The Written

by Ben Galley

  The two men continued to walk. ‘Please, I get enough of that from Durnus,’ said Farden.

  ‘Ah, and how is that dusty old vampyre of yours?’ It was Vice’s turn to the frown.

  ‘He’s fine.’ Farden tried to skip that particular subject; the Undermage had never been fond of Farden’s placement in Albion, nor Durnus. ‘Just get me on that ship with the tearbook, and I’ll handle the rest,’ he said.

  ‘Alright, you heard Åddren, tomorrow, at the west pier. But you guard that thing with your life, and don’t let it out of your sight while you’re on the ship, or in Nelska for that matter.’ Vice wagged a finger at Farden. ‘Don’t show them the Book either, as in...’ he waved his hand towards his back. The mage understood.

  ‘I know. They can’t be trusted any more than anyone else.’ Farden listened to the sound of their footsteps for a while. ‘What happened at Arfell? I mean, what really happened?’

  They turned a corner, and Vice looked around conspiratorially. He lowered his voice even further. ‘Three of the old men were so charred and burnt, they didn’t even recognise them. The other two were found dead on the floor, slashed wide open with a blade. In the morning the others smelled something burning and saw the blood seeping out from under the door.’ He shot Farden a serious look. ‘It was an assassination, pure and simple, and a good one at that.’

  ‘Fuck,’ said Farden. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. They came to a small spiral staircase leading downwards into the citadel and Vice stopped. ‘I think its best if you stay somewhere other than the Arkathedral tonight, after what was just happened. There’s an inn nearby, on Freidja street, called the Bearded Goat, or something like that. I hear its surprisingly nice by Krauslung standards.’

  ‘You sound like an old widow,’ sniggered Farden.

  ‘And remember, dawn at the west pier.’

  ‘I’m never late.’

  ‘That’s very funny.’ The Undermage shook his head. ‘I won’t see you tomorrow, I have to make sure that Arfell is protected. I’ll see that the tearbook is sent to Åddren tonight. Helyard has business to deal with in Albion later, and I wouldn’t trust him with it anyway. He’d probably burn it,’ he said with a scowl.

  ‘Albion?’ Farden looked at him questioningly.

  ‘Something with one of the Dukes near Kiltyrin, or Dunyra, I forget. Official business,’ he shrugged, and his robe rustled. Farden nodded, wondering what the Arkmage could possibly be doing in Albion. The mage stuck out a hand, and Vice shook it warmly with both of his. ‘Thank you, again, for this opportunity. And for how you supported my argument in front of the Arkmages. I don’t think they would have listened to me otherwise,’ said Farden.

  ‘I think you’re doing the right thing friend, and I’m glad the Arka has somebody like you on our side.’ Vice clapped the mage on the arm. ‘Now be careful in Nelska, and remember what I said about words. Diplomacy is sometimes necessary.’

  ‘I’ll see you soon Vice,’ Farden spun around and disappeared into the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time.

  ‘May the gods be with you,’ the Undermage shouted after him, and then he left with a sigh.

  Night fell quietly, and darkness slipped unnoticed into the streets and roads of the city. Torches sparkled, and the noises of the evening began to fill the cold air. Two figures walked silently through an alleyway, cloaked and hooded, near to where the main wall met the mountain rock. As they wandered further and further away from prying eyes, hands reached out to torches and they hissed and died one by one. The shadows were as thick as black velvet, and the two strangers knew it.

  Farden pulled his hood back and held Cheska tightly by her hands. He could imagine her smiling at him through the darkness. ‘I told you I’d find you,’ she said.

  ‘I’m glad you did,’ he replied, barely finishing his words before he felt her lips catch his. Her hands curled around his back, and they leaned against a nearby wall. They kissed, hungrily, and held onto each other for what seemed like an age.

  Cheska finally pulled away, almost breathless. ‘How long are you staying for?’

  Farden hesitated. ‘They’re sending me away again, tomorrow,’ he said with a sigh. Even in the darkness he could see her disappointed face. Her voice was small. ‘When will you be back?’ Farden didn’t even need to answer; she felt him shrug and shake his head.

  ‘I suppose being Arka’s finest has its drawbacks,’ she said, and rested her head against his shoulder. She was usually excited by his missions. Farden stroked her hair. ‘I’ll be back, don’t worry.’

  Cheska nodded. ‘I don’t doubt you will, you always do, but I just want to spend more than two hours with you before you disappear again,’ she said, and kissed his neck. ‘I know its dangerous for us,’ she said, as if answering for him. ‘And now that there’s the Ritual... It’ll be against the law.’

  ‘I know.’ Farden scowled at the shadows. ‘But I don’t care, I want you.’

  ‘So do I,’ she said, but before she could go on there was a loud shout from nearby, and the orange light of a torch started to creep up the alleyway. Someone was singing.

  ‘Why’s it so daaaaark?’ sang the offkey voice. Farden growled, and moved forward to stand in front of Cheska. They put their hoods up, and let the shadows cover their face. Soon enough a man appeared around the corner, holding a candle and tottering from side to side across the cobblestones. He was drunk, and being particularly loud. Farden felt anger rising in his chest. He took a step forward, and the bleary-eyed man suddenly noticed them.

  ‘Whoaaa! Hidin’ in the shadows are we?’ slurred the man as he tried to keep walking up the alleyway. He gave the hooded pair a wide stumbling berth and leered at Cheska.

  ‘Quiet yourself, fool, before I do it for you,’ snarled Farden.

  ‘Who’s your pretty friend mate? She can come home with me if ye like?’ he laughed again, and the mage took another step forward. Cheska put a hand on his arm and held him back. ‘Don’t Farden,’ she whispered, and he nodded grudgingly. Durnus’s words echoed in his ears.

  ‘Keep moving,’ said Farden, and the man did, hollering and hooting with every step. The light receded with the disappearing candle, and Farden moved back into the shadows and wrapped his arms around Cheska. She toyed with his hair. ‘You’ve always been so quick to anger, Farden,’

  ‘I don’t like people,’ he scowled, watching the darkness.

  ‘But you like me.’

  ‘You’re different,’ he said, giving her another kiss. ‘You’re not like the others. Somehow you can keep me calm. Well, up until now.’

  He heard her take a sharp intake of breath. ‘Gods, Farden, you have to stop worrying about this Ritual. I’m ready for this.’

  ‘And what does your father think of all this?’

  ‘My father and his precious advisors gave up on arguing with me a long time ago now. He knows it’s what I want and grudgingly he leaves me to it. As should you. Please stop worrying.’

  ‘Do you blame me?’ he asked.

  Cheska shook her head. ‘No, but we can deal with this when you get back. Not now.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Farden.

  ‘I think it’s time I left,’ she whispered in his ear. She kissed his cheek. ‘Please be safe, wherever you’re going.’

  Farden held her wrist. ‘I’d tell you if I could.’

  ‘I know,’ said Cheska, and then she kissed him once more, lingering on his lips. She ran a hand over his weathered face, and then left, melting into the darkness. Farden stayed a while, waiting until it was safe, and then walked off in a different direction.

  An hour later Farden was sitting in the Bearded Goat quietly sipping his drink and minding his own business. Vice had been right, the inn was loud and full of drunken fools, but the quality of the place and beverages and the food was good, and Farden had found a quiet corner by the fireplace in the dim recesses of the room. A skald was regaling the rumbustious crowd with stories about the faerie incident. He stood on
a table near the door playing his stringed ljot, kicking tankards of beer with his muddy feet, and belting out the words at the top of his voice. A few women in thin frilly dresses lounged about the place, grinning at any man who came close and beckoning them closer with crooked fingers, nails painted with gaudy yellows and reds. The men cheered and clanged their tankards together, singing along, swinging some of the more sober women around in drunken jigs. The mage watched them impassively. Alcohol worked in mysterious ways.

  Farden looked back into the crackling flames and swirled his sweet red wine around in the wooden cup, thinking about his day, and trying not to think about Cheska. The fire was warming his cold toes even through his thick travelling boots, and the warmth and the wine were starting to make him sleepy. He crossed his legs and shuffled slightly closer to the fireplace, and pulled his hood lower, down over his brow, blocking out the loud men and women nearer to the bar. Someone coughed and spluttered nearby, and Farden glanced in the direction of the noise.

  Next to him, nearer to the wall in a shadowy corner, was an old beggar smoking a long dirty pipe. Farden had seen him earlier, snoring away to himself near the warmth of the fire, but now he was awake and peering about the place with his beady rat-eyes. The grey man was ugly, unshaven, and unkempt, with greasy hair and dirty patchwork clothes made from a thousand different garments. Sprouting from his narrow chin was a straggly beard coiled in little dirty strands and plaits, with bits of dried stew clinging to it. He busied himself by chewing on the mouthpiece of his curved pipe. Gnarled fingers drummed annoyingly on the arm of the wooden chair he was curled up in. The mage looked him up and down, and then back to his wine. The smell of his acrid tobacco tickled his nose.

  Farden took another sip of his wine and tried to let his concentration melt into the warm fire, but now he could feel someone looking at him. Casually he turned to face the beggar and met his gaze. His little rodent eyes narrowed and sparkled with a cheeky glint.

  ‘What do you want?’ said Farden calmly.

  The beggar chuckled, making his whole body shake with the effort. His tobacco-smoke breath rattled in his throat noisily. ‘Oh nothin’, thought I’d look at yer, seein’ as he’s lookin’ at me,’ said the man. He waggled his pipe in Farden’s general direction. ‘Yew look like a strong fellow though, don’t yer, all quiet and sad on yer own,’ he croaked, leering at him with a mischievous smile.

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘Oh nothin’ at all friend, jus’ makin’ conversation s’all,’ the beggar shrugged and sucked on his pipe. It rattled against his dirty yellow teeth.

  ‘Well I’d appreciate the peace and quiet if its all the same to you,’ Farden looked away, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the man lean in closer. Smoke escaped from his mouth like thick grey liquid and coiled towards the ceiling.

  ‘Yew that mage? The one I ‘eard about?’ asked the man.

  Farden didn’t move. ‘There are a lot of mages in Krauslung old man, I’m not one of them.’

  ‘Heehee, fair enough,’ he cackled hoarsely, wheezing and slapping his knee, obviously finding great humour in the answer. ‘But I seen yew around mage, runnin’ here, runnin’ there, yer important they say, one of the older ones. I ‘eard about yew an those minotaurs sev’ral years back? Said yew almost took ‘em all single ‘anded. Saw yer at the Arkathedral too, an’ I can spot those pretty vambraces a mile away,’ the tramp winked, nodding to the gold poking from under Farden’s sleeve. The mage crossed his arms and eyed the man suspiciously. He blithely wondered if he had seen this old wreck before.

  ‘Hah, yew ‘ave nothin’ t’ fear from me, big strong lad like yerself...’ he paused, taking a drag on his foul-smelling pipe. Farden wrinkled his nose. The man sucked his blackened teeth and held it towards him. ‘Fancy a bit?’ he asked.

  Farden looked at the mouldy pipe and shook his head with a grimace. ‘I don’t smoke,’ he said.

  The old man shrugged and looked around furtively with his rat-eyes. His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. ‘How about that then, and yer look like the manner o’ man who does. Maybe you prefer to chew it.’ His eager eyes scanned the mage’s face and there was an awkward pause.

  ‘I said I don’t smoke, and I don’t chew it either.’ Farden narrowed his eyes threateningly. His patience was wearing thin.

  ‘Wasn’t talkin’ ‘bout tabaccy now was I...?’ a sparkle in his little eyes suddenly caught the mage’s attention, but he shook his head.

  ‘This conversation is over.’ Farden stared at the fire.

  ‘I don’t think it is mage,’ chuckled the beggar. He cocked his head to the side like a pigeon assessing bread. ‘Yew never smoked it before, ‘ave yer?’ He leaned forward slightly, confidentially. He looked around at the unfamiliar faces at the bar and sniffed. ‘Yer wastin’ yer time, only chewin’ it. Nevermar’s meant to be smoked, mage,’ said the beggar, and tapped the bowl of his pipe on the arm of the chair.

  Farden opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it again. He reached out towards the fire with his hands and felt the heat creep over his skin. A loud bray of laughter came from the others at the bar. He took a deep breath through his nostrils and let the smell of pipe and wood smoke fill his head. ‘How much?’ he asked.

  The beggar waved a bony hand and shook his head, as if he had just been insulted. ‘Sometimes an old man jus’ likes a body to smoke with, ‘stead of bein’ on his own, see? Makes a change don’t it, mage,’ coughed the man, with a skeletal hiss and a waft of bad breath.

  ‘Don’t call me that,’ Farden warned and the man shrugged again. ‘As you wish,’ he said.

  Farden’s mind raced while he swirled the wine around like a whirlpool in his cup. Temptation billowed in low clouds over his head and he chewed the inside of his lip. Unwelcome thoughts gathered, memories and dead faces laughed at him. Cheska hovered in his mind, pale, and still. He wanted to stop thinking.

  ‘Fine,’ he said, and then stood up to gulp down the last dregs of his drink in one swift move. ‘I’m in number sixteen, if you can count that high, the one with the red door.’ And with that he swept up the nearby staircase and disappeared into the shadows of the corridor. After finding his room in the gloomy hallway he opened the door and lit the fireplace with a quick spell. He opened the windows to let the cold night air chill the room and reclined in a nearby chair. He impatiently played with flashing sparks on his palm.

  A short while passed and then there came a bony knock on the wooden door.

  ‘Come in,’ Farden whispered gruffly.

  The old beggar shuffled through the door, hunched and crooked. Farden thought the man could have been tall once, but now his long years had bent his back and added lines to his face. In the firelight his face looked like weathered oak, and he now wore a grey cloak, also made of patches, over his rags.

  ‘Have a seat,’ gestured Farden, to the chair opposite him.

  ‘Give me a moment.’ The man ignored the offered chair and squatted in front of the fire. He pulled a few items from his pockets and placed them on the brick hearth. He toyed with them with gnarled hands. Farden pointed to one, a strange pipe, curved like his other one, but coiled in the middle. It looked like a cross between a snail and a horn. ‘What’s that?’ the mage asked.

  ‘Gim, skiff, redraw, blagg, nevermar, you always smoke it in a pipe,’ the grey character muttered. He unfolded a little bundle of cloth and started to peel something apart, placing little crumbs of red moss into the bowl of the pipe and pushing it down with his little finger. Once the bowl seemed to be full, the man sprinkled some of his cheap tobacco on the top, and tapped the thing on the edge of the fireplace. He looked at the fire, shook his head, and then cast around for flint and tinder, then he had a sudden thought and looked up at the mage. ‘D’ye mind?’ he said, waving the pipe in little circular motions.

  Farden fixed him with a murderous look, and then grudgingly accepted the pipe. ‘If I find out that you’ve told anyone, anyone about this, then I will
find you, old man, and I will kill you. Understand?’

  The old man shrugged and shook his head and tried to portray the image of sincerity and trust. ‘Don’t know no one to tell, mage, yew can trust me.’ The beggar winked.

  ‘Don’t call me that,’ said Farden irritably. He held the pipe in one hand, and with the other, keeping an eye on the beggar, pointed his finger at the bowl of the pipe, and with a little flame, made the stuff crackle and hiss. He sucked on the end of the pipe and felt the acrid smoke burn and scrape his throat. He coughed and spluttered.

  ‘Tastes good don’t it,’ chuckled the old man. With great difficulty he got to his feet and then instantly placed himself down in the threadbare armchair.

  ‘It’s harsh,’ Farden groaned. He took another painful drag and tried to relax in his chair, feeling a slight headiness tingling all throughout his skull. He offered the pipe back to the old man and he grabbed at it with grubby fingers. After a few quick puffs he passed it back to Farden with another knowing grin. They sat in silence, listening to the music from downstairs escape into the street below the window. The man watched Farden smoke the pipe with a hungry expression, but Farden didn’t even notice. He held the smoke in his chest and felt the back of his eyes shiver and his temples quiver. His arms felt a hundred feet long and his fingers moved through sickly honey.

  They passed the pipe back and forth, and soon enough Farden found himself melting into the chair like an icicle in the morning sunlight. His mind ran through fields of the absurd, random music scattered between his ears, and strange shapes moved about his room, searching for reality under the bed and behind the curtains. The old tramp shook and bounced, and his jittery bed shifted around in an imaginary earthquake.

  At some point Farden looked up to find the pipe in front of him again. The thing glittered like an angry torch, sparking and puffing fumes into the air. Smoke filled his eyes. Lungs burned. An intense feeling of dizziness pounded against the inside of Farden’s skull. He closed his eyes to watch colours collide, and opened them to find he was suddenly alone. The old beggar was long gone. The bed evaded him for a while but then he caught it, and fell into a lake of pillows and sheets. He kicked off boots that were hot and heavy, and his tunic was made of thick soup. A pillow hijacked his head and he drifted off into a heavy, drug-laden sleep. Gods danced around his room, and daemons watched from the corners and rafters, quoting something about blood and history. Darkness took him.