Heavy Lies The Crown (The Scalussen Chronicles Book 2)

by Ben Galley

  Only five buildings dared defy tradition. They reached above the slate rooftops at sharp angles. One was the elaborate fort that sat on the hill overlooking the river. The others looked to be temples to various gods. Golden symbols crested their spires, so thin that they couldn’t serve any purpose except reaching taller than their rivals. The closest looked to be the crescent symbol of the Dusk God.

  Farden imagined that some found it pleasing to the eye. The sort of mind that found happiness in order and perfect degrees. Farden found himself missing the tangle of Krauslung, where a city lived and breathed and grew like a great beast. The city weighed heavy on his mind. All he could think of was how Krauslung spoke the name of Forever King now. Cursed it, no doubt. Spat it out like poison.

  For all Dathazh’s jejune architecture, its citizens refused to remain as bland. Even before the square walls of Dathazh enveloped them, it was clear from the ruckus filling the evening air. The city roared with song and conversation. Great streamers of red and gold had been attached to the wall-spikes. They floated in the breezes above the heads of the crowds all vying to enter the city through a single diminutive gate. Which, of course, was no more than a block of square brick and sharpened stakes.

  The crowds were divided by the roads they came in on, but also by their attire and the flags they waved incessantly. Farden recognised only one crest, which looked similar to an old Skölgard Empire flag he had once seen. Wagons and litters and carriages squeezed between the two-legged travellers. Cows, coelos, more of the lizard creatures, and tall persnippen lowed and shrieked at each other. Songs came from some of the more gilded carriages; battle songs that made the onlookers on the walls cheer. Names Farden had never heard were yelled in adoration. Rich and poor folk bustled alongside knights and priests of religious orders. It all seemed too much for the city to cope with.

  And it was.

  An hour, it took Farden to realise that half the damn people in the crowd were not queuing, but instead setting up their own camps and impromptu fighting rings.

  ‘At last,’ the mage huffed when they reached the glowing mouth of Dathazh.

  Painted wood signs had been hung all around the gatehouse. Half of them were in Commontongue, and in yellow and red script they proclaimed the rules of Dathazh. For those in doubt, the guards checking each traveller spent every breath yelling the rules over and over.

  ‘Fighting is for the Scarlet Tourney only!’

  ‘Thieves will be skinned alive!’

  ‘No warring here! Peace reigns no matter who or what you are!

  ‘No tricksters or frauds! All traders must be licensed by the Vassallord!’

  ‘Absolutely no magick allowed in the city!’

  ‘No vandalism!’

  ‘Business and origin!

  The last shout was directed at Farden and the others, who were focused on their monotonous shuffle. A guard in leather armour made of overlapping square scales was staring at them over a scroll. So large was the scroll two other guards held it in the crook of their arms.

  ‘Er… Travellers from the Hammer Hills. We’ve come for the Tourney?’ Farden tried to keep the question from his voice.

  The guard looked Farden up and down, noting the armour and the two swords thrust through his belt. ‘Fighters, I take it? Where’s your retinue?’

  ‘No, we’re not fighting.’

  Even the two guards flanking him rolled their eyes. ‘Spectating, trading, gambling. Which is it?’

  Impatient shouts from back in the crowd heckled them. ‘Hurry up there! All the best whores will be gone by now!’

  ‘They went days ago, you idiot!’ cried another.

  Farden growled. ‘Spectating. Though we are looking for where Sig—’

  ‘Next!’ yelled the guard scribe. The other two guards pushed them onwards, much to Farden’s rankling.

  ‘In you go. Mind your rules and mind your coin.’

  ‘What little we have of it,’ Durnus muttered in the mage’s ear as they stepped into the city. A square of trampled dust lay before them. The crowds spread outwards in all directions, filtering into the parallel streets as if there was a rush to take in as much of Dathazh as possible. All manner of acrobats, jesters and jugglers cavorted across the square. Skinny men on stilts blew fire above the crowd. Figures in all manner of over-polished and absurdly impractical armour stood on boxes or makeshift daises. They waved their swords and posed in ridiculous shapes. One pretended to duel with a fellow in a poorly-made dragon costume. At their feet, their retinues brayed their praises in theatrical verse. Heralds read long lists of how many princes and princesses they had rescued, or warlords and beasts slain. The less talented bellowed out branch after branch of family tree.

  Aspala and Warbringer were busy looking around at the array of acrobats and jugglers. Warbringer had a strange smile on her face. No thanks to the glaring colours and roar of voices, but because in this mad circus, filled with every corner of a foreign world, she seemed to fit right in.

  Mithrid stood beside Farden. ‘Do we rest first or find this homage the tree-man spoke of?’

  ‘No rest. We keep moving.’

  Her sigh was audible.

  ‘Are you sure, Farden?’ Durnus asked.

  Farden looked around the group, noting all the baggy eyes and slumped shoulders. ‘We find this homage and Sigrimur. Then we can rest.’

  ‘He’ll push himself to collapsing at this rate.’ Mithrid’s whisper to Aspala wasn’t as lost in the noise as she thought. Farden shook his head as he looked for an avenue that made sense in this mad city. Mithrid was correct. Farden would push himself, if that was what it took. He had gone that far and further before. He would do it again.

  Even as that notion added some weight to his feet, Farden forced himself through a throng of bare-chested and over-perfumed people who led a cheering procession through the crowds. They had piles of leaf garlands in their hands, tied with red and yellow ribbons. One tried to put a garland over the mage’s head, but the speed with which Farden seized the man’s hand made him rethink his decision. He placed the same wreath over Durnus instead. The vampyre wore a tired and bemused smile.

  ‘It has been some time since I saw such joy without worry hiding behind it,’ Farden heard the vampyre say.

  ‘The last time I saw a place this festive it was Scalussen’s feast before Malvus arrived,’ Aspala hummed as if longing for that night again.

  ‘Dear friends! Strangers! Halt there if you would.’

  Farden turned, expecting a guard or some authority. Instead, it was a man in a hat so large and bulbous it made the rest of his body look like a silk thread hanging from an apple. The mage had to dodge to avoid being struck in the face by the fabric orb. He held it with both hands as he scurried to catch up with them.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked Farden.

  The ludicrous fellow laughed heartily. ‘A man of little time. I like it! I shall be swift. You are here for the Tourney, yes?’

  ‘Actually—’

  ‘I thought so! I know proud warriors when I see them. It is my business to see such things! You are aware that if you wish to join the Tourney at this late hour in the chancer’s slots, you need a patron, and I just so happen to be the finest around! How lucky you are to run into Antor!’ The man rapped his many silver and copper rings on the wolf of Farden’s breastplate. The mage glared.

  ‘Oof! Would not like to come across you in a dark alley, sir!’ Antor laughed again, utterly unaware how close he had come to losing his hand. ‘Tell me you have not agreed to fight for Fetharl or the other swines.’

  ‘No, I don’t know who that is—’

  ‘Wonderful! Wonderful indeed. I’ve seen far too many fighters sign with the wrong people. You’ve done well. Intelligent souls, I can tell. Now, time is wasting to enter your names. The chancer’s places are fading fast.’

  The man spoke in a way that made Farden feel at fault for not understanding a word he said.

  ‘And so, if you have the coin
, I can promise you a place in the Tourney.’ The man beamed a wide smile. Several of his teeth were painted green.

  Farden tried to move past but the man blocked him from escaping.

  ‘Look, Antor, was it?’ Farden asked.

  ‘Antor of Nyrdwell.’

  ‘Well, Antor, listen here. I’m not interested in fighting in the Tourney, so if you could let us pass, I would—’

  ‘Oh,’ Antor said, looking shocked at such a suggestion. ‘Not you, good sir. No, no. I am sure you can swing a sword with the best of them. No, no. I am more interested in you, madam.’ Antor’s gaze swivelled to Warbringer. ‘Does this man speak for you?’

  ‘I speak for myself,’ the minotaur growled in reply. She put a protective paw on Durnus’ shoulder, who almost crumbled under its weight. ‘But I am bound to this one.’

  ‘Good! Good! Let us discuss terms! How much coin do you have?’

  Farden looked around. He saw no guards looking their way, and a convenient corner free of stalls or people hanging around. While Antor was still babbling, he seized him by the throat and drove him backwards until the stone knocked the breath from him.

  ‘To touch one as me is death in Dathazh! Especially during Tourney week!’ the man garbled.

  ‘Me? See, I don’t care. I’m new to this city. The rules don’t apply to me. So you better tell me where the homage is before I snap your neck and leave you here in this gutter.’

  ‘The h—homage?’ The man looked confused, as if he had expected a demand for coin or some other favour. ‘It’s, er, in the first canals. At the statue of Sigrimur.’

  ‘There’s a statue?’

  ‘How foreign are you? Where else would the homage to Sigrimur happen?’

  Farden squeezed tighter, making Antor croak. A few of the other sponsors looked on. One crossed his arms and grinned at the display.

  ‘Farden.’ Durnus’ hand alighted on his arm. ‘Let him go. We are strangers here. Their rules are not ours.’

  The mage relented, leaving Antor to scuttle off nursing a sore throat and promising all kinds of harm and worry.

  ‘Another enemy made,’ said Mithrid. When Farden turned to glare at her, he was surprised to find her glaring right back. The girl was not joking.

  ‘What? I’m right, aren’t I?’ she continued. ‘You seem like you’re intent on making every enemy you can. We’ve got enough of those behind us. At very least, you’re making every step of this journey harder than it needs to be. You’re not the Forever King I know. Or is this the real Farden?’

  ‘Mithrid,’ Durnus hissed.

  ‘Am I not right?’

  ‘Let’s find this bloody statue,’ was all Farden said. Mithrid was right, but he refused to admit as much.

  Deeper into Dathazh, they wound. The streets grew only marginally quieter than the city square. Taverns and kitchens bled into the thoroughfares. Some of the taller towers hosted loud parties. Men with long, double-ended flutes played on balconies. Where different fighters of the Scarlet Tourney had set up camp around their chosen taverns, demonstrations of strength and skill drew crowds where men and women glittered in armour. It was a market for flesh. People had their faces painted in the colours of their chosen fighter. Hagglers sold their tokens by the dozen. Fighters posed to attract attention.

  Again and again, they were approached by patrons with glorious offers of a place in the Scarlet Tourney. And again and again, almost every one of them wanted a piece of Warbringer. One even offered a slot for Mithrid. Farden kept his hood low and his lips pursed, and blamed his scarred armour.

  Dathazh’s monotony held fast with every step. They did not meander through the streets, but followed a busy thoroughfare for a mile without taking a turn. The idea of a curve must have been more foreign than they were.

  Halfway through the city, the cobbles grew encrusted with clay mud. The faint smell of salt and dank filled their nostrils. Before long, river water began to swallow street after street. Cobbles fell away to form canals. Gutters turned into paved banks. Every street running north or south became a bridge. Wagons and carriages were replaced with tiny coracle boats and long barges that were curiously jointed in the middle so they could turn the sharp corners of rigid Dathazh without trouble. Lanterns and candles floated on lily pads that spun and scurried – or sometimes drowned – in the wakes of the boats. They turned the water to gold and lit the faces of the stark buildings that leaned slightly over the waterways.

  It reminded Farden of Tayn, a small town in Albion that no doubt still loathed the mage’s name. He had found that place and its canals somewhat peaceful. Simple, if anything. But Dathazh insisted on being its riotous self. Instead of wagons and stalls in the street, the fighters of the Tourney sailed back and forth on their painted barges. Pigeons feasting on the scraps of the giant festival weaved through the buildings in tight, blizzarding flocks that made everybody duck. There was nowhere for the eye or for the feet to rest.

  Aspala and Durnus were asking directions to the first canals and the homage. Most of the passersby they snagged were too drunk or unfamiliar with the Commontongue. From a vantage point at the peak of an arching bridge, it was Mithrid who saw the procession first. She nudged Farden and pointed.

  His tired eyes took a moment to see them through the torchlight. A line of what looked to be priests snaked through the crowd. Their faces and torsos were painted grey with dust and clay so as to look like people of stone. Their grey loincloths were the only clothes they wore. Few bothered them with jibes. Most of the members of the crowd reverently touched the priests as they passed, daubing their necks or wrists with paint.

  Farden worked his way through the crowds to meet the priests on their way through the crowd. The painted individuals had built up a small following.

  ‘Is this the homage?’ Durnus called from behind.

  ‘You are correct, stranger,’ said a chap with sun-kissed, scarred cheeks. He was clad head to knee in a shirt of chainmail. ‘Though many have forgotten, it is good luck to pay respects to the ancient hero Sigrimur the night before the Tourney. Do you fight?’

  ‘No,’ Farden replied.

  ‘I meant her.’ Of course, he pointed to Warbringer. ‘You, beast of the Burnt South.’

  ‘No, I do not fight.’ Warbringer flared her wide nostrils as she shook her head. The rings in her broad snout jangled. ‘And I am of Efjar.’

  ‘I have not heard of such a place, but I have seen your kind south and west. Beyond your lands, Paraian,’ He said this to Aspala. Her broken horns had already started to grow. Her hood did little to hide their sharp stumps.

  The minotaur shook her head. ‘Not true.’

  ‘Then tell me how one skewered me,’ the man patted his side. ‘And left me for dead.’

  ‘See? Man lies,’ Warbringer said before flashing her sharp teeth. ‘True minotaur would have eaten you.’

  ‘Then I am glad you do not fight in the Tourney! You may cheer for me instead.’ Abruptly distracted, he pointed ahead. ‘Behold, strangers of Efjar. The first canals and Sigrimur’s Rest. Farewell and good luck,’ he bade them, quickening his step to see Sigrimur sooner.

  Even in his exhausted state, Farden could have cheered. Lo and behold, Dathazh broke form at last.

  Ahead of them, the fort rose up out of the city and loomed over the river. Here, in the oldest canals, the buildings looked older, stretched taller. The purple sky was a jigsaw piece between their square-cut roofs. Not a star could be seen. And here, as if the architects experienced a moment of madness, lay a small, round clearing.

  The buildings crowded around and leaned in like a blank-faced council. Wooden walkways ringed the circle, threaded with strings of mushrooms that shone with a soft rosy light. Sandstone pillars rose up around them like a temple, yet bore the marks of initials and graffiti. Water filled the centre of the clearing, shallow across a moss-covered floor of stone. Lanterns in iron cages sat in a concentric ring before the statue of Sigrimur.

  Farden wasn’t sure what h
e had been expecting, but perhaps something… taller. The sculptors hadn’t made the so-called hero as large as Warbringer, but he would have made Eyrum or Bull stand on tiptoes. It was a modest statue compared to his supposed legacy.

  They had carved him from silver granite, and he was unbelievably lifelike even for the artisans and sculptors of old. Where armour didn’t cover Sigrimur, his muscles bulged. He wore no sword. He did not stand proudly or heroically, but humbly, almost in what looked like the moment of his death. His knees were half bent, One hand clenched and defiant by his side, the other clasped to his chest as if wounded.

  Most notable, however, was the complete absence of Sigrimur’s head. Maybe that was why he wasn’t as tall as Farden expected. A stone stump of a neck was all that was left. If Farden’s tired eyes could be trusted, it hadn’t even been cleaved cleanly.

  ‘Durnus?’ Farden said. ‘He is missing his head.’

  The vampyre flapped his mouth. ‘I guess that steward was not joking when he said the prize of this Scarlet Tourney was the head of Sigrimur.’

  Questions burning, Farden and the others moved closer. The dust-daubed priests had gathered on the opposite side of the circle. They sang slow and softly in a language Farden didn’t recognise. Looking around, it was a far cry from the rest of the city. It seemed this world had taken Sigrimur’s head and forgotten the rest of him.

  A few groups of people stood about in quiet prayer or conversation. Some lit candles or tossed coins into the shallow water to make ripples in the red glow. It was almost peaceful. Farden found himself leaning against the wooden railings and staring at the hero. For a moment, he forgot the others, forgot why they had even come there. He wondered if there would be a statue of him like this one day: forgotten, alone, frozen in a moment of a final failure.