Heavy Lies The Crown (The Scalussen Chronicles Book 2)

by Ben Galley

  It was with a quiet reverence that they slowly descended from the plateau. They followed the path through the forest of swords as one would move through a battlefield littered with dead. There remained a chill amongst the blades that kept the hairs on Mithrid’s arms at attention. It reminded her of the old burial mounds that lay north of Troughwake, where father told her ghosts would steal the souls of travellers and – conveniently – misbehaving cliff-brats. Barrows, he’d called them.

  She was disconcerted to find the feelings still raw, even after glimpsing him in the Grimsayer. Mithrid distracted herself, attempting to imagine the size of the beasts that once swung such weapons. If that was to be believed. The youth in her marvelled. The older and darker side she had found growing within her since Troughwake whispered doubt; told her it was an elaborate hoax by these sheep-folk. Or the Cathak.

  ‘Mithrid,’ Farden called to her. ‘You’re slacking.’

  She caught up, shins aching from the slopes behind them. ‘Aren’t you tired? You haven’t slept in days.’

  ‘Yes, but we are on a quest, are we not? Time is always wasting on a quest.’

  Mithrid looked around. She had the mage to herself. Aspala and Warbringer were chattering about old myths. Durnus trailed behind as per usual. She spoke honestly. ‘I know what you did back there, you know. On the ridge.’

  Farden regarded her with an impassive stare. His eyes had lost some of the green within them, looking greyer than usual. A fraction more salt to his black pepper hair, too. ‘And what is that?’

  ‘Letting the rest of us decide for you, instead of making the choice yourself. I didn’t peg you for that kind of coward. Is it so you can blame us if it all goes wrong again? Because I can tell you want the spear as much as we do.’

  The mage did not scoff. His expression barely changed at all. ‘Can you, indeed? Do you know me that well already? Maybe I just want Loki dead badly enough to believe in a fable.’

  Mithrid felt as though she did. ‘Though at first you were, now you’re not so hard to read. My father taught me all about how emotions rule a man. Whether with his words or his fists.’

  Farden worked his teeth across his dry lips. ‘You’re not the timid girl with all the questions any more, are you Mithrid?’

  ‘Helping you incinerate half a million people tends to change a person, I’ve been told.’ Mithrid admitted. ‘I only care about the next step. About making that sacrifice worth it. You can build your kingdom. I want Malvus. Who, by the way, you seem to have forgotten about. You’re too focused on Loki.’

  ‘Only because he has my Book, and that is a greater weapon than I, Durnus, or you. That’s why not even Malvus worries me as much as what Loki is planning. The spear, if it does exist, secures a victory we currently have no chance of. It’s a blind hope and a gamble, but we’ve faced odds like this before. Taken greater risks,’ Farden replied, his voice trailing off. He took a moment. ‘Do you regret it, then? Irminsul?’

  Regret was a strong word. It admitted fault. Mithrid stayed silent.

  ‘They chose their side,’ Farden said, as if reassuring her thoughts. His voice was low, tough as rock. ‘I only regret it didn’t take them all, as planned, and finally put an end to this.’

  Mithrid remembered the feverish power behind Littlest’s eyes.

  Farden must have noticed her frown. ‘And I regret dragging you into the war. I regret putting that weight on your young shoulders. You don’t deserve that. Nobody does.’

  ‘You didn’t,’ Mithrid sighed. ‘Malvus did. Father said the mantle of being an adult would rest on them one day.’ Mithrid held out a hand, letting power swirl in her palm. Farden looked upon it with something like jealousy.

  ‘All I want is that life back,’ she said. ‘I know now that’s impossible. It makes me angry to my core. So much I don’t know what to do with it. I find myself so furious, I am not nearly as horrified as I should be at what we did on the ice fields.’

  Farden nodded. ‘Now you know how I feel. At least you had a taste of normal. I’ve been fighting so long I’ve forgotten almost everything else. Though it’s all I’ve fought for, I wouldn’t know what to do with peace.’

  They walked in silence for a time, cutting a corner from the road to save time. The gold grass swayed about their legs, almost reaching their waist. The swords around them were diminishing in size and number. Several wide holes suggested a few of the ogin blades had been stolen. Mithrid’s eyes strayed to the knife at Farden’s side.

  ‘This Loki, then. There’s no way he could be tricking all of you? That he actually has good intentions. How sure are you that he is so evil?’

  Farden fixed her with a fierce stare and then spluttered with laughter. ‘I’d stake my life on it. If you knew him, you’d never even question it. He needs to die, both him and Malvus. You think I’ve forgotten about him, Mithrid? Malvus has done much worse to me for longer than you’ve been alive.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware it was a competition.’

  ‘Just in case you doubt my conviction.’

  Farden stumbled upon a hidden rock. He cursed beneath his breath.

  ‘You need rest. You don’t seem yourself,’ said Mithrid.

  Farden held out a hand. Not for rain: the clouds were not dark enough. Not for her hand or to steady himself, but presumably he tested his magick once more.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ he muttered.

  ‘Ever run out of magick before?’

  ‘Once, but that was because I’d spent years purging it from my body with the nevermar drug.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I blamed my magick for my problems. For everyone’s problems. I saw it as dangerous and wanted it dead. That wasn’t my fate, as it turned out. Yet now I feel like I’m reliving those old memories. That I’m to blame, once more, for all of this.’

  ‘You are,’ Mithrid said. She made to sure to smile when the mage’s head whipped around. ‘You saved Scalussen, don’t forget. You almost killed us and everyone we know and love in the process, of course, but you defeated Malvus’ hordes. As much as I can’t dwell on the lives we took in case it crushes me, you did what you set out to do.’

  ‘Wagon!’ Aspala called out.

  Between the hills, the forest of swords, and the thick grass, it was occasionally tricky to see who or what was walking along the Sunder Road. Sure enough, a wagon led by a fat beast had risen over the next hill.

  Given the Cathak morons, Mithrid’s first instinct was to hide behind a blade or flat in the grass, but the beast made no charge towards them. She could make out red cloth around its driver instead of yellow and blue. His cargo was a large mound covered in sacking.

  Farden took a stand at the side of the road in the shade of a sword. Warbringer found a rock to sit upon so as to appear less threatening. Durnus stayed on the road, hands clasped in his best impression of a diplomat.

  ‘You talk, Durnus. You know this land and that “doomriddle” best,’ Farden hissed.

  ‘Doomriddle.’ The vampyre tutted. ‘Leave this to me.’

  The wagon slowed once the travellers were spotted. The driver pushed his beast and the wheels of his wagon as far over the edge of the road as they could go. The beast was a mound of muscle covered in grey flesh. Its feet had the thickness and shape of tree trunks, and they thudded against the earth in ponderous rhythm. Blinkers covered its eyes. A leash ran from the giant horn in the middle of its wedge face to the driver.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir!’ Durnus called as the wagon and driver came close.

  The most remarkable feature of the rotund driver was his nose. Or lack thereof. It ended abruptly, as though it had been cut off in the past. That, and his bulbous eyes gave him a hoggish look. Mithrid could see there was a short bow of some kind sitting on his lap.

  ‘Don’t carry no silver nor gold on me,’ he called. ‘Just a farmer, I am. Beetroot and taters is all I got. You can check if you like, but if murder’s your game then you’ll have an arrow in your throat—’

  �
��There must be some misunderstanding. We are also travellers, not bandits or thieves.’

  ‘You look like ’em. Many are old soldiers like you. Got armour and blades like you. You from the south?’

  ‘West. Emaneska.’

  ‘You are far from your borders,’ stated the farmer.

  ‘And looking to be further still. Perhaps you can help us. We’re trying to find a place called Eaglehold.’

  ‘Eagle—’ The gleam that took over his eyes was terribly hidden. ‘Well, now. Eaglehold. That information must be worth something to you.’

  Farden spoke up. ‘Or worth something to you, friend.’ He patted his knife. ‘We’re not bandits, but we’re also not stupid.’

  The farmer huffed and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘That mountain’s Eaglehold. Got many names. Most call it the Rainmaker. But there are a few who know it as Eaglehold still. Old name.’

  ‘And where would you find the mountain’s roots?’

  ‘Its roots?’ The farmer clicked his tongue, moving his beast and wagon on. ‘I… Hmm. That’d be Dathazh most likely. Somewhere in its old town. Never heard it called that before, though. Farewell, strangers.’

  ‘And you,’ Durnus called after him.

  ‘Dathazh,’ Farden repeated, giving the vampyre a chance to dig out his map. ‘That Lilerosk runt mentioned the same place. So did the innkeeper.’

  ‘The Sunder Road leads right to it. According to the map, Dathazh lies on the border of Golikar and a city labelled Venis, or Vensk. We seem to be going the right way.’

  Aspala nodded. ‘He also mentioned a tourney of some kind.’

  Mithrid was already walking, trudging up the hill and earning shooting pains up her legs for her troubles.

  At the hill’s modest summit, the settlement she’d seen before was now in plain view. It had the shape of no building she had seen before, and was every colour beneath the sun. But by the look of the wagons and beasts going to and fro, it was a place to find more answers. Perhaps rest and hot food, at very least.

  Durnus appeared silently at her side.

  ‘What is that place?’ she asked.

  ‘No idea,’ he answered, and turned to yell hoarsely to the mage. ‘Farden. We should rest.’

  ‘We keep going.’

  ‘You’ll walk yourself into the ground, Farden.’

  Farden did not listen. Instead, he kept walking down the road.

  As always, Warbringer had some of her wisdom to dispense. ‘Mage is trying to prove something to somebody. Men like that don’t live long as they should.’

  A signpost spoke its name before any voice did.

  The Spoke.

  The closer they drew to it, the more popular and bizarre the structure seemed. There was no architectural plan behind any of it. If Mithrid had to guess, she would have wagered ten different houses had been thrown together, crushed into one, then dragged out into different shapes.

  What was most disturbing was how top-heavy the building was. Its base was a sprawl of tents and awnings that spread into the grassland. A thin neck of wooden foundation preceded the rest of the building: bulbous and tangled like swollen shoulders. Half-built towers leaned against one another. Doors opened into nonexistent balconies, with only half of them nailed shut. Steam and smoke came from some central core of the building, and with it, the smells of roast meats and the grain smell of something fermenting. One section thumped along to music just like any fine tavern, while another rang with screams and cries. Mostly ecstatic, though, with the occasional snap of a whip and a yelp of pain. Mithrid furrowed her brow. She was not exactly clueless as to what cathouses and brothels sold, but she was still confused.

  Farden and the others were equally bemused by the mess. The Spoke looked fit to tumble to the grasslands at any moment. Durnus even forbade the minotaur from leaning on any part of it.

  ‘Information only. We won’t be staying here long.’

  ‘We can spend some time on our backsides, Farden,’ Durnus chided him. ‘We need rest.’

  Farden looked at the rest of the group before he realised he was the one the vampyre was talking about.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, but as he turned, one of his legs weakened. He tottered before steadying himself. He muttered darkly. ‘All right. We leave at sundown, no arguments.’

  He threw one last look at the skies as if he had spied a dragon, but the streaks of clouds were clear. Wherever Fleetstar was, she was not there.

  The Spoke was aptly named. The Sunder Road might have been the largest, but it was not the only path to meet at the Spoke. Roads running in all directions wandered from the grasslands to connect at this strange watering hole. Mithrid saw the Lilerosk sheep folk in abundance. While their flocks remained beyond the Spoke, the shepherds came to water, drink, and swap gossip with their kin. Their loud conversations were strangely heated. Talk of more sheep disappearing, or piles of burned bones, if Mithrid heard right.

  It seemed all manner of kinds converged at the Spoke. Even a herd of piebald cows like those of the Cathak. So diverse were its customers and residents that Aspala and Warbringer received half their usual measure of fearful glances. Mithrid also saw tall women in pastel cloaks. Their porcelain masks were featureless except for holes for their odd, purple eyes. Others walked about proudly shirtless, wearing nothing but tattoos and loincloths and leaning against more of the leathery, horned beasts. Mithrid heard their name above their ruckus. Coelos.

  Aspala was at her shoulder. ‘We have such beasts in Paraia. To the south of the Dune Sea. They are too revered to be hunted, as it should be. If they can be tamed, they make great steeds for warriors. Their hides are already armoured.’

  ‘Not to mention they come with that horn.’

  Aspala tutted, looking proud. ‘They are smaller in these lands. Not as large as Paraian coelos. Ours are not covered in shaggy hair, either,’ she said as she pointed to a woolly specimen that grazed further out in the fields. A man daubed in yellow clay lay upon its back, arms clasped behind his head as if fast asleep.

  Within the Spoke, the same level of tumult from outside reigned within, just concentrated between mismatched walls. Corridors changed shape every corner, from claustrophobically thin and triangular between two sloping bulkheads, to the next moment emerging into an inner courtyard with a huge willow tree bent over a pool of water and a sputtering fountain. The courtyard seemed to be one large open tavern. Tables filled the strange cavern. Windows were few amongst the press of jumbled buildings. Candles sitting atop thrones of old wax, dubiously adjacent fireplaces, and lanterns stuffed with glowing moths lit the space. Stewards weaved to and fro holding trays of ale and roast lamb racks.

  Instead of getting lost or trapped elsewhere in the Spoke, Farden claimed the nearest empty table, tucked away by a merchant asleep in his stall. The last arse had barely met the seat before a steward appeared. His hair and beard were so long both were tucked into his belt, and he was polite enough to keep his gaze from lingering on Warbringer too long.

  The man spoke so quickly it took Mithrid a moment to realise he was saying the same greeting in several different languages. At last, she heard Commontongue. His accent was incredibly thick but just coherent enough to understand.

  ‘No fighting, no gambling, no murderin’. The Spoke is a sanctuary on the Sunder Road. If you keep the rules, then we’re welcome to all and closed to none.’

  ‘The Spoke, you say?’ Durnus piped up, ever the curious one.

  The steward sighed with an emotion that might have once been pride. ‘That’s right. Four hundred years we’ve been here.’

  ‘Impressive. And wh—

  Farden cut Durnus off. ‘Do you have any armourers or swordsmiths in this maze?’

  ‘No, sire. Farriers and minor smiths only. Now, sires and madams, drinks or vittles or both?’

  Farden upended a burned coin-purse on the table. It was far from a spectacular fortune. Two gold coins rattled out. Farden slid one onto the steward’s tray. ‘Both, an
d plenty of it.’

  The man tested the coin by biting it. ‘This’ll get you room and board and stable, y’know.’

  ‘I’d rather it buy us some quiet and privacy.’

  The man grinned. ‘Right you are, sires and madams.’

  They were left to stare around the constant bustle and oddness of the crowds that surrounded them. No doubt they looked the strangest there, but it seemed far more acceptable in a place as strange as the Spoke. There was a bard in the corner who rivalled them. He was dressed head to toe in a costume of moons and suns, capering about between tables with a flute.

  ‘Durnus, the inkweld if you please,’ asked Farden.

  Aspala saw to that, having chosen herself as the book-carrier of this expedition. She thumped the inkweld on the table and slid it to the mage.

  ‘Worth trying,’ Durnus agreed. He signalled for the steward, who speedily attended them. ‘If you have ink and quill we would most appreciate it.’

  ‘Don’t have none of that here, sir. Might want to try Edna’s Glyphs, over there.’ He pointed past the pool to a woman hunched over a stall as vacant as her gaze.

  Mithrid snagged the other coin from the table. ‘On it.’

  Wandering a path that avoided every occupied table, Mithrid passed a bar packed with stewards pouring ales from spout after spout. Kitchen steam enveloped her before she stood at this Edna’s stall. She had scrolls for sale, along with old parchments on all manner of topics Mithrid couldn’t translate. Blank papers, too.

  ‘What is it, miss?’ she asked. She seemed a woman who had far too many wrinkles for the age of her voice.

  ‘I need a quill and ink, if you please.’

  Edna rolled her eyes as if serving a customer was some great inconvenience, yet rummaged behind her stall until she produced a battered quill and a half-empty pot of ink.