Heavy Lies The Crown (The Scalussen Chronicles Book 2)

by Ben Galley

  Farden.

  Mithrid.

  Kill them both.

  Malvus bellowed their names as he pounded the sand and snow beneath him. The slope was a cliff. He could see a horizon of ocean between the sleet. He remembered a riddle of snow, distant, belonging to his old body. He dismissed it as nonsense, and ignited an orb of fire in his clawed hand. His head drummed with pain, but he spurned it all for the mage and the child.

  ‘Where are you, Farden? You owe me a death. I will peel your skin from your—No!’

  A huge Scalussen ship of black sails sat in the ocean, near to a wave-battered and smoking ruin. No daemons stirred in its rubble.

  Malvus let the fire rage white-hot as he took aim at the ship. A piercing cry halted his arm halfway cocked.

  Claws slashed his face as a huge gryphon exploded from the edge of the cliff. Malvus reeled, blood in his eyes. He managed to clear his vision just in time to see a hammer swinging for his face, at the end of it, a bellowing minotaur.

  The impact sent him sailing back down the slope.

  Malvus found himself face down in the snow, spitting bloody teeth. His jaw was broken in two, but it did not stop him spreading his fingers across the ground. The very stones around him cracked under the force of his magick. Green and white fire blazed across his arms and shoulders. The gryphon reared before him as he stood. Curses streamed from Malvus’ shattered mouth. The wind around him howled as he brought his spells to bear.

  Lightning speared the earth before him. A rift cut the air. Figures of steel strode forth; red, gold, and black. Malvus’ spells fell dead as he stared, somewhat dumbly, at Farden raising a silver spear towards him.

  The arc of light struck Malvus in the chest, blasting him a dozen paces before he crashed to the unforgiving cold once more. His rags had been burned away. Smoking burns spread from his groin to his neck. Even the runes beneath had fallen dark.

  Before the light could reach him again, Malvus screeched as fire consumed him. He bent it into a vortex, a shield before him. Farden struck him again, and the spell held.

  Two dragons, black and blue, raced across the sand with the jaws wide and flames streaming.

  Malvus screeched as their fire joined his. It seared him to the bone, yet even as he felt his own flesh burning, his power grew even brighter. He flung out his hands and let his inferno fill that cursed wasteland.

  Farden met the wild firestorm with a splayed hand and a shield spell that made Mithrid’s ears pop viciously. With his other hand, he kept Gunnir pointed at Malvus. He shook with the effort. The light threatened to blind her. She held up her shaking hands to shield herself. Her shadow trailed behind her like smoke before a gale. Gunnir’s power railed against her skull like the minotaur’s hammer.

  ‘It’s you, Mithrid!’ Farden shouted to her. His face was one of sweat and strain. ‘It’s you that can beat him! Fighting magick with magick won’t work!’

  Mithrid shook her head. ‘If even the spear can’t kill him, what can I do?’

  ‘Damn it, Mithrid!’

  Farden barked to Warbringer instead. ‘Get to the ship! We will meet you!’

  The ship. The word stabbed Mithrid in the heart. ‘Hereni,’ she uttered aloud. All this time, she had fought for the dead, dredging up their corpses to warp her shadow. She had forgotten the living.

  Mithrid clapped her hands together. Shadow whirled, bending the fire and even Farden’s shield before her. He shouted after her, but she heard no words.

  She had forgotten those beating with blood and fire like her. On the ship below them. In the mage next to her. Even in those upon their arduous road, and all to claim power over the dead. To speak for the hand of fate when it was really her selfishness that called for blood.

  Mithrid snarled with the effort. She couldn’t see Malvus through the inferno, but she kept pushing all the same.

  The dead could not be saved, yet her friends – her family – they still could. They were worthy of such selfishness.

  Mithrid found him. The bloodied creature opened his mouth in a scream she could not hear, not cared for.

  She thought of Elessi. Of Bull. Of Lerel. Of how Malvus would see them all dead and devoured just the same as the bodies across the plain beyond. There, with the fire scorching her steel and skin, seeking to reduce her to cinders, Mithrid let go of the hooks of revenge that she had woven into her skin. This was about survival. This was no longer about vengeance but victory.

  Shadow poured from her hands, arms, even flowed with her cry of struggle. Her magick crashed against Malvus’ spell like the ocean behind her. Again and again, she pushed him, watching his flames shrink until he knelt in the sand and screamed her name.

  Mithrid felt the magick deep within his screaming bones and wrenched it from him. The shield of fire shattered, and Gunnir’s light reached him at last.

  She looked on with grim satisfaction as Malvus was pierced by the light. It near deafened her as the sheer force of Gunnir’s power ran him through. Leaving him slumped upon his knees and staring at the glowing hole in his gut.

  Mithrid drew her axe. Her boots chose a slow and careful path towards him through the snow and cinders. Malvus, even with his last breaths, tried to goad the girl of Hâlorn.

  ‘You are more of a monster, it seems,’ the broken emperor gasped, reaching a crooked finger to point at her.

  ‘At last, you pay for what you’ve done, Malvus, and the world will be safer for it. Your body will rot here, perhaps food for the gulls or even the daemons. Hel is too good for you.’

  In full view of the gathering daemons, Mithrid swung her dark Scalussen steel.

  The head of Malvus Barkhart fell to the snow with a thud. Blood seeped from it, both red and black as tar. Mithrid stared while Malvus blinked one last time at the cold ground pressed to his cheek.

  A hand rested on her pauldron. The spear of Gunnir whined in Farden’s hand as he spun it. The daemons were watching on. Mithrid saw the charred and bloodied hulk of Gremorin standing closest. Hundreds of daemons stood at his back, and even with their numbers, they made no move. They recognised Gunnir, and by their snarls and curses, they felt its fell magick.

  ‘Leave!’ Mithrid yelled at them. ‘Or die here today.’

  One by one, the daemons made their choice. They began to vanish in bursts of lightning and brimstone. Soot and smoke drifted with the snow, and as their thunder died, and the air calmed, the faint ringing of a ship’s bell could be heard.

  ‘It’s done,’ Farden breathed, shuddering. She could hear the grief catching in his throat. The Scalussen armour rattled slightly against hers at the tremble in the mage’s arm. Tears streaked the muck of his cheeks.

  ‘Let’s go home.’

  Snow eddied as Farden opened a rift before them. Unseen hands dragged them into a blinding void.

  The waves counted every moment Farden and the others didn’t return to them. Only Warbringer upon Ilios’ back and an exhausted, injured Fleetstar had escaped the clifftop. The minotaur’s head had yet to leave her chest. A great sorrow went unspoken.

  Elessi’s knuckles aches, wrapped around the railing of the Summer’s Fury as they were. ‘I didn’t come this far, battle leviathans, pirates, storms, and fucking Siren queens to have them die at the last hurdle. I refuse.’

  Warbringer broke her silence. ‘He has the weapon. He has Mithrid. He needs nothing more.’

  ‘And Durnus?’ Elessi voiced a question she had come to fear to ask. A shadow crept over her heart when the minotaur turned away. She noticed the satchel upon the minotaur’s far shoulder, and fought back the closing of her throat.

  Below, wood and caulking splintered beneath the force of the spell that ripped through the silence of the deck. Foul heat and the char of scorched meat wafted.

  ‘They’re home!’ Lerel breathed, simultaneously sagging against the Fury’s wheel. ‘You did it, Elessi.’

  Two figures stood hunched upon the decking, surrounded by a breathless circle of soldiers, sailors, and ma
ges.

  Only two.

  Elessi was already sprinting down the steps. The admiral chased her.

  Farden looked burned by time and peril. Grey hairs dusted his black hair and haggard beard, and he had collected far more cuts and bruises, but he was alive. The same old stubborn light shone in his grey-green eyes. An ornate spear lingered in his hand. Close by his side, Mithrid’s hair hung lank with sweat and blood. She puffed her cheeks in a relieved sigh.

  ‘Durnus?’ Elessi’s voice cracked. ‘Aspala?’

  ‘They gave their lives,’ whispered Mithrid.

  Beside her, Farden’s legs folded inwards. He crumpled to the deck. Elessi rushed to him.

  ‘We beat him. He got away, but we beat him at his own game,’ Farden was muttering, heaving with breath. It took a moment for him to regain his senses. ‘I knew you’d come. Where is the rest of the Armada? Don’t tell me—?’

  Elessi squashed his fears rapidly. ‘They’re safe in the west. In Paraia. They didn’t want to make the journey, so I took it upon myself—’

  ‘Ourselves,’ interjected Lerel.

  ‘—To take matters into my own hands, not listen to you or anyone else, and do what was needed. And I’m bloody glad I did.’ Elessi tilted her head proud. Salt and snow encrusted her silver curls. ‘Nerilan was not a fan of my ideas, but it’s a longer story than I care to tell now.’

  ‘Trust you to defy a dragon queen,’ the mage snorted. ‘But to speak the truth, I wouldn’t dare trust anyone else. I’m glad you came.’

  ‘What else was I supposed to do? I promised Modren I would look after Scalussen. All of it. That meant you as well,’ Elessi replied, and the simplicity of her words gave her all the justification she had searched for since Krauslung.

  Farden held her stare. They had not seen each other since the undermage fell to Gremorin. Words were chewed over and swallowed, left unspoken.

  ‘Besides,’ Elessi said, dusting her hands. ‘I’m not going to put up with ruling in your stead. It’s far too bothersome. I only came all this way to put you back to work.’

  Farden tried to smile but it was a withered thing. He put his chin to his chest instead.

  ‘Is that the weapon? The one you came all this way for?’ Lerel asked.

  ‘The Spear of Gunnir,’ Farden replied. ‘And it had fucking better be worth every mile.’

  ‘Mithrid!’ came a cry across the deck.

  Mithrid turned. The dizziness of Gunnir’s spell was trying its best to strike her down, but she made out Hereni rushing through the crowd of Scalussen. Bull scrambled after her.

  Mithrid didn’t know strength propelled her. On fawn’s legs, she staggered to meet her. She thought she had come this far for Malvus’ head, but when she saw the mage, she knew there was no other finishing line but her. The mage did not stop her as Mithrid grabbed Hereni’s cheeks in her bloody hands and kissed her until she lost the energy to stand.

  ‘If our bet still stands, then it looks like I beat you to the bookships after all,’ Hereni said with a grin.

  ‘I didn’t doubt you’d come for a moment.’

  Mithrid felt eyes upon her. Bull hovered nearby, the beaming smile on his face slowly fading. She stumbled towards him. He did not turn away, but his embrace was stiffer than hers. Bull bowed his head.

  ‘You look like you made Troughwake proud,’ Mithrid said.

  ‘And you look like shit,’ he sparked a feeble smile before he stepped back into the crowd. Mithrid clung to Hereni. The relief she felt earned a sour edge.

  Elessi had raised Farden to his feet. Lerel stood at his side, clasped under his arm.

  ‘What now, Forever King?’ Elessi asked. The ship’s deck waited, uncomfortable. They had seen the sky fall. That rattled even the hardiest of spirits. Mithrid felt her eyes drooping as she watched Farden propped himself up on Gunnir.

  Magick swirled at the base of his skull once more. Unbridled. Unhindered. Farden felt almost drunk on it. The power of the spear and his armour thrummed through his body, and yet his mind was frail. Torn. Dizzied with lost choices and words he had failed to fit into those last moments. He gripped the spear as if it was Durnus’ hand. What strength he had he put into standing was fading fast.

  ‘How far a journey is it back to the others?’ he asked.

  Elessi and Lerel looked at each other with dour faces. ‘Is there not a quicker way? Something this spear of yours can do?’ asked the admiral.

  Farden felt Gunnir’s weight. He could not help but wonder whether Durnus dwelled within it, as souls lived in Voidaran. He had to believe it, or else he had no trust in what he was about to suggest.

  ‘This worked as a Weight twice now. Maybe I can transport the whole bookship…’

  Despite Farden’s words sounding like lunacy, desperation won them over. A map was dragged from the aftcastle. Lerel pointed the others’ whereabouts, far to the west and deep in the hook of Paraia. Farden began to concentrate on it.

  Elessi rubbed her wind-chapped lips, ‘And if you’re wrong?’

  Farden grinned madly, setting the crew whispering and seeking things to hold fast to. ‘Then this whole endeavour will be for nothing.’

  Mithrid moved closer, Hereni at her side. ‘I trust you,’ she told Farden, speaking her mind as well as his. ‘I trust Durnus. Wherever he is.’

  Farden held the spear in front of him. Vicious point to the snow-dark heavens. He raised it up, hoping it was a prize. One worth all the death and blood that had been spilled just to touch it.

  ‘Hold on,’ he growled, and every soul on board did as he commanded with wide eyes and gritted jaws.

  CHAPTER 33

  HOME

  Faith is not a mantle one can wear with ease. It is heavy work, and tiresome. The urge to take it off will be strong, but to reap the benefits, it must be worn at all times. There is no more righteous a path to greatness than absolute faith.

  FROM THE BLESSED MANUAL OF THE EASTEREALM GOD, THE ARCHITECT, BRESU, VERSE 24

  Wine-dark in the grave-light of the sun, the night sky had been mortally wounded. All of Scalussen had gathered to stare up through the still palms. Voices were made whispers.

  Two thirds of the stars had been swept from the firmament, leaving scattered constellations that belonged only to the old gods and half-remembered legends. Their slow dance seemed stilted and sombre. No moon showed her face that night.

  Eyrum made his way inch by inch across the crowded shore and between the buildings of fresh wood and paint. It was quite the unique torture trying to keep his crutch from sinking into the sand every time he leaned on it. He would have refused it, but none around him, neither Scalussen nor Jar Khoum offered help. All were enraptured by the ominous sky. Even the fires hunkered low and cowed.

  Eyrum made his way for the gold glint of Towerdawn. He was greeted with wary glances from the Old Dragon and Ko-Tergo. Only the witches refused to look, bowing heads to the sand. Their birds made not a sound.

  Like Eyrum, many of them had fought in the Last War, when the sky had fallen for the first time. They had won that day by the skin of their teeth. This night looked lost already.

  ‘It is a fell omen,’ muttered Queen Nerilan. ‘A sign of doom. A sign of mistakes made!’

  For centuries, Eyrum had belonged to the Nelska. Centuries, had he served its people, its Old Dragons and their queens. Never before had he wanted to physically harm one. His restraint was of iron. ‘Enough, Queen!’ Eyrum blurted instead.

  His queen regarded him sharply with her golden eyes. ‘You forget yourself, General. You are a Siren first, and you will respect your queen!’

  ‘No,’ Eyrum replied proudly.

  The Old Dragon by her side rumbled softly. Not a growl, but not encouragement. Nerilan drew up to her full height and still failed to reach Eyrum’s chin.

  ‘Elessi was right. I am Scalussen,’ he pressed on. ‘We are all one, and to continue to deny that does nothing but drive a rift between us, as Loki would want. You’ve been ceaseless in your do
ubts, and I, for one, can’t take it any more.’

  Nerilan’s sharp reply drew stares from the crowds around them. Gazes were torn from the empty skies and fell upon the Siren queen. ‘None of you can see what I can!’ she snapped. ‘You are content to be lost and homeless while our own land sits under the control of a god. You sing victory when you should lament defeat. And instead of acting, you cling to hope for the return of that foolish Elessi and a king that abandoned us when we needed him most. Foolish. We are sheep to Loki’s wolves, and it disgusts me to see the Sirens stoop so low. And now this! Daemons in their hundreds, fallen only Thron knows where. This is what we get for our mistakes and for trusting in Elessi! I will do what I should have done outside Krauslung and take control.’

  Eyrum snorted. ‘Do as you must. Spark a mutiny, then. But just know that I will not follow you. Neither would many others, I would guess. I follow those with faith in their hearts, not fear.’

  Nerilan slammed her glaive in the sand. ‘I will have you in chains for your insolence and treachery, Eyrum!’

  Eyrum threw his crutch aside and stuck out his bare and grey-scaled wrists. He stared at her, willing her to do it, to prove that she had fallen by the wayside of their endeavour.

  Towerdawn reared upright and drew breath to speak, but it was Ko-Tergo who intervened. The yetin was sniffing the air. ‘Smoke on the wind. Char. Blood.’

  ‘Daemons,’ thundered Towerdawn.

  Alarm rippled through them. Jar Khoum began to scramble into the palm forest without a single order being uttered. Scalussen soldiers and mages ran alongside them.

  ‘Come with us!’ Sipid yelled to the Siren as he beckoned them into the forest.

  Ko-Tergo seized Eyrum around the waist and heaved him towards the mountains. The Siren could feel the yetin’s body already beginning to grow. He felt the hammer of the creature’s heart against his ribs. Within several strides, Eyrum barely touched the sand.