by Ben Galley
Warbringer’s big fingers grazed Mithrid’s palm, still dusty from digging in the shale. She took the knife, examined it for a moment, and promptly hurled it into the fog. Mithrid was horrified to think how far it must have flown. She started after it, but the minotaur seized her wrist to the point of pain.
‘Leave it, pink-flesh. It is gift from a god you want no gift from.’
The words sounded ominous. ‘What does that mean?’ asked Mithrid, cautious.
‘Do not accept it. Leave it behind. It has power to it. An evil I can feel.’
Mithrid wanted to scoff. She had felt nothing in the knife, but her memories told her to mind the sensations of magick. Even those that were imperceptible to her. She bit her tongue once more.
‘I would not tell Farden,’ advised Aspala. ‘At least not yet. That mage has too much on his mind at the moment.’
Mithrid nodded, letting her head rest on her arms as she scanned the mountainside. The rock was losing heat, but Warbringer had decided the snake was ready. Mithrid shook her head when it was offered, and listened to the crunch of tough skin and bones around her while she pondered what a god would want with her.
With a stumble, Durnus accidentally drove a fang into his lip and cursed. He tasted his own blood, and with a wince he opened up a dozen others across his mouth and face. Only twice in his millennia-long life had he felt such weakness and pain. Every bone felt bruised. Every muscle stabbed with needles. Every step across the tilted landscape a wobbling, uneasy placing of the foot.
‘I can hear you coming, old man.’
Durnus struggled to make the mage out. There was a certain presence along the slope, a line of shadow that he headed towards.
‘How the tables have turned. It is I sneaking up on you for a change.’
Farden didn’t reply. Durnus saw the shadow hunch.
The mage was perched on a chunk of rock that had a hollow rift cut down its length. Even in the gloom and mist, the innards of the rock glistened with the prickly clusters of purple gems. Amethyst, if Durnus identified correctly.
‘I am not angry with you,’ Farden said, beating him to speaking. ‘I am shocked. Disappointed at the risk you’ve taken.’
‘Do not pull that trick with me, mage. That guilt is how I kept you in line for decades.’ Durnus collapsed against the rock and dragged himself to where Farden sat. ‘I hear you gave me blood.’
‘I did. Wondering whether I should regret that now.’
‘Hmm.’ Durnus kept a distance from the mage. ‘It has barely scratched the surface of healing me. Roused me and nothing but. Something is amiss.’
‘Do we need to find you some unwitting shepherd or prisoner to feed on?’
A wash of concern ran through Durnus’ innards. He was reminded of the prisoner within the Frostsoar, and the soul he had accidentally dragged out of her. More so, the energy that it had fed him, whether he wanted it or not. Like his death magick, it had called to him ever since, begging to be explored like an unread tome. And it had called with a daemon’s voice. The half of his ancestry he had thought buried in the vampyre’s curse.
‘That may help,’ Durnus confessed. ‘But what of your armour? And do not think I have not noticed the absence of your magick. What has happened?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps Mithrid’s magick.’ Farden glared at him.
‘But without the magick in your armour, you’ll—’
‘Begin to age? Die? I know that all too well. It’s already started. But I told you: not now, Durnus. I can’t cope with any more than being here and your damn spear. Your betrayal.’
‘Is that what you think of me?’
It took the mage far too long to answer. ‘No.’
‘I did this to help us. Especially after Loki played his hand atop the Frostsoar.’
‘That’s what he wants you to think. You didn’t ever spend time with him. That god is not the god of the first light and the morning star, as the other gods say. He is the god of trickery and lies. Everything he does is for himself.’ Farden sighed. ‘Are you not worried why Loki wants us apart from Elessi and the others? Or what he and Malvus will do with them while we’re stuck here?’
‘Do you doubt yourself, Farden? You speak as if Loki has already beaten you,’ Durnus implored. ‘Skertrict—Loki—was obsessed with the spear. He hounded me constantly, which might suggest he cannot reach it himself, or he would have done so already. He needs us to find it. And let us say we do? Is it not better to have the spear in our possession than Loki’s? Surely we could secure such a weapon—’
‘If it exists, which makes this all conjecture.’
‘Yes, if it exists, Farden,’ Durnus snapped. He knew how to fight the mage’s obstinance. ‘Consider how long would it take to travel back to Emaneska with or without Fleetstar. We are closer to the spear.’
‘How do you know?’
Durnus pointed into the mist, already confused as to where he had come from. ‘As I told you in the Frostsoar, the elvish tome suggests to us that the Spear of Gunnir was never hidden in Emaneska but far to the east. That is why I planned to start at the Hammer Hills, where the map begins.’
‘There is an actual map to the spear? You never mentioned that.’
‘Well, not so much a map as a set of instructions.’
‘Instructions?’
‘Well, riddles.’
‘Oh, good. Riddles.’
‘A riddle. Only one, to be precise.’
Farden fixed him with pleading eyes. ‘Can you promise me you aren’t wrong?’
Durnus thought about it, second-guessing every moment of Skertrict in his presence, every word the god-imposter had uttered. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I cannot. But as I have already said, the god wants this spear. If we can turn it against him…’
‘Enough,’ Farden said. ‘I am no king here. I will bow to my council. Even if that is a minotaur, two people I’ve only known for months, and you.’
Durnus was pleasantly – if not bewilderingly – surprised. ‘Really?’
‘It’s not just me that’s stranded here.’
Durnus was caught staring. Farden looked offended.
‘What? I’m old and wise enough to understand this isn’t just my decision.’
‘Then you’ve never been more kingly, Farden, old friend.’
‘You misunderstand. When I make decisions people seem to die. Krauslung, decades ago. Kserak. Now Scalussen. You were right, Durnus. I chose the siege.’
‘And from what we know, you also not only defeated Malvus but saved half of Scalussen.’
Farden didn’t answer. They sat in silence. Durnus shivered beneath his blanket. He tensed his weary muscles for warmth, only to find pain shoot across his body.
‘Modren sacrificed himself to save the others. He made his decision. His death was not your fault, Farden. We all chose war. We chose to make a stand. Perhaps it was not the wrong decision, but it simply did not work as expected because of Loki’s interference.’
It was hard to see beneath the tendrils of his dark hair, but Durnus saw the moisture that brimmed upon Farden’s eyes.
‘Both that god and Gremorin owe me a death.’ Farden seemed to catch himself, stiffening suddenly and knuckling his eyes. ‘And as for you, Durnus, you still have a lot to make up for.’
Without another word, the mage got up and tramped back into the mist. Durnus did his best to follow him at his own speed, but the mage was too fast. The vampyre seethed at the ache in his bones. He felt as frail as dry parchment and just as thin. Hollow. The copper residue of blood lingered in his throat, but it did not stir his hunger.
By the time Durnus returned to their makeshift camp, Farden was already standing over the rock, with the others in concert spread around him. Fleetstar had rejoined them. Barely. She sat upon the edge of the rough camp, barely visible and somewhat terrifying to the uninitiated.
‘I’m not going to order anyone to do anything or go anywhere. You may decide for yourselves,’ Farden announced. �
�Durnus believes in this fabled spear. Apparently, so does Loki, and it appears we may be closer to it than Emaneska. If Durnus is right, this is a powerful weapon, and possibly why that blasted god wants us to find it. If we could keep it from Loki: a god who can change shape and flit where he pleases, we could destroy him. If this sounds to you like madness, as it does to me, then we will return to Emaneska, either by foot or by dragon, depending on what Fleetstar decides.’
The dragon rumbled, eyes closed as if bored.
‘Those are your options. Back to the mess I made of Emaneska and our friends, who may be in need of our help. Or deeper east, into unknown and frankly bizarre territory, in search of a weapon that may or may not exist.’
Farden’s armour clanged as he let his hands fall by his sides. He leaned against the tall rock and angled his face to the breeze. Faint yellow sky, full of mountain dust, began to show through tears in the clouds.
Durnus spoke up, wincing at the creak in his voice. ‘I vote for the spear.’
‘Of course you do. Aspala?’
The woman’s golden eyes were fixed on the mage’s. ‘I came to Scalussen because I vowed to fight the Arka. That task is not yet done, and so I shall remain fighting beside its king until it is.’
That appeared to nettle Farden but he nodded all the same. ‘Warbringer?’
‘You and girl helped save last clan in Efjar. You gave us fine war. Fine deaths like you promised. Those of my clan who not reach Bright Fields now safe on your ships. Clan survive your fire. Now, when Warbringer return, we take back Efjar.’
‘So that’s a vote for Emaneska.’
‘No,’ replied the minotaur gruffly.
Farden scratched his head. ‘What?’
‘Not finished. I trust my bloodmongers and silver-hair general to keep clan safe until their Warbringer return. But I owe vampyre life debt for saving skin. If enemies still exist, like this pink-flesh god, then I follow Durnus to god’s death. Or vampyre’s. Whichever first.’ She shrugged her great shoulders. ‘Spear sound like fine weapon. Fine fight. So speaks the Broken Promise, Katiheridrade.’
‘Two for the spear, then.’
‘Mithrid?’
She held a piece of brown shale in her fingers and picked the flakes from its edges. ‘I’ve been torn over this question. I worry for Hereni and Bull and the others. The strange lands out there worry me, I’ll admit. Being lost does not sit well with me. But Malvus isn’t dead yet, like I said before. That’s what I promised myself and my father, and that’s the simple fact of the matter,’ she growled. ‘I don’t know about Loki’s hand in all of this, but I vote we search for the spear. Especially if it gives us the chance to kill whatever we need to.’
Durnus clenched his teeth. He remembered his first meeting with the girl, the day she had passed out in the testing lines. She had been lost before Modren found her, and she had stayed lost for many weeks before she had found her place in the world. That place had just so happened to be one of war and death, and it had changed her deeply. He now looked upon a different girl – a woman – one defined by vengeful purpose. Brazenly confident, yet blinkered, he feared. Blinkered by the fact she knew she was a weapon. And all weapons have a purpose until there is no more blood to spill. It reminded him too much of a certain young mage he had first met long ago; the mage nodding slowly beside him. Durnus had yet to decide whether that was a good thing.
‘Three for the spear,’ Farden said quietly. ‘Fleetstar, you want a say in this?’
The dragon bowed her head. With the clearing cloud, they could see the edges of her wings, held high and proud as if she rode air currents. ‘You are all fools if you think I can – or will – carry you back to Emaneska. We go forwards, not backwards.’
The reply was brief, abrasive as usual, and yet decidedly in favour against Farden. The Mad Dragon had spoken.
Though the mathematics were simple, the mage took his time in deciding. ‘So it shall be. It is decided. We go for the spear. Not Emaneska.’
Mithrid’s shoulders sagged. ‘Feels good to have purpose at last.’
Farden grumbled something that didn’t sound remotely agreeable. ‘Where to then, Durnus? Where does this strange map of yours say the Spear of Gunnir is?’
‘There’s a map to the spear?’ Mithrid asked.
‘Not a map,’ Durnus admitted. ‘A riddle. A poem, if you will, but it is the key to uncovering the spear.’
With Aspala’s help, Durnus slid down the rock next to his satchel, and dug out the Grimsayer to reach other tomes. The vampyre swore he heard a mutter from the book as he thumped it unceremoniously on the slope.
With shaking, weak hands, he dug out the other volumes he had saved from his library. First came a book covered in bands of copper and leather.
Farden was abruptly at his side. ‘You have the inkweld, too?’
‘I do.’
Farden opened it feverishly, showing off green pages. ‘Give me ink,’ he demanded.
‘I have none.’
The mage stared at the empty pages. Nothing broke their virgin paper. Inkwelds only worked if both twin books were open at the same moment. Timing was of high importance. Farden snarled, performing an angry circuit of the rock before making peace with another disappointment. He brooded over tightly crossed arms. The vampyre felt completely to blame.
‘More magicking?’ Warbringer asked, snout creased in a grimace.
Mithrid and Aspala looked remarkably more curious than the minotaur’s judgemental expression.
Durnus explained. ‘It is a way to speak to Elessi and the armada, and your clan, Warbringer. Each book is part of a pair. A twin. This book should still have its sibling aboard the Winter’s Revenge or Autumn’s Vanguard.’
‘The riddle, Durnus.’
Durnus produced the elvish tome, a purple, moth-eaten block of ancient pages. Suspicious eyes graced it as he laid it on the shale. The elvish runes within swam before his tired eyes, but with much blinking and the help of his scarred fingertips, he traced page after page until he tracked down the words.
‘This book was written almost two thousand years ago, at the dawn of the Scattered Kingdoms: the darkened ages before our civilisations emerged, when the stars were new and Emaneska still reeled from the last war between gods, dark elves, and daemons. The book’s language is old, a strange dialect of elvish runes written not by elves, but by servants of the Allfather. Cultists, you might say. It is largely a chronicle of the times, but there is one story hidden within that says the cult was entrusted with hiding a powerful weapon from the greed of flourishing humanity.’ Durnus showed off the rough sketch of the spear in the book. ‘They call it the Teh’Mani Spear, which translates to Skyrender, or God-Corpser, or just Gunnir, depending on the translation. The cultists went to every length to smother every trace of its existence. All the cult left behind was this tome, which holds – hidden amongst histories of the elves, and the clan of Ivald – one clue of its final location: several short lines of a riddle signed simply, “Doom”.’
‘Then out with it,’ said Farden.
‘Three tasks every god and mortal fears to face await. Three duties yet fulfilled of blood, breath, mind, and soul. Three cursed keys to three doors to be left locked evermore. If that be your fate, your errand, the first task lies in Eaglehold’s roots before the serpent’s shimmer, by Gunnir’s last blood. Hear the last breath of retribution’s lesson. Follow its call to your screaming end.’
The silence was palpable.
‘That’s it?’ Fleetstar snorted. Her scales flushed a sandy red in an echo of the emerging sky. Durnus wished he could fade into the rock at his back as easily as the dragon.
‘Gunnir is the spear. And the spear’s last blood suggests Sigrimur. It is the only part of the riddle I understand so far,’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘Sigrimur was a figure of the early world,’ he explained. ‘I have found conflicting stories of him in my research. Most paint him as a chosen hero of the gods, a prec
ursor to the Knights of the Nine. Others, a murderer. When the gods sacrificed themselves to drag the daemons into the sky, they chose a noble-hearted mortal to protect humanity in the dark years before the Scattered Kingdoms. Sigrimur was that hero. He was gifted the Spear of Gunnir by the Allfather, who had claimed it from the clan of Ivald in the last and final war of gods and daemons. There are many tales of Sigrimur’s deeds hunting down creatures and elves that escaped the gods’ justice. According to the eastern eddas, however, Sigrimur fell to his own pride and betrayed the Allfather, who then killed him with Gunnir. It was lost from the world shortly after, hidden by the cultists at the behest of their god. If Sigrimur was the spear’s last blood, we might need to find where he died.’ Durnus poked at his map of the east. ‘Eaglehold is not mentioned here, but the Sunder Road leads on further east to a land called Golikar. We should head in that direction.’
‘Three tasks, three keys, three doors,’ Farden muttered. ‘Seems straightforward to me. We just find somewhere called Eaglehold, a shiny serpent, and some dead fuck named Sigrimur.’ Seizing the inkweld from the earth, he began to climb at a parallel angle to the summit. Shale tumbled from around his boots.
‘Now?’ Mithrid shouted. ‘Shouldn’t we rest?’
‘Mithrid’s correct, Farden.’
‘No, she’s not, Durnus,’ Farden called over his shoulder. ‘You rest if you wish. But the cloud’s wasting and we’ll soon be exposed. We can get off this mountain by sundown. Find the Sunder Road and follow it east before trouble catches up with us.’
‘It’s highly irritating when he has a point,’ said Mithrid, dragging herself to her feet.
Even with Aspala carrying his satchel, Durnus was soon reduced to a shuffling heap. He found the rough paws of the minotaur under his ribs. He tried to push her away.
‘Madam! I do not need you—’
‘Grey-skin need to stop whining. Five days I already carry you. One more not matter.’
‘Hmph.’ His complaints trampled beneath her hooves, Durnus found himself carried to the ridge of the mountain in the most dignified of manners: as limp as a sack of flour under Warbringer’s uniquely pungent armpit. And yet, even that exhausted him. He felt like a shadow before the rise of dawn, soon to be burned away.
