Free Talus and the Frozen King by Graham Edwards

door. The stone was comfortably cool. This was one of the cairn's silent spots, and Bran felt curiously at peace. He bent his fingers round the edge of the stone and set his weight against it. Just as he was about to push it aside, he spotted something sticking out from beneath it.
    The object was difficult to make out in the darkness. He thought it might be a bird's quill - or was he was still thinking about the feathers from Talus's story? There was only one way to find out. Bran heaved at the little door. It slid aside with surprising ease. As it moved, he closed his eyes, not wishing to see what lay beyond.
    Blind, he reached down and fumbled on the floor. At first he felt nothing. Then his fingers stumbled over the object he'd seen. It was hard and spindly. He picked it up and stuffed it into the pouch he carried at his waist. Then he slid the door shut.
    Only then did he open his eyes.
    He stared at the little door, glad it was sealed again. What might he have seen had he looked? Spirit eyes staring back at him, the eyes of someone dead?
    Keyli's eyes?
    Part of him believed there was nothing there, that the door was just a simple dam holding back the natural earth beyond.
    Part of him believed he'd narrowly avoided catching a glimpse of the afterdream.
    He choked back a sob. He'd already revisited the past once this night. He had no intention of doing so again. He'd come here for a single ordinary reason: to find whatever it was Talus had sent him for. Now it was done. All that remained was for him to go back the bard, hand it over and say his goodbyes.
    Lightning shattered the darkness beyond the entrance to the cairn, turning the night-dark doorway briefly into a stuttering, snow-veiled square. Bran held up what he'd found. Blue flashes chased across the thing's contours, describing its shape in exquisite detail.
    It was a bonespike, but one much longer and thicker than the bonespike Fethan carried round his neck. Its smooth sides were blackened with a sticky substance. Bran was certain it was blood.
    He was holding the murder weapon.
    Bran made for the exit. On the way he brushed against the corpse of the frozen king. Fresh thunder crashed outside. He bit his lip to stifle a scream. He covered the last few paces at a run.
    After the strange acoustics of the cairn, the sound outside was clean and somehow wholesome. Bran raised his face and drank it in. The thunder held itself in check, exposing the roar of the ocean. The storm had whipped it to a frenzy. He wanted to be off this cursed island right now.
    He'd find shelter on the mainland. A cave perhaps, or the hollow trunk of a fallen tree.
    A new sound came to him, riding over the smash of wave on rock: human cries, and the sound of splintering wood.
    In front of Bran was a narrow, winding path leading away from the cairn—away from the village altogether in fact. He guessed it led to the island's western beach.
    The cries came again.
    Stuffing the bonespike that had killed Hashath into his pouch, Bran started running along the path.

CHAPTER NINE
    The path led Bran up a steep slope through a twisting slalom of icy rocks. The wind whipped fresh snow against his face. The cold bit his ears, the tip of his nose.
    Men he couldn't see shouted for help.
    The slope reached its peak and started to descend. The change was so abrupt that Bran's feet shot from under him. Just for a moment, he felt as if he was flying. Then he was down again and sliding on his backside over slick ice, finally landing on a beach of pebbles that clattered together like thousands of tiny bones. The wind continued to hammer him, its monumental roar competing with the crash of the waves on the shore.
    An eerie orange light burned through the swirling snow, illuminating a sweeping curve of shingle studded with craggy boulders. Looming over the beach was a tremendous weather-torn cliff.
    The sun had set long ago. Where was the light coming from?
    The shouts were much louder now. Bran picked himself