The Written

by Ben Galley

  Farden nodded. ‘Trust me, I can handle it.’

  Durnus flashed him a toothy smile. ‘It’s not you I’m worried about, my dear mage. He’s the only lead we’ve got to putting an end to this book debacle. That means don’t kill him, Farden,’ said the vampyre. Both of them knew there was a dark undertone to the order.

  ‘I won’t.’ Farden stopped at an arched doorway. Durnus stayed in the shadows of the door and away from the light outside. Farden held out a strong hand. The vampyre gripped the mage’s hand in an iron handshake, and smiled.

  ‘Don’t wait up for me,’ said the mage, pulling his red scarf around his neck and chin.

  ‘I never do,’ chuckled Durnus. Farden turned around and jogged over the wet lawn and into the thick forest. The mage disappeared behind the trees, and Durnus returned to his room, saying more than a few charms for luck.

  Chapter 3

  “A dragon’s claws are curved and deadly, much like the strange daggers from the east. Beware the teeth too, a large dragon can have up to three rows of teeth and gnash them in a fearsome manner before eating. A dragon may have a long or short tail, but either invariably have a forked or barbed tip, that swishes around angrily should a traveller choose to approach! Their scales have the power to mystify, with rippling colours that can hypnotise the unwary, and some may even change colour to match their backgrounds...”

  “Dragons and their Features: Lessons in Identifying the Siren Beast” by Master Wird

  It was raining hard when Farden walked through the industrious streets of Beinnh. Townfolk and strangers trotted though the muddy streets and carts pulled by cows and donkeys splashed through puddles, soaking the passers-by and dirtying the colours of the market stalls lining the road. People crowded in the shadows of the tall houses, the wooden buildings leaned over the thoroughfares as though they would topple at any moment, heavy with tall arched slate roofs, brick chimneys, and dripping gutters.

  Farden shrugged rainwater from his cloak for the hundredth time and drove his hands deeper into the pockets, hoping to find a dry spot somewhere. His grey eyes roved over the various wares that were on offer in the little tents, their tables adorned with food, clothing, weapons, and cheap trinkets. The shopkeepers shouted through the downpour with offers of bargains and special prices. Ahead, a building jutted into the road. A striped tent had been hoisted up to cover some benches and a well, where gloomy figures hunched over pots of ale, plates of bread and farska, a cheap beef stew sold in taverns all over dreary Albion. Farden trudged through the muddy puddles and cart ruts, dodging the brown rivers of rubbish. After three long days of urgent travel, he was starting to run out of food.

  As he neared the tent the mage spied a small blacksmith’s shop nestled in the back of the building. A table of shining weapons glinted in the bright firelight from the forge and a thin soot-smeared man stood holding a file to an axe. Patrons milled around the tables holding various blades and sharp objects, stocky grim men with dark aspirations and malicious inclinations. A group of them hunched over the end of the table, clad in long dark cloaks and smoking cheap tobacco from even cheaper pipes.

  Farden made his way to the front of a table and ran his hands over the shining swords and knives. His eyes picked out a longsword, sheathed in a thick black leather scabbard, posing with thick crossbars and a long steel leatherbound handle with a pommel shaped like a huge black diamond. Farden unsheathed the weapon and ran a careful thumb over the thick blade and its sharp edges.

  ‘See something you like boy?’ A bald skeleton of a man croaked in a thick Albion drawl. The dirty blacksmith tugged at the grey-white gloves covering his bony hands. They were made from salamander wool, impervious to fire and perfect for working a forge.

  ‘How much for this old man?’ Farden asked, waving the sword at him.

  The smith looked at the blade and chewed something in the back of his mouth. ‘Hmm… one ‘hundred, silver.’

  ‘One hundred? You’ve got to be joking. I’ll give you sixty, fair price for this blade.’ Farden shook his head and crossed his arms. The other men had gone silent, intrigued by the sale and the foreign-looking mage.

  ‘Eighty, or no sale,’ The old man put a greasy palm out.

  The mage unbuckled the old sword from his back and with a grunt tossed it to the blacksmith. ‘Sixty, and you can have that old man, it’s still got a few swings in it.’ Farden strapped the deadly longsword to his back and fastened the thick buckle around his armoured chest. The old man grudgingly cleared his throat, shrugged, and finally nodded. Farden took his money bag from his travel pack at his side and gave the man sixty silver pieces. Farden noticed the silence at the table and turned to meet the stare of a bald thug on his left with a scar across his forehead. The man held the mage’s piercing gaze a moment before turning away to grin at his mates. He walked off and his minions followed him like loyal dogs in their masters wake.

  Farden finished counting out the pieces and the man began putting them into his dirty apron, proudly dropping each individual coin into a pocket with relish. As the mage turned to go a polished reflection of the hot forge caught his attention on a nearby table. A shiny little hand mirror lay propped up against a wooden post at the far corner of the stall, surrounded by cheap cutlery and ornaments. ‘Hey smith! Is that mirror silver?’ asked Farden.

  The old man turned and looked at the glimmering object and rubbed his filthy chin with equally filthy fingers. ‘Yeah I made it last week, for the posh ladies of the town y’see, give ‘em somethin’ to look at their pretty faces with,’ the smith leered, exposing empty gums where teeth should have been. He paused to spit in a clay pot near the crackling forge. ‘Ye want that too?’

  ‘This is important old man,’ Farden pointed a warning finger at the blacksmith. The mage knew his magick lore, and of the rules that bound each creature. If Jergan was a lycan, then he would fear silver. The rumours about using silver blades or arrows to kill the creatures were absolute rubbish: any blade would do as long as it was sharp enough and thrusted into the right place. But if a lycan saw their reflection in something like a silver mirror, however, then the curse would break momentarily, and they would return to their naked, shivering, human forms, dizzy and exhausted after the sudden transformation. It would give him an hour, maybe two at most.

  Farden had faced a lycan only once before, on the ice fields in the far north. He had been let off easily that time: the creature had merely stalked him for a day or two at the most, only once getting close enough for a spell, but otherwise keeping its distance. Farden remembered the fear as if it were yesterday. Lycans were incredibly dangerous. Their massive claws and vicious teeth were matched only by their inhuman strength and lightning speed. And of course, it only took one bite or a single scratch.

  Farden looked around to see if anyone was watching. ‘This mirror has to be pure silver you understand? If I find out it’s a fake there’s going to trouble between you and me, and more than just the mirror will be returned to you.’ Farden tapped the new sword’s hilt menacingly with one hand and with the other he summoned a little flame to burn on his palm. The old man took a step back warily and began to bite a dirty finger nervously. He held up an anxious hand ‘Easy, easy, ain’t a reason to get violent here. It’s silver, have no fear mate.’ The smith flashed an uneasy and disarming smile and held up both empty hands.

  ‘How ‘bout a special price of twenny five silver? Between you and me?’ he offered. Farden didn’t trust him at all, but he needed something shiny and silver, and he had forgotten to find one before he left. The mage nodded, and the smith rushed to fetch the mirror from amongst the other trinkets at the back of the oak table.

  Farden looked about him once again. The nevermar was still numbing his magick ability and now a fresh throbbing had taken up residence in his head. Assured that nobody had seen his little demonstration Farden counted out the overpriced sum of twenty five silver coins to the fidgety little man. He put the mirror in his travel bag and let the smith
scurry back to the safety of his smouldering forge.

  The mage stepped back into the pouring rain and went to look for a few food supplies for the last part of his journey. After purchasing some dried meat, tough biscuits and apples, he headed down the hill towards the south gate of the muddy town.

  A while later Farden was wandering slowly through a quiet road near the south wall. Night was slowly approaching and lamps were being lit all over Beinnh, the twinkling lights hiding behind curtains and doorways and iron sconces. It was still raining hard and the downpour was now driven by the approaching wind, sending the thick blanket of clouds sprinting across the dim sky above him. In the distance white lightning ripped through the darkness. The flashes tore the horizon and shook the hills with rumbling cracks and deep booms.

  Farden watched his own boots tread through the mud, sending little brown rivers flying through the air with every step. It was foul Albion weather as always but his cloak was warm and was keeping him nicely away from the elements. This new sword was heavier, he thought, but it felt good to have a decent sword for once. Through his musings he heard a muffled cough from behind him and turned to see a burly figure following him. Turning back, Farden looked around at the silent dripping houses and tiny alleyways. Another man, skinny and bedraggled, was leaning against a wall smoking a pipe. To the front yet another thug was coming up the road towards him. The rain pattered noisily on the puddles and the sounds of splashing strides were ominously loud. Farden clicked his neck and mentally tensed his wiry muscles, summoning the magick from the base of his skull. A wave of hangover washed over him, dimming his magick and sending throbbing waves of pain ricocheting behind his eyes. Farden would have to wait to use his bigger spells.

  The thug in front suddenly brandished a knife in his right hand, the thin blade glinting from a far off glow of the town. It was the bald man from earlier at the forge, and in the half light of dusk Farden could see the rain bouncing off his shiny head and running down the scar on his brow. He grinned and waved his dagger at the smoker and the man behind Farden.

  ‘Jus’ give us yer silver and we’ll be on our way,’ warned the lout in a low voice. ‘Let’s not ‘ave any trouble ‘ere mate.’

  ‘If you and your men know what’s best for you then you’d be on your way now. I don’t want to hurt you,’ said Farden as the men surrounded him, keeping their distance and brandishing cheap weapons. He took a wider stance and stood firm.

  ‘I don’t know if yer noticed but there‘s three of us, an‘ one of you, so it ain’t looking too good for yer mate. Like I said, give us the silver and the gold an’ we won’t ‘ave to leave yer for the guards to find dead in an alleyway.’ The bald man made little cutting motions in the air with his kitchen knife. He was a brute of a man. His small bald head sat atop a thick grubby neck and his cloak hung from wide hunched shoulders.

  Farden sighed. He should have known better than to splash his coins around in the view of ugly men like this.

  ‘You idiots don’t get it do you? Leave me alone or you won’t live to see another day.’ Farden’s eyes bored into the dimwitted froglike stare of the bald thug. The man leered and spat. ‘Get ‘im lads! Get ‘is coins!’ He yelled and ran wildly at the lone mage, feet pounding through the muddy street and dagger flailing. Farden took a step forward.

  The two men collided with a massive crash as Farden turned to the side and met the mans face with his elbow, stopping him dead in his tracks and knocking the knife from the thug’s hand in one swift strike. The bandit’s legs flew out from under him and he crashed heavily in a shower of brown water. In an instant the mage dropped to his knees and drew his sword with a loud metallic ring, waiting for his prey to come to him. The next assailant sprinted to attack and Farden swung the longsword left in a wide arc. The blade caught the thief square in the ribs and there was a sickening crunch as it smashed through the bone to hit flesh and spine. The man let out a petrifying scream and crumpled to a bloody heap next to the first, writhing and spilling vital organs into the incarnadined mud.

  With a shout the last thug ran towards the powerful mage wielding a long club high above his head. ‘I’ll kill yer!’ he yelled. Farden smacked his wrists together and threw a quick bolt of fire into the night. The sizzling bolt burst against the mans chest with a blinding flash of light that burned the clothes from his skin. He hit the mud flat on his back with a short yelp and choked on rainwater. Farden dashed towards the charred man while he struggled to lift his head up from the clogging mud. Without missing a stride he sent his boot flying into the grimy thug’s nose with a lethal kick. The man’s face exploded with blood and bone and his head slammed back into the ground with a nauseating thud. He did not move again. Farden skidded to a halt and then leapt to his feet, and listened to nothing but the dripping rain.

  The bald man stirred under the carcass of the other bandit. His face looked like a crimson landslide and he lifted shaking fingers to feel the damage, breathing through cracked teeth. Farden retrieved his grimy sword and wiped it on the leg of one of the downed men. Farden watched him struggle. Durnus would not have been happy with such a vicious display, he realised. But Durnus wasn’t there. Farden shrugged to himself and spat on the bald thug, sheathed his sword, and left.

  The mage walked alone, letting the rain drip down his face and cool his hot angry skin. He let the fight replay in his head. A smirk curled at the corner of his mouth. Might as well start the night as he meant to go on, he thought. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the soaking piece of parchment, looked at the lines and contours of the map, at the word Jergan, and then shoved it back into his pocket. He doubled his pace and jogged into the night.

  Eight hours later a lone figure crouched on the summit of a low hill, his long cloak billowing in the stormy wind, rain lashing his unblinking features. The man was staring avidly at a small hovel cowering in a shallow valley between two hills. It was barely surviving the weather, its rough wood and stacked stone walls were shaking violently in the howling gale. A single struggling candle peeked from a tiny window. The man’s eyes flicked to the cloudy sky as a fleeting gap in the clouds revealed the white saucer of the full moon, radiating blue light down on the hills for a split second. His watchful gaze returned to the hut.

  Farden had been watching this poor excuse for a house since finding it three hours before. His headache had finally gone, and he could feel the power swelling in his wrists and head now, magick running through his veins like a strong river pulsing and surging through a canyon. A faint glow came from under his cloak. But he tried to keep it under control, creatures like Jergan could sense magick, smell it, like the wyrm in the north. They hunted it, given the chance. The rain slammed into him with hurricane force and rain pelted his face and yet Farden didn’t even blink, completely focused on his task.

  Suddenly in the corner of his eye something seemed to move on the hillside. The mage snapped his head in its direction and stood upright just to make sure. Slowly he inched his sword from its sheath and stood ready. Nervousness crept over him and his breathing became short and quick.

  For an age Farden didn’t move, watching the stormy hillside getting lashed with curtains of rain. He slowly crouched down again with sword in hand and looked back at the hut. The candle had gone out.

  From absolutely nowhere a massive shape bowled out of the rain and barrelled into the mage, driving the air from his lungs. He flew down the hill, barely rolling as the hairy creature fell with him and snarled savagely in his ear. His sword fell from his hand dug into the grass and he grabbed it, letting the creature slide off him and tumble to a halt. He scrabbled to get upright and once he did so he punched the ground and a searing light cut through the darkness of the stormy night. The light spell revealed a hulking creature standing a dozen yards down the hillside, matted hair drenched with rain and plumes of hot breath escaping from a mouthful of fangs. It growled and snarled, words slipping through yellowed daggers of teeth.

  ‘Leave this place.’ barked t
he monstrosity. Its long arms were hanging low beside muscular legs, and its stretched hands and curving claws were dripping with water.

  ‘I’ve come to find Jergan! I must speak with him!’ Farden shouted above the gale. He slowly moved back towards his sword and the creature menacingly took a step forward in return. The thing’s eyes were red pools of pure madness Farden slid a hand into his travel pack and searched for something shiny.

  ‘Jergan is dead! He doesn’t live here and never has so LEAVE!’ The lycan crouched low and his thick mane stood up and flapped in the wind. Farden took another step back and a sword hilt knocked against his leg. The mage held out a hand, warding the animal off, trying to get through to the man inside him.

  ‘I don’t want to hurt you, Jergan, I just want to talk!’ Farden’s heart was beating double time against his breastplate.

  ‘Arrrgh!’ The lycan snarled and leapt towards the mage. Farden smacked his wrists together again and stamped his foot. A wall of fire billowed out of the ground towards the beast and ripped through the rain, but with a roar the agile creature jumped over the flames and bared his teeth in the red glow.

  Farden whirled his sword and dodged to his right as Jergan flew past him. The lycan skidded on the wet grass and with a terrible clicking he unhinged his jaw even wider. The mage summoned a huge globe of fire and aimed a blow at the growling animal. The fireball smacked into the lycan’s shoulder blade and sent him sprawling. Farden bravely strode forward and held his curved longsword high. Jergan jumped to his feet and roared deafeningly. He sprinted towards the mage and swung his claws in mad arcs. Farden blocked and cut straight across Jergan’s left arm. It sent the lycan reeling backwards, yelping, but he managed to reach out with one deadly punch. The swipe caught Farden on the breastplate, winding him and cracking a rib. But the mage did not falter and jabbed at Jergan, finding the skin beneath matted hair at his neck. With incredible speed Farden yanked the mirror from his bag and showed it to the cowering lycan, lifting his light spell to blinding levels.