The Written

by Ben Galley

  Durnus nodded. ‘The very same. I received a hawk this morning from Krauslung, relaying some of the darkest news I have heard in a long time.’ He paused for some sort of dramatic effect. Farden knew the old vampyre loved mystery and intrigue, and he waited. After a moment he continued. ‘Two nights ago, someone broke into the library and murdered five of the scholars in cold blood. It was late at night, and nobody saw or heard anything. Two of the scholars were found burnt to a crisp. It seems that a valuable object, a book of some kind, is the only thing that’s missing.’ Durnus crossed his legs and drummed his nails on the arm of the chair.

  Farden let the information sink in. ‘Well what was it?’ he asked.

  ‘No one knows. A message had come to the Arkathedral only that day, saying that the scholars in question had found a book in their collection, a powerful Siren book that we had taken years ago during the war. The scholars had only just begun to work at it, but requested that the Arkmages should travel to Arfell to help with the translations.’ Durnus leaned forward.

  ‘This book must have been special to request the presence of the Arkmages,’ mused Farden.

  ‘Exactly. The message came to the council, and before Åddren or Helyard had a chance to leave, the scholars were murdered and the book was stolen. And let me tell you, from what I gathered in the message the Arkathedral is in uproar. Helyard is blaming everyone under the sky, especially the Sirens, and the good Lord Vice has ordered a regiment of his guards up to the mountains to see if the assassin returns,’ said Durnus, his eyes wide with excitement.

  ‘Well what is this book about? Why is it so powerful?’

  ‘Again nobody has a clue. The hawk sent by the library wasn’t exactly full of information. You know what the old men at Arfell are like, full of secrecy and intrigue. All the message said was that the book was in good condition, locked, and of the utmost importance. Apparently it was small, covered in black dragon scales and was protected by a powerful golden seal, with a spell that would require one of the powerful Arkmages to crack. They assumed it was Siren or perhaps even older, and that it might contain an immense amount of formidable magick. That was it.’

  ‘Sounds dangerous,’ Farden said. He got up and revived the dying fire with a few logs and a spark of flame from his hands. Durnus flicked a tongue around one of his sharp teeth in thought. ‘Indeed.’

  Farden knew his friend had a theory, but that he was waiting to be asked, so he relented, and smiled. ‘What are you thinking?’

  Durnus leaned further out of his chair and made the frame squeak. ‘One of the explanations I can muster is that the Sirens have a spy in the council. They were the ones who we stole it from in the first place, it seems sensible to assume they would want it back.’

  ‘A fair idea, but we can’t dismiss that it was someone other than the dragon-riders. It’s been fifteen years since the war and the ceasefire has never been broken, so why would they risk breaking it to retrieve one little book?’ Farden asked.

  ‘That depends on the value hidden within its pages. But who else then friend? Skölgard has no interest in magick like we do, nor could their sorcerers even know of such a book’s existence. We ourselves didn’t even know of it until a couple of days ago. If this book is as powerful as we think it might be, then the Siren wizards would most definitely risk a ceasefire to get it back into their scaly hands.’ Durnus’s words made sense, but Farden didn’t like the sound of them. Something did not feel quite right. The old vampyre spoke up again. ‘The Arkmages have sent word that you are to find a man named Jergan in the south of Albion. My research indicates that he might know what this book is, and who could of stolen it.’

  ‘Jergan. Who is he?’

  ‘It would seem that he was once a scholar in his own right, who lived at Arfell before the war. He might have come across this book before when he lived with the dragon-riders.’

  ‘Jergan worked with the Sirens?’

  Durnus made a face. ‘He is Siren. He returned to Nelska and studied in Hjaussfen before the war broke out. But apparently ten years ago he was attacked by a lycan somewhere on the ice fields and fled to Albion, living in the mountains to the north where he’s been under the wolf-curse ever since. I’ve just heard word that a year ago he took up residence in the Dornoch hills in the south and is now living alone somewhere on the moors. It would seem the locals have lost many a sheep,’ he paused. ‘Even the thought of a lycan makes me sick. Ugh.’ Durnus shuddered. Farden smiled, distracted. A lycan in Albion sounded dangerous. ‘When do I leave?’ he said, and stood up to stretch. But as much as he tried to shake himself awake, the more he could feel the tiredness creeping over him. The fatigue spell he had cast the day before to keep him moving was finally starting to wear off.

  The vampyre wagged a finger at him. ‘Tonight Farden, you rest, and no arguments. You have plenty of time for a good night’s rest and slumber. It’s not as though the Arka will fall apart overnight,’ said Durnus.

  ‘As long as nothing happens to their gold, then I think we’re safe,’ murmured Farden, and the vampyre laughed. ‘Politics, Farden, politics and rules. That’s all they care about. People like us belong out here on the fringes, where it matters. Somehow I can’t see us cooped up in a hall debating the finer points of civilisation,’ he said.

  The mage nodded. He wandered around the vampyre’s room and flicked through interesting-looking parchments and book covers. ‘So you don’t miss it then?’ he asked. Durnus threw him a quizzical look.

  ‘The city?’

  ‘Being in the thick of it,’

  Durnus shook his head. ‘No. I thought that was one of the reasons you came here Farden, like I did, to get away from all the pressure and the gossip and the politics.’

  Farden muttered something to himself as he picked up another book. ‘I know,’ he said aloud. Durnus looked at the sleepy mage. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

  The mage shook his head wearily and he managed a smile. ‘I’m fine, don’t worry.’ The vampyre nodded and grinned, showing a sliver of fang between his chalk lips. ‘Fancy some wine?’ he offered, and pointed to table in the corner of the room. An ornate green bottle filled with a dark liquid sat there, with two glasses nearby. Farden picked up the bottle and wiggled the wooden stopper until it came free, and gave the liquid a careful sniff. ‘As long as it’s not the blood of some poor local, then yes, I would, please,’ he said, narrowing his eyes at his friend. Durnus laughed, and gestured to the chair. Farden sat.

  Despite his tiredness the mage remained holed up in Durnus’s room for the rest of the evening, their tongues wagging over war, peace, murder and magick, washing their words down with plenty of wine. After a while the night stretched into early morning and Farden finally left the vampyre’s room. His head spun with tiredness and long conversation. He could feel himself starting down a trail of thought that he disliked very much.

  The mage wandered through the dark corridors of the Arkabbey and tried to calm himself.

  As Farden lay down on his cold bed thoughts began to bounce around his head like insects around a candle, second-guessing and doubts rife in his shallow dozing. Smothered by the darkness of his room he tossed and turned until finally he banged his fist on the pillow in frustration. The mage got up and stumbled across the stone floor until his foot kicked at his travelling bag, full of supplies. He rummaged around for a few seconds before finding what he was looking for. Going to the door he locked it quietly and started unwrapping a small scrunched up bit of bark-cloth. He stopped for a second to listen to the noises of the night, and then quietly put a small bit of something on his tongue. Farden went to the windowsill and stood there looking at the dark forest outside his room. He closed his eyes and chewed, and waited. After a while the mage felt the numb feeling gradually climbing his spine, and the stuff began to sour in his mouth. Farden spat, and heard the shadowy thoughts slowly quieten, felt himself slowly forgetting. Before he felt too dizzy he grabbed a nearby candlestick and wedged the bundle of bark-cl
oth into its hollow base. With a thud he put the candlestick back on the bedside table and let his world begin to melt. His head felt heavy and his breathing slowed as the drug started to make his head spin. Farden fell back onto his bed with a bang and slowly let sleep take him hostage, all problems forgotten.

  The mage was in a desert. The thought that he might not have ever seen a desert had not yet occurred to him, but he stood in a desert nonetheless, and lifted his hands to the feel the hot rays of the strange red sun dance across his skin. He wore only his trousers and the red-gold vambraces, and his feet were bare. The cracked dusty earth quivered and shook in the heat. Pebbles floated from side to side and tried to hide from him. In the haze of the distance the horizon was darkened by huge black mountains scraping at the heavens. Farden looked up and around him, in all directions, he had never seen a sky so big, so massive, or so empty and blue.

  He felt something scratching at his leg and looked down to find a skinny black cat impatiently clawing at him. The thing mewed at him, and yawned cavernously, a yawn too big for a cat that small, he thought, and he stared, and watched the thing scratch about. It fixed him with an obsidian gaze, eyes like two black scrying mirrors, and cocked its head on one side.

  ‘What?’ asked Farden, but nothing happened. Then, slowly at first, he became aware of his skin starting to tingle and shiver, and sparks of pain began to shoot up his arms, as if he had slept on them for too long. Confused, Farden looked down to see flakes of burning skin peel from his hands and wrists in great quantities, his arms and chest started to brown and blacken, and the veins and arteries under the skin melted into rivers of fire. His vambraces cracked and splintered into pieces before his eyes, and fell to the dusty earth with a dull clang that reverberated and roared and became an unbearable noise in his ears, like the mountains were dragging themselves forward, towards him, inch by inch, closing in. He lifted his hands to his face and felt the charred bone underneath, and watched shreds of flaming skin fill the air like a swarm of locusts in the sudden hot wind. Farden opened his mouth to scream but his tongue was too dry, and refused to move, and sat smouldering between his black teeth. Before his eyes were burned away, he looked down at the cat. It stared at him with a placid, bored look, then its tiny mouth seemed to curl into a smile. The mage heard a voice in his head speak clearly over the fire and the roaring wind.

  Follow the dragons, said the voice, and then the wind swallowed him.

  Sunlight streamed in through the open window, piercing the sleeping mage’s eyelids like a yellow spear, and sending a spark of pain jolting through his skull. Farden swore darkly and hoisted himself out of bed. Remnants of a dreams swirled around him, and dissolved to nothing in the morning light. Soon there was a knock on the door and Elessi came in to the cold room holding a small wooden cup of something and a bowl of homemade porridge.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said with a bright smile, her face the opposite of Farden’s mood.

  ‘Is it?’ Farden coughed and tried to look awake, fighting off the effects of the night before. He grabbed a nearby shirt and threw it on to cover his wound. Elessi put the breakfast on a table in the corner of the room and began to sort out clothes for his journey. Farden stalked over to the table and sniffed the juice. Apple. He downed it in one gulp and grabbed a spoonful of porridge. He managed one mouthful before feeling ill.

  ‘How’d you sleep?’ Asked Elessi as she cleaned part of his armour. His battered sword was on the bed. The tired mage swept the blade from his scabbard and looked at the notched edge, scarred from many a battle.

  ‘I need a new sword,’ he said absently, then turned his attention to the maid bustling around in his room. ‘I slept well, thank you for asking. Durnus and I talked long into the night. Is he up yet or should I go wake him?’

  ‘Rumour has it he went out hunting last night, but he should be in his room. It makes my skin crawl when I think of what he’s been up to.’ Elessi shivered momentarily.

  ‘He can’t help his nature. And it does wonders to keep the villagers out of the forest.’ Farden smiled wanly at his own joke. His head pounded like a drum.

  ‘Your armour is all cleaned, and there’s a fresh cloak and tunic here for you. Fresh supplies are in your ‘aversack as usual. I know how you don’t like searching the kitchens for food, what with the other maids there,’ she said, and made to leave. She lingered at the door for a moment.

  ‘Thank you Elessi,’ said Farden as he tried another spoon of breakfast. She look as if she were about to say something but thought better of it and closed the door.

  Farden milled around in his room for a bit, struggling to shake the numbness he still felt from the drug, the nevermar, the night before, and the strange remnants of a vivid dream he could have sworn was so real. The mage rubbed his cold skin and shook his head slowly.

  He could feel the hangover dimming his magick, like alcohol and the ability to walk in a straight line. Farden took a warm cloth from a bowl of warm water and dabbed it at the wound at his side. It was healing up nicely, but was still an angry red and sore. It would be healed by the next day. His fingers traced something on his back for just a second and then he turned to face a bronze mirror in the corner of his modest room and stared at his reflection.

  Farden looked exhausted. His dark, almost black, hair, was in a bit of wilder state than usual, and from behind the tangled strands that lay across his face he could see dark rings surrounding his grey-green eyes. The mage ran an exploratory hand across his face, and examined the rest of him, rubbing stubble and dust between his fingertips and blinking at his bronze alter-ego to try and make it more acceptable. He was a tall man, just over six foot and well built, perhaps a few years over thirty. Nobody but Farden was sure. His arms and body bore countless scars from blade and magick, random streaks of pinky white criss-crossing his already pale skin like the paths of a snail. There was a small tattoo on each of his wrists, a black circular symbol with a line of thin script passing through it towards his hand in a key shape. He scratched at them briefly and then put on his red and gold vambraces to cover them up. Next came a brown tunic made of rough cloth, and over that went his thick and simple armour made from steel plates. It hugged his body closely, but still allowed him to jump and move like a mountain wolf if needed, unlike the thicker, more elaborate suits of armour from Skölgard or Nelska. Farden strapped on a thick rust-coloured belt, some more plate armour for his thighs, and heavy black ranger’s boots. Lastly he donned a long black cloak with a hood and strapped his sword into its scabbard on his back, arranging the red scarf to wrap around his neck. Despite the pounding headache and dizzy stomach Farden smiled a rare smile. He was ready to go once again.

  The hooded soldier slammed the door to his room and bounded downstairs, barging past a few kitchen boys carrying pitchers of milk. They stood dumbstruck as the dark character swept off down the hallway, muttering only the briefest of apologies. Farden walked into the main hall of the Arkabbey, where a small shrine sat against the north wall and his footsteps echoed loudly. Farden bowed his head and briefly knelt before the effigy of a powerful looking woman holding scales in front of her, as if asking for something. Her stern stone gaze looked out over the myriad of candles that had been lit on her plinth. She was Evernia, goddess of power to the Arka, and keeper of balance. Farden whispered a standard prayer to the goddess and put a small coin on a stone dish. The old gods didn’t interfere in the lands of Emaneska like they did in the ancient days, but it was still wise to stay on good terms with the fickle creatures.

  Durnus dropped to one knee next to Farden and whispered something to the stone statue. There was a moment of silence as he finished his prayer. ‘I don’t often see you paying homage to the old ones,’ he commented in a hoarse voice.

  Farden shrugged. ‘It seems like a good idea to keep on their good sides,’ he said. The vampyre nodded. ‘That it does. How did you sleep?’ he asked. Durnus himself looked tired. His eyes were even paler than usual, and the large hooded cloak he wo
re did nothing to hide the fatigue hiding in bags under his skin.

  ‘Everyone always asks me that as if I were a stranger to a bed.’ Farden smiled. ‘Well, thank you. I take it you had a good night then?’ he asked as he ran his hand across the rough granite floor.

  ‘Gods damn those maids, they have tongues like town criers. I would cast a mute spell on every last one of them if I had the chance to do so. I take it Elessi told you about that?’ Durnus cursed, bowing his head to the statue as he stood up. He turned to leave and Farden followed him towards a thin door. The thick cloth curtains shifted in a chill draught.

  ‘She does like to talk that one,’ grinned Farden. They walked down a dark corridor. The Arkabbey was still in the process of waking up. The servants were preparing breakfast for the slumbering soldiers, and a few scribes wandered the halls, rubbing sleepy eyes and yawning.

  ‘So I have noticed. You haven’t said anything to her about what happened at Arfell have you?’ Durnus’s pale eyes grew narrow and he furrowed his brow as he looked at his friend.

  Farden shook his head ‘No. I went straight to bed after I left your room last night. I barely talked to her at all this morning when she woke me with breakfast. I know the rules, and with a dangerous matter like what happened at Arfell, I wouldn’t exactly go shouting it around,’ he said.

  ‘Good.’ The vampyre seemed satisfied and sniffed imperiously. He ducked under a momentary shaft of sunlight coming from a high window and folded his gloved hands behind his back. The two walked slowly and silently for a moment before the vampyre spoke up. ‘You look tired Farden, anything wrong?’ asked the vampyre.

  A massive headache and mind-numbing dizziness. ‘Absolutely nothing. Deep sleep and I’m still waking up,’ said Farden. An easy lie.

  ‘Now remember, get as much information out of him as you can. I’m not sure how he’s fared since his exile and the wolf-curse does strange things to a man, so be wary of his answers. After all he may have a mind like that of soft cheese, and he could be completely useless, but make sure above all that you get the truth! If the Arkmages are going to base their actions on your words then they better be the right ones,’ lectured Durnus. Farden’s head ached. His old friend pulled a rolled up scrap of parchment from the folds in his cloak. ‘Jergan was last seen somewhere near Beinnh south of the Dornoch hills. You can rest up in the town and then face him the day after. Unfortunately for you the pull of the moon is strong this month, so he’ll be able to change at will.’