Heavy Lies The Crown (The Scalussen Chronicles Book 2)

by Ben Galley

  Farden instinctively flung out his hand, aiming to drive a spell right through the pack. Nothing but pain lanced up his hand. A mere spark popped between finger and thumb. No magick came. Only the bandits, shuffling at him.

  ‘Fuck it!’ Farden yelled at the tremor of nerves that ran through him. He seized the hand of the first man to strike and twisted it so viciously the attacker somersaulted onto his back. Mud spewed. A swift kick to his jaw stopped his wriggling. Farden swept his club from his limp grasp as the next man came at him: sailing through the air in a mad attack. Farden blocked his strike with a loud crack and simultaneously plunged the knife deep into the man’s neck before his feet had touched the ground. The mage drove him to the floor so hard he felt the knife punch through bone to dig into the grit beneath.

  If Farden had hoped it would stun the others into thinking twice, he should have remembered they had just captured a minotaur. A weakened soldier – not a mage – like him was easy prey.

  A fist clocked him hard on the brow. Farden staggered but managed to slash across his attacker’s belly as he recoiled. The blade was keen; the man howled as blood and a string of guts spilled from him. He sank to the mud, clutching at his insides. The stink of bloody copper and shit mingled with the dank smell of loam and wood. Farden felt his heart hammering alongside the machinery, heard his breath roaring in his ears.

  The attackers were only marginally stalled by the horror of the man’s death. Just enough time for Farden to kick the knees from the next two, sink the knife into the back of one’s skull, and seize the other in a headlock. He wrenched viciously, and another body met the dust. He clawed for his magick between every moment, straining so hard his jaw burned.

  A club almost took his leg from beneath him. Another cracked the bone of his right arm. Farden yelled, spinning low and high, slashing across throats and chests and unarmoured bellies. Another fist glanced from his cheek, stunning the mage. A rope seized his foot and quickly hauled the world from under him. Farden slammed the knife into the earth to stop from being dragged, but before he could slash the rope, the blows came raining. Boots and clubs pounded Farden from every side. Mud choked him. Blood filled his eyes from a kick to the head. Farden roared as he felt a rib snap. A dread cold had seeped into one of his arms. He flung every limb in a desperate retaliation, but he was rewarded with only pain.

  It all came to sudden a halt. A jarring peace after the beating. Farden stayed huddled, protecting his head with his arms, but not another blow touched him. He wiped his eyes of rasping muck and warm blood. Not a single attacker stood around him. They had scarpered into the paddocks and gloom. Farden had been left alone in a scarlet puddle of his own blood, with only the dead and dying around him.

  With his clothes ragged and soiled, and with dirt and blood smeared across his face, Farden hauled himself to the nearest one. He was too busy muttering about his insides to notice the mage until Farden seized him by the throat and rammed him down into the nearest puddle.

  ‘Who are you?’ he shouted.

  He hauled the man up, but all he had was religious babbling for him. Farden understood none of it. Beneath his mask was a tanned face and a pale eye. Farden drove him into the water once more.

  ‘Who are you? Tell me!’

  Whether it was death or drowning that gave the man a severe desire to live, Farden would never find out. All he knew was the man seized a fistful of the mage’s hair and began to thrash. He struck a lucky blow on the mage’s chest, catching the broken rib and sending Farden reeling.

  ‘Gah!’ spat the man. His face was a mask of dark mud punctured by two wild eyes. He reared up and fumbled for the mage’s neck. Farden felt thumbs trying to gouge their way into his windpipe. Punches failed to dislodge him. Spitting mud, Farden’s flailing hand caught the nearby knife. It sliced his palm as he seized it by the sharp edge, but it was all he needed.

  Farden drove the silver blade into the man’s eye. Once, twice, thrice, until the death throes had come to a halt. He slid the corpse into the mud, and lay staring at the Viscera, listening to its thunder. And below, in the tower that speared it, Farden saw Warbringer and Aspala rising up on one of the winch-lifts.

  ‘No!’ he yelled.

  The fire of battle dulled much of the pain from his injury, but it was fading fast. Agony swooped in as soon as he had made it to his feet. Others had been drawn by the screams. Farden could see them running across the mud to investigate. Like the mage, they had arrived too late.

  Farden could only stand and stare as the minotaur and Paraian disappeared into the Viscera.

  ‘NO!’

  CHAPTER 15

  OLD FRIENDS

  If you like your head attached to your shoulders, it’s best to stay on the good side of a Written mage.

  STANDING ORDER AT THE OLD SPIRE OF MANESMARK & WRITTEN SCHOOL

  Ninety-five…

  The fanfares blew once more to signal the arrival of the final and remaining fighters. The dark pits in the clay floor were filled once again as the lifts arose. Smoke billowed around them as if the arena was aflame. The cheers of the crowd took on a strange tone for a moment. One that sounded suspiciously surprised. Even some of the fighters turned. Mithrid could see some of them raising their hands in protest.

  Durnus approached the edge of the balcony, eyes narrowed and peering.

  Mithrid ripped a streamer from her hair. She pushed Irien aside as she too surged to the railing. There was something peculiar about the final fighters, and it set a stone weight in Mithrid’s heart.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ cried Irien.

  Mithrid stared hard, willing the view to clear. She got her wish moments later.

  There, on the far side of the arena, standing bleeding, battered, and with arms bound in chain were Aspala and Warbringer. Two hooded and masked fellows attended them.

  Mithrid whirled on Irien. The lady did a fine job of looking surprised. Mithrid’s axe was already in her hands, blade hooked around her fist.

  ‘What in Hel is going on?’ she demanded.

  ‘Calm yourself, Mithrid Fenn!’ Irien pleaded. ‘This is nothing to do with me. I’m as shocked as you are.’

  ‘You, the Lady of Whispers? Shocked? I find that hard to believe.’

  Irien did not look hurt, but vexed. ‘How quickly you turn against me when I show you nothing but hospitality and kindness.’

  ‘Those are our friends down there! Aspala doesn’t even have a sword.’

  ‘And I might say the very same, Mithrid! And those people holding them, my dear,’ Irien pointed past the girl’s shoulder, ‘are not my men. This is one whisper I haven’t been privy to.’

  ‘We have to get them out!’ shouted Durnus. He was already working his way to the stairs they had entered by.

  ‘It’s too late.’ Irien pulled him back. ‘Once the fighters stand in the Viscera they cannot leave. They either die or they win.’

  ‘But they are bound in chains! Surely it’s obvious they don’t want to be here?’

  Irien shook her head with a solemn slowness. ‘It doesn’t matter. Some patrons scour the prisons to find their fighters. See there? Another man in the same chains. They fight for freedom, if only for a day or two of it, and a cheering crowd to send them off. Trust me. I would not lie to you. I—’

  ‘Where is Farden?’ Durnus yelled over them.

  The stone in her heart turned sharp-edged. Mithrid said nothing as she turned and left. The booming voice of an announcer escorted her from the Viscera.

  ‘To the three-hundredth and eighty-sixty Scarlet Tourney, the Bountiful Queen Peskora of Golikar welcomes you!’ bayed an announcer.

  ‘What can be done, Irien?’ Durnus cried over the resulting roar. Explosions of smoke and sparks ran around the edges of the Viscera. The wooden bell tolled with short knells that sounded more like a drum being beaten.

  Durnus gripped the railing so hard his fingers ached. He felt weaker than ever. Both Warbringer and Aspala looked to be fuming, but for some baf
fling reason they didn’t fight or struggle. It was as if they knew the rules of the Scarlet Tourney.

  Irien placed her wooden hand on his arm.

  ‘The fighters don’t seem to be happy about this late addition. Warbringer will pose a great threat. They might see it as unfair, and we will be able to extricate her if there’s an uproar. As for Aspala…’ Irien stamped her foot. ‘I will see what can be done. At very least I will find out who did this, and how. I can promise you that, Durnus,’ she assured him. ‘Unless they are the first to fight today, I will arrange to visit them in their cells tonight.’

  Upon the tower, Queen Peskora rose above the battlements. She was an incredibly tall woman and bald as a river pebble beneath her crown of copper gold. With her arms out wide, her emerald gown had the look of a tapestry, detailed with Golikan patterns of gold trees and roots.

  ‘Welcome, one and all, strangers and friends, lords and ladies, contenders, patrons, and spectators of this grand event!’ screeched the queen with a shrill and cracking voice.

  Another mighty roar thundered through the Viscera. The endless petals and streamers fell in another downpour.

  Durnus stared upon it all with hatred. The wonder and fascination had died a swift and brutal death. He could not tear his gaze from Aspala and the minotaur. They had spotted him, too. He held his hands out as if to plead for their calm. It was ridiculous advice, he knew, but it was difficult to be powerless.

  The queen continued. ‘Contenders of the Tourney! For the next five days, you will abide by all of the ancient rules. You will fight with honour! No vengeance will be sought from the outcomes of the bouts! And should you break the rules, the price is death by hanging for all to see.’

  Almost every one of the fighters raised their fists and weapons and bellowed in unison. A dozen languages filled the air. Only Warbringer and Aspala stayed still. If Durnus judged the queen’s expression correctly, it did not go unnoticed by those in the tower.

  The queen screeched once more. ‘May the Scarlet Tourney begin!’

  To the heavy clanking of machinery, the cell doors around the Viscera opened. The lines of fighters dispersed as they chose. Some seemed preordained. Durnus saw the champion Irien had pointed out, Rovisk Dal’Bvara, pushing another fighter to the ground as he tried to choose the same cell. It raised another cheer and a great raucous laugh from the crowds.

  Durnus was too busy watching Warbringer and Aspala being shoved into two cells side by side. Aspala managed to headbutt one of the masked strangers. Her beast-blood gave her a stronger skull than his wooden mask. He sprawled on the dust, unconscious, and had to be dragged away by his friends.

  ‘I will have my guards seize those two men,’ Irien hissed, clicking her fingers to the guards standing nearby. They vanished into the crowds without hesitation.

  ‘You pay them well.’

  ‘It pays merely to know me.’

  ‘What happens to them now?’ asked the vampyre.

  Irien sighed. ‘They’re safe there, for now. The first names will be called for the first bout. Luckily, many of the contenders vie for the first fights. They can get them out of the way. Rest for a day, perhaps. The odds rise in the favour. Gold is earned. As a late addition likely with an unscrupulous patron, Warbringer or Aspala shouldn’t fight today.’

  ‘Shouldn’t.’

  Irien nodded, lips drawn and brow creased.

  The announcer boomed again. He was a fat fellow with a deep voice to match. Durnus spied him below their parapet.

  ‘Presenting Feen of the Sunter Isles against Lord Okram Marko of Bolsh!’

  Durnus did not care for the fight, but the learned man within him needed to study his enemy. With Warbringer and Aspala in their cells, “safe” as Lady Irien called it, he could at least calm enough to see how this Scarlet Tourney worked.

  Feen was a hunched fellow that looked as though he had washed up on a beach half-drowned and dragged through the tideline for good measure. His hair was threaded with black seaweed. His armour was a simple lattice of rusted iron and pale seashells. His two pickaxes had serrated teeth along their blades.

  Okram stood admiring his fingernails while Feen postured and goaded the crowds. Wearing a gown of satin and silk, Okram looked more like a merchant than a fighter. He was as broad as a door, however, and as Feen got ready to charge, he calmly pulled two spiked gauntlets from his robes and slid them over his knuckles.

  Feen hurtled at him. Quick as a hawk, Okram dodged the mad swing of the pickaxes and drove a fist into the side of Feen’s skull. The man staggered away, bleeding from one ear. All energy was gone from him. He took another halfhearted swing, and Okram hammered his ribs and face again with a flurry of jabs and punches. The crowd went wild for the display. For every drop of crimson.

  Bleeding profusely from a dozen wounds, Feen made it a dozen steps back towards his cell before he dropped his axes and fell onto his face.

  And in that short time, the first bout of the Tourney was over. The dust and clay had been blessed with its first blood. To deafening roars, Okram shrugged, jabbed at the air some more, and bowed to the royalty above. Green-clad workers were already dragging Feen away.

  Durnus glowered.

  In the dark beneath the Viscera, Mithrid found the mage. He was leaning heavy on a guard in wooden armour, spitting blood one moment and cursing loudly the next. A small group of bewildered citizens and workers stood around him, offering him cloths or shrugging at his demands.

  ‘What do you mean nothing can be done? That is madness!’ Mithrid heard him complaining.

  ‘Farden!’

  The guard saw a chance to break free of carrying the mage, and quickly placed him down at the edge of Krugis’ stall, right where they had left him.

  ‘Glad to see they didn’t get everyone,’ Farden hissed as Mithrid knelt by his side. Little of his pale skin could be seen under the dirt and mud.

  ‘What happened?’

  Farden took a moment to knead his eyes with split knuckles.

  The guard tutted, feeling somehow important enough to explain. ‘Didn’t see much until it was all over. Found him and twenty dead folk back there. Says they attacked him. Their mistake it seemed. Looks like he got them all.’

  ‘I told you, there were more! With masks and black cloaks. They attacked my friends, kidnapped them, and took them up there,’ Farden shouted. He jabbed a finger at the Viscera’s underbelly.

  ‘Sure.’ The guard rolled his eyes, replaced his helmet and stalked back into the mess of buildings. The others left also, gossiping to themselves. Farden and Mithrid were left alone alongside the hammering of the blacksmith.

  ‘Are you hurt, Farden? This is a lot of blood.’

  ‘Not all of it’s mine.’ The mage lifted an arm and slapped the knife on top of his knee. ‘They ambushed us. Led Warbringer and Aspala off somewhere before pouncing on them. Must have been thirty, forty of them. I fought as hard as I could but I couldn’t stop it.’

  The grimace on Farden’s face looked to be a deeper pain than just his injuries. He coughed and spat blood once more.

  ‘We need to get you up. Can you walk?’

  ‘It’s that fucking Antor,’ he hissed as Mithrid gripped him. Even without his armour, the man was bloody heavy.

  ‘I know it’s him.’

  Mithrid was happy to have somebody to blame. ‘It makes sense.’

  ‘I’ll skin the little bugger myself,’ Farden muttered. ‘Warbringer can eat what’s left when we free them.’

  After watching him wipe most of the blood and soil from his face, Mithrid put her cloak around the mage to make him look slightly less horrific. Only slightly.

  Step by step, she led him back to the Viscera. It took twice as much time with the mage so injured, but at last they returned to Irien and Durnus. The lady’s guards almost skewered him right there and then. He was almost unrecognisable, but to Irien’s sharp commands, they took over from Mithrid and settled him down upon a couch spanning the rear wall of the ba
lcony. He kept struggling to get up against their help.

  Durnus was immediately at the mage’s side. ‘By Evernia, what did they do to you?’ he asked, while Irien poured him water and ordered towels, and a healer.

  ‘Where are they?’ Farden barked. Mithrid was glad for the curtains that gave them privacy between the other balconies. Already the ruckus had drawn some eyes.

  Durnus pressed him back into the couch cushions. ‘Hidden away for now, but safe. Irien has guards chasing down the men that brought them in. We will get answers.’

  ‘I don’t care about answers. I want them out of there! Even if I have to drag them out of the Tourney myself!’

  Durnus seized Farden by the shoulder as he tried to rise again. ‘They cannot leave the Viscera under pain of death, mage. And you would be torn apart. Especially in your state.’

  ‘It was that Antor! That detestable weasel of a man. It has to be.’ Farden seethed through bared teeth.

  ‘Quite possibly,’ said Irien.

  ‘Maybe you shouldn’t have shoved him against the wall.’

  ‘Not now, Mithrid!’ snarled Farden. ‘Where is he?’

  Irien waved her hands over the Viscera. ‘I will know soon, Farden. For now, we must wait. Even a patron cannot withdraw their fighter. They’re stuck there without a decision from the queen. But don’t forget, they’re also far from defenceless.’

  Farden shook his head. ‘Aspala has no sword.’

  ‘She doesn’t need one,’ Mithrid added in a cold voice. ‘Trust me. I trained with her.’

  ‘I will have Krugis work faster,’ Irien said as she stepped away. ‘And arrange food and healers for them if their mystery patron hasn’t. Have faith in my children and their whispers, friends. I will have answers to this dire situation soon.’

  ‘You never know,’ said Mithrid with hope. ‘They might just end up winning it.’

  Neither the vampyre nor the mage felt her grim enthusiasm. While Durnus summoned what healing magick he could, Mithrid stood at the railing instead. The announcer read out the fates of the next fighters.