behind the secondary wall—a wall that still bore the wounds of a war long gone.
This armory was the only one left that predated that war, however, and it was something of a museum when it came to weaponry. There were even swords hanging in the deeper recesses, though why anyone would resort to such a weapon in the face a foe like the Adlin or the Irkallan, I had no idea. Our ancestors were either a whole lot braver than we were, or decidedly more foolish.
An odd glimmer caught my attention and, as Jon stopped in front of the locker holding the nitrate rifles, I walked across to investigate.
The glimmer was coming from a knife—one that had an intricately carved handle and a short but decidedly dangerous-looking blue-white glass blade. It looked ceremonial but the dark flecks along its edge suggested use.
“Jon, where did this blade come from?”
He glanced over his shoulder and grunted. “Don’t know, love, but it’s been here longer than I have.”
“Any problem with me picking it up?”
“None at all.” He pulled free a rifle, then unlocked the next unit and gathered ammunition.
I plucked the knife from its bed of dust. It felt light and well-balanced in my hand—a knife designed for throwing as much as close-quarter combat.
“Why would anyone use glass for a knife blade?” I carefully ran a finger down its edge, and it sliced through the top layer of my glove easily. Still razor-sharp, even after decades of disuse.
“It’s some form of specially hardened glass,” he replied. “I’ve got a couple of swords in the back made of the same stuff. Tougher than steel, they are, and all but indestructible. Legend has it that they’re called ghost blades, and were forged in the blood of the Irkallan.”
“Huh.” I shifted the blade from my right hand to my left and slashed it back and forth. It felt oddly right, almost as if it had been designed specifically for someone my size. “If the material is so damn good, how come we’re not using it today?”
He shrugged. “Lost the method of creating it, most likely.”
I glanced at the shelf again and spotted a leather strap sitting at the very back. I rose on tiptoes and grabbed it. It turned out to be a knife sheath made from an unusual lavender-gray leather and, like the knife itself, was intricately carved, the swirling patterns almost resembling drakkon scales. Weirdly, despite the fact it must have been in this room for as long as the blade, the leather was still soft, still supple.
“What are the chances of me requisitioning it?” I slipped the knife into its sheath then strapped it to my left leg. I couldn’t even feel its weight.