The Written

by Ben Galley

  Brim coughed into his fist politely and they came out of their little trance. ‘Oh, Farden, you remember Brim don’t you? He was in the same class at...’

  ‘We’ve met a few times before. Good to see you again,’ Farden gripped the man’s hand in an iron grip. Brim tried and failed to return his icy gaze, and winced at the handshake. ‘You too sir. What brings you to Manesmark?’ Like all the others at the School Brim had heard the rumours about this mysterious character, and was more than a little intimidated by him.

  ‘Official business in Krauslung. I have to be heading there soon.’ Farden said dismissively, looking at Cheska as she ran a handful of her hair through her fingers. A flash of something red caught his eye. That warm feeling in his chest suddenly turned cold. ‘Tell me that’s not what I think it is…’ he said stonily.

  She laughed, shedding his concern. ‘You’re right,’ She pulled back her cloak sleeves and revealed a red band of metal wrapped around her slender wrist. It was a fjortla, a bracelet that traditionally marked a trainee for being Written. Supposedly the rare red metal brought strength and perseverance to the wearer for the dangerous tattooing process, a three day process that only half of the candidates usually survived. Farden still had his old fjortla somewhere back at the Arkabbey. ‘We both got chosen and we’ll be Written in less than a month!’ Cheska smiled and put her hand on Farden’s arm.

  ‘Both of you?’ He asked.

  ‘Both of us,’ Brim bared his wrist and showed him his own bit of red metal.

  Farden found himself filled with anxiety. He couldn’t even begin to care about Brim, but Cheska? That was a different matter. Here was one of the few people in the world he did care about, and now she was scheduled for a terrible, gruelling ritual that could easily kill her.

  ‘Cheska this is serious…’ began Farden, but Cheska shook her head defiantly.

  ‘Don’t even start with that vulnerable woman shit. You’ll start to sound like my father,’ she cursed. Farden glared at Brim for a moment and then thought better of arguing. ‘Fair enough, I won’t say another word.’ He held up his hands and shrugged. ‘Walk with me for a while?’

  Cheska smiled. She turned to her friend as she left. ‘I’ll come and find you later Brim, I’ll meet you in the market,’ she said. The young man nodded, a little confused, and watched the two of them walk off through the throngs of people and soldiers. ‘Great,’ he muttered, and with a wistful sigh he turned and headed for Manesmark.

  ‘Are you actually serious?’ Farden asked gingerly.

  ‘Oh, don’t be a hypocrite Farden. You said you couldn’t wait to go through with it when they chose you.’ Cheska ran a hand through her long blonde hair again. Her tunic perfectly complimented her slim curves, and Farden couldn’t help but sneak quick sideways looks at her. ‘What did you think would happen anyway? That I would spend all these years training and then just turn it down?’ she huffed, and looked away.

  ‘It’s just dangerous Cheska, and you know…’ Farden trailed off, thinking of Jergan. His boots kicked loudly at loose stones. They were walking down a quiet path that curved away from the main thoroughfare between Manesmark and Krauslung. Behind them the noisy bustle of the Spire could still be heard over the sound of flags flapping and birds twittering. Cheska stopped abruptly under a rocky outcrop that bent over the thin path. ‘I know what?’ She asked.

  ‘You know.’ Farden waved a hand dismissively but she caught it deftly and stepped closer to him, a coy look in her glacial eyes. Cheska pulled at the red scarf around his neck. ‘Still wearing the present I got you?’ she smiled. He pulled her closer and they kissed, their lips locked in a passionate embrace. Farden’s hands snaked around her back and pulled her closer to him, until she stood on tiptoes and threw her arms around his neck and let her fingers tangle in his dark hair. He started to kiss her neck, letting her scent dizzy his head, and pulled her even closer as his hands moved down her back and legs.

  ‘No, not here Farden.’ She put a hand on his chest and leaned back, and he released her reluctantly. ‘If we get caught they’ll throw you in the stocks. And who knows what my father would do.’

  ‘They wouldn’t dare,’ he said with a sly grin. ‘You’re not a Written yet, why should it matter?’

  ‘Not here,’ Cheska smiled and kissed him again softly. ‘I think I’ll head back to the Spire,’ she held a finger to her lips as he began to talk. ‘I know you’re worried, but I can do this Farden. I’ve spent the last twelve years training for this, and the gods know I’ve struggled with my father every step of the way. I’m not going to let another stubborn man get in my way. Just be here for me, Farden.’

  She was right, and annoyingly she had a point, he thought. Farden nodded and sneaked another kiss on her cheek, making her laugh and leap away from his grasp. Her sparkling eyes flicked to the city in the distance. ‘Be careful in Krauslung,’ she said. Farden took her hand and looked at her with a rare and mischievous smirk. ‘Me? Be careful? What are a bunch of bureaucrats and their politics going to do with me?’ He laughed and winked. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Cheska, and with that she turned to walk back up the path. ‘Tonight?’ Farden hissed, and she looked back over her shoulder. ‘I’ll find you,’ she said, and he allowed himself a small smile. The mage watched her until she had disappeared behind a little ridge. ‘Politics…’ he muttered with a shake of his head. ‘Politics and rules.’ He kicked a pebble for good measure and watched it sail down the mountainside before he left.

  A few hours’ walk from Manesmark, nestled in a deep valley between the twin peaks of Ursufel and Hardja, lay the immense citadel of Krauslung, capital city of the Arka, home of the Arkathedral and to the ruling powers of the magick council.

  Farden reached the huge city just as the afternoon was starting to give way to the dark winter evening. The sky was still bright even through the clouds, but the cold darkness of night lingered on the horizon, ready to sneak through the mountains. The hooded mage strode over the frozen grass of the valley, staring up at the two steep mountains either side of him. Their sheer rocky faces were dark grey, sprinkled with a few hardy shrubs and pines, and they towered over the city walls. The immense ramparts of Krauslung filled the gap between the two peaks, using their cliffs as a solid foundation for their thick stone defences. Acres and acres of fields stretched out in front of the city. Houses and shacks that were home to hundreds of peasants squatted in the shadow of the soaring walls. A stream of travellers and city folk flowed through the massive main gate, its huge archway dominated by the gatehouse above it that almost rivalled the Spire at Manesmark in height. Stone battlements crested the walls, and from there a small army of guards watched over the arriving visitors and peered down from their reclusive arrow slits. The long and uneasy ceasefire with the Sirens had made the Arka guards wary and suspicious over the years, ever fearing the shadow of a dragon or a Siren spy. Even after fifteen years nobody was willing to forget.

  Farden joined the slow moving throngs of people heading towards the city, boots crunching on the gravel on the wide road. He pulled his cloak around him to ward off the approaching cold. Merchants at the roadside called out to the passers-by hoping to make a few more sales before night finally fell. Pigs and goats were being herded in small groups by young children covered in mud. A few dark-skinned men from the south were sat around a campfire beside the road, curved swords at their side and muttering to each other in a low foreign tongue. The smell of exotic spices and meat tickled Farden’s nose. A fat man riding a sorry-looking black bear meandered between the people, occasionally whacking it with a thin stick to make it move faster. The beast just grumbled and kept moving.

  After a short time spent weaving through the ever-increasing crowds Farden reached the huge archway of the main gates. The thickness of the stone and the massive iron doors never ceased to amaze him, even for one as far-travelled as he, and the mage stared up at the murder holes and gigantic stone blocks suspended above his he
ad in awe. The guards eyed him warily for a moment as he passed beneath them, and then, recognising what he was, they looked away quickly to glare at the next person. Farden pulled his hood down even further.

  Ahead of him was the main city, and from his vantage point at the gate he could see the whole of Krauslung spread out ahead of him like an intricate carpet. The two great mountains either side dipped and fell, giving way to a narrow sloping valley that ended in a horseshoe-shaped harbour and the Port of Rös with its legendary shipyards. From there the bay and the cold Bern sea stretched out for many leagues before stumbling across the islands of Skap in the far distance, mere dark blotches that stretched out on the horizon like a half-drowned giant. The Össfen mountains marched on for miles to the east and west, steep walls warding off the bitter waves of the winter sea. The mage could smell the tangy salt in the air and hear the plaintive hungry cries of the gulls on the wind. He smiled.

  Farden switched his attention back to the city. It had been many months since he had been here last and the mage had almost forgotten the impressive view. On his right, leaning against the precipitous walls of Hardja, stood the Arkathedral, forged from grey granite and white polished stone from the cliff cities in the west. A great hall perched on top of the huge hive-like building, crowned by two thin towers that stood either side of its domed roof. These towers held the twin bells that shared the names of the two mountains that flanked the city, Ursufel on the left, and Hardja on the right. Farden hadn’t heard them ring in years, the last time he did had been at the end of the war. Like the layers of a gigantic cake, the Arkathedral spiralled downward to the city streets, its concentric curtain walls hiding libraries, halls, kitchens, barracks, training yards, and regal abodes for the two Arkmages and the council members. Here was the throbbing heart of the Arka, where the balance of magick was kept in check and the council played out their game of chess with the world.

  The mage made his way deeper into the valley and down into the citadel. Night was starting to fall, and the city was buzzing. Down on the streets it was noisy; the gutters were full of water from the winter snows and gods know what else, people leaned out of windows and shouted to others down in the street, while others gambled and bartered in the narrow alleyways, merchants hawked their wares, bellowing at passers-by, and women painted with gaudy colours whistled and grabbed at some of the finer-looking men. Farden loved it. Here nobody paid attention to him, he could melt into the dark alleyways and market stalls and nobody would look twice at the shady mage. Even the pickpocketing children ignored him, knowing better to mess with a Written. In Krauslung everyone seemed to live on top or underneath everyone else. The buildings of Krauslung were piled storey upon storey, until each house or shop or tavern seemed to lean against the next, making the streets seem like the darkened arteries and capillaries of some immense living thing.

  He finally made it onto one of the main avenues that ran through the city, and the crowds became thinner and slightly more civilised, and a bit more sunlight reached the streets. He looked up at the tallest buildings, at their stained-glass windows and their arched slate roofs, and a few faces peered back at him. From behind the coloured glass they sipped at thin goblets and picked daintily at tiny bits of something in their hands. In the city, the finer citizens claimed the upper levels. They had made social class a matter of mere physical height.

  Farden snorted and carried on, taking it all in as he walked. He watched some of the more established merchants relax at their stalls after a long day of profit, smoking pipes and chewing on tough bread. Arka soldiers stood on every corner. Their polished silver armour shined in the last rays of early evening light. A tavern to Farden’s right suddenly erupted with loud music as two bards, or skalds, rallied the patrons with loud tales of heroes and beasts and magick. The drunken men all sang along, and several spilled out into the streets to slam their tankards together in flurries of brown ale. The soldiers looked on distastefully.

  To his left a group of fine ladies, their faces painted and their hair tied up high, ran gloved hands over jewellery and ornaments at a shop window. A few of the women had their pet geese by their side. The fat birds were decorated in the same colours as their owners’ dresses and held on thin velvet leashes and they honked quietly and impatiently waddled from side to side. Farden smiled. The fashions of high society had always seemed a bit odd to him, but after all the wishes of the rich ladies had always commanded the coin purses of the rich men. He caught himself staring at one of the blonder women, one who looked a little like Cheska, but he pushed her from his mind and kept walking. A warm feeling spread across his chest.

  Shop windows called out to him with bright colours and signs: “Potions, Lotions and Notions, Magickal remedies for all”, “Vigtor Urtt, Purveyor of Blades and Fine Weapons”, and “Fine clothes for Fine women”, accompanied by a little wooden notice that said no beggars allowed.

  This was how the city was, and more so in recent years than ever before. The poor lived below the rich, so close and yet so far, neither crossing the gap between the classes but willing to live in rough harmony as long as their peaceful way of life was maintained. And that was where Farden thought he fitted in. He was not rich, but nor was he poor, simply somewhere in the middle, an unknown stranger ignored on the streets. He thought himself part of the glue that held the Arka together, a servant of the ruling magick council whose job it was to maintain this balance, this way of life for these naïve people. It was suddenly odd in his mind, how thankless this task was, and yet somehow he was still so dedicated to it. If the world of magick was a game of chess, then Farden was a pawn.

  Farden headed north along another wide street lined with houses. He fixed his eyes on the gates of the Arkathedral fortress ahead of him and started the long walk up the sloping street towards them.

  Chapter 5

  “See I think those Arkmages is sneaky, why else would they keep us all out of their pretty tower, secretive like. And you know I heard that there Helyard bloke can change the weather? Make it rain and all that? See now that scares me. If were up to me, I would have us people running things, making sure we’re not up to no mischief and all. We’re the ones who knows best.

  “What, the war? Well that was all about gold or land or something, yeh it was definitely about gold...”

  Overheard during a conversation in a Krauslung tavern

  ‘Farden!’ A loud voice rang out through the marble corridor. The mage turned to see a familiar face creasing with a big smile, and an outstretched hand coming towards him.

  ‘Undermage, always a pleasure.’ Farden grinned and shook the proffered hand warmly and vigourously.

  ‘It’s been too long Farden, too long, and you can dispense with that Undermage rubbish, you know me better than that,’ The Lord Vice flashed a smile that was crammed with white teeth and clapped Farden on the shoulder.

  ‘I can see you haven’t changed, still playing the politician as usual,’ said Farden. They both laughed and carried on walking down the corridor. Vice was an old friend and a powerful mentor to Farden, and he had known him almost all his life, ever since he had met him at the School. Back then Vice had been a lowly instructor, but step by step and bit by bit he had climbed through the ranks to sit beside the two Arkmages, the powerful Helyard and the wise Åddren. Rumour had it that Vice was actually doing some good for the council, and Farden was honoured to have a friend in such a high place, someone he could trust in the upper echelons of pompous Arka society.

  Vice was quite a tall man, a good half a head taller than Farden and quite powerfully built, rather than lanky. He had a long ceremonial knife at his hip as a mark of his office and wore a long black and green robe that swished lightly against the marble floor as they walked. His dull blonde hair curled and spilled over a tall forehead that was just beginning to show the lines of stress and age. His dark brown eyes were warm and welcoming while his defined jaw and high cheekbones gave him a regal air, but Farden knew the huge power that Vice hid behi
nd his usually calm exterior, and had seen those eyes flash with furious magick more than a few times. If Farden remembered correctly Vice had been one of the best at the school, and had taught Farden many of his tricks and spells, but he wasn’t a Written, and couldn’t begin to compare to the power of the Arkmages

  As they walked the affable Vice threw an arm around Farden’s shoulders, steering him down the corridor. He spoke in a low voice while a few servants passed. His purposeful eyes flicked between the marble flagstones and the big arched windows lining the hallway. The sun was starting to set behind the mountains.

  ‘This is a dark time for us Farden. I hope you have some good news,’ he murmured.

  ‘I have news, but whether it’s good or not will be up to the Arkmages and you, Vice.’

  ‘The tragedy at Arfell has hit us hard. It’s one thing to lose valuable scholars in such a brutal murder, but to have a dangerous book taken from our safe hands is much worse.’ Vice shook his head and clasped his hands behind his back.

  ‘I agree,’ said Farden. Two guards swung open a large door and snapped their heels together as the two men passed. They sported short spears and circular shields, and they wore the same green and black of the Undermage’s position. The mage waited until they had passed through the door. ‘Whatever’s going on, and whoever’s behind all of this, we can’t afford to waste time.’

  ‘More of your good news I assume,’ said Vice drily. He rubbed his clean-shaven chin. ‘We’d better discuss this with the council, they’re waiting for you,’ he pointed ahead to a wide gilded door, one that Farden had seldom walked through. Another two guards flanked the thick doorway in full ceremonial armour made of shiny gold and green metal. Their shields were like mirrors and their long spears were so tall they almost scraped the arched marble ceiling. Their golden helmets covered their entire face, and they nodded to Farden and Vice as they approached. Farden straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat loudly. He tried to remember the etiquette and protocol that Durnus had taught to him long ago, and not much came to mind.