The Written

by Ben Galley

  There, laying on a huge wooden bed of autumn leaves, spotlighted by a lone shaft of sunlight, was the Old Dragon, Farfallen. He shone with a warm gold light, vibrating with an ancient magick Farden did not fully understand. The mage’s head swam between disbelief and bewilderment. Vice had killed the Old Dragon, years ago in the battle of Ragjarak, and yet here he was, sitting calmly on his roost with his dragon-rider beside him.

  Farfallen’s Siren was a tall thin willow of a woman. Her stern lightning face was like a thin blade, serious and commanding. Her jaw was set and her thin hands were neatly folded behind her back. The woman’s long green dress draped over her incredibly slender body and fell to the floor like a moss-covered tree branch. Her long autumn-gold hair was tied back apart from two long strands that fell in front of each ear, long like the fangs of a sabre cat. She seemed to have a habit of flaring her nostrils, whether through irritation or tendency, Farden could not tell. Golden scales covered her cheekbones, and they ran in stripes up her neck to meet her chin. Her yellow eyes pierced Farden’s and he felt himself blinking weakly even in the low light.

  The great dragon stirred loudly behind her and she turned. He stretched out one colossal gold wing briefly like a huge canvas and blinked each golden eye separately. They were like black orbs flecked with liquid gold and stardust. Farden felt like falling into them. Farfallen finished stretching and watched the quiet mage impassively. A lizard tongue graced sharp teeth and flicked over mottled lips.

  ‘Well met and good wishes stranger. Can you speak?’ His voice rumbled again like distant thunder.

  ‘Yes sire,’ croaked Farden.

  ‘From where did you come from thief?’ His dragon-rider, the stern woman, spat.

  ‘Be calm, Svarta. Speak, guest, tell us,’ Farfallen lifted a huge claw to silence her and then nodded for him to carry on.

  Farden took a deep breath and attempted a shaky bow. ‘My name is Farden, I am an Arka mage sent here to speak with the Siren council. My masters wish you all kind greetings and express their desire to bring peace between our two people,’ he said. Farden felt dizzy under the gaze of the dragons. There was a pause.

  ‘You are one of the Written,’ said the woman, Svarta, more of a fact than a question.

  The mage suddenly grew wary. His mind turned to the raving lunatic back in his cell. ‘That is true,’ he answered slowly.

  ‘Then you are a danger to us all!’ Svarta opened her arms palms facing upwards and she looked up at the other dragons. ‘The magick this man holds in his skin is treacherous. The healer who brought this mage back from the dead was turned to madness and lost his mind to whatever spells you cast on him.’ Her eyes bored into Farden’s skull. Some of the dragons murmured in agreement, others whispered conspiratorially to their riders.

  Farden was shocked at the accusation. ‘I have been unconscious for days! The first time I saw that man was in my cell just a moment ago! Whatever he did he did it to himself and without my help. I’m sure you all know what I am, and what is on my back.’ Farden involuntarily pulled his tattered tunic around his shoulders and stood defiantly, still shaky. ‘His fate is nothing to do with me.’

  ‘It is everything to do with you! A strange man washed up on our shores half-dead, taken in by a kind healer, and suddenly he is turned into a raving lunatic? We should have left you for the gulls!’ Svarta shouted. Farfallen and the council watched on calmly.

  ‘I came here on a peaceful mission! My ship was attacked on the way here, and I was forced to take my chances in the sea. Surely a hawk has arrived with news of my arrival?’ Farden tried explaining, but Svarta huffed and crossed her arms. He looked into the massive gold eyes of the Old Dragon. Farfallen took a deep breath and sighed. ‘No hawk, eagle, or falcon has reached us with any missive from the Arka. We have not had any dealings with your people in years,’ he said, with a tinge of looking like a distant thought had just passed through his mind like a wandering beggar. ‘Who attacked your ship?’

  The mage sighed. This was going to be a long story. ‘Sire, this discussion might be better held in private, my mission concerns all of Emaneska.’ Another grumble from the other dragons.

  Farfallen waited to say something, but Svarta jumped in. ‘Your mission? I assume this has something to do with…. this!’ She reached behind her and pulled out the huge tearbook, dry and safe. A gasp came from the hall like a sudden wind, as if a forgetful guard had left a door open. The dragons flapped and moved around in their nests. Some riders perched on their partner’s long serpentine necks leaned forward to get a better view of the book.

  Farden was shocked and relieved at the same time. He was sure that the tearbook had been lost in the waves when he jumped ship. Svarta held it aloft and showed it to the entire council. Farfallen was silent, one eyed now closed, the other fixed on his tearbook.

  ‘This man was found with this in his clutches! Farfallen’s memories, long stolen from us and kept by the Arka as a trophy of the battle at Ragjarak…’

  ‘Yes and if the message had arrived from Krauslung then you would know I was bringing it as a gesture of good faith! As a peace offering from my people!’

  ‘You’re a thief!’ one Siren somewhere in the hall shouted out.

  ‘Liar!’ another shout.

  ‘Enough!’ Farfallen roared. For the first time the Old Dragon reared up from his bed and sat up straight with a loud scraping and Farden found himself gazing up at him. A thick spiky tail whipped the air with a swish and his wings beat the air like hammers as he hauled his massive weight upright. The huge golden dragon sat on his hind legs like a giant cat and his spiked tail waved impatiently. Farfallen’s wings folded back with a rustle. The golden scales that covered his body undulated and quivered in the torchlight that washed over his shining body. His wings stood arched behind his shoulders, and long horns ran up his spine to meet in a wide crown above his bony brows. It was the sheer size of him that impressed Farden. The Old Dragon was at least twice the size of the worm that had attacked Farden recently, and the mage’s heart thudded hard in his chest. He could see a long rippling scar that ran from Farfallen’s throat down across his left forearm. The dragon flexed his snake-like neck, hinging and unhinging his jaw with a noisy click. He clicked his talons together against the rock floor.

  ‘I will talk to the mage, but not now and not here. Let him explain himself to me.’

  Svarta looked like she would say something, but Farfallen shot her a glance. ‘My word is final,’ he uttered. She nodded. The other dragons rumbled their assent, and several leapt into the air, flapping their wings with huge whooshing sounds. Farden’s dark hair scattered in the wind as the huge beasts soared upwards and through the skylight at the far end of the hall. The mage could just about see the snow flurrying in their wake.

  ‘Farden, walk with us.’ Farfallen swapped a look with Svarta. The two of them left their platform and headed towards a low doorway in the rock wall. The mage was ushered along by two nearby guards who grabbed him roughly by the arms. Farden walked forward and the men jostled him. Despite his dizziness he was beginning to feel strength seeping back into his body; the weakness and fragility seemed to fade slowly with every step he took. He wondered if it was the effect of the dragons’ magick.

  Farfallen’s feet pounded the stone floor ahead of him and each step shook the mage’s legs. Svarta shot him a glance that spoke menace and justice. Farden coughed blandly. Randomly he wondered if it was difficult to ride a dragon.

  The party strolled around a wide corridor that sloped gently further and further down into the mountain. Farfallen and Svarta were silent as they walked. Occasionally they would look at each other as if reacting to a silent rebuke or question. Farden watched them closely until Svarta chuckled slightly and then fell silent once more. She still held the big tearbook under her arm. The mage tried to remember the rumours he had heard about the mind-reading skills of dragons.

  Soon they approached the end of the spiralling corridor and stopped in front of a
semi-circular doorway, locked tight by thick bars of ornate wood. Two siren guards stood either side of it wearing the expressions of wax dolls. Their colourful eyes were rigid and unmoving, the tips of their sharp spears barely quivering, and their lips were drawn tight with ceremonious gravity. Formal was an understatement, Farden thought to himself. Farfallen fixed him with a golden stare momentarily and then looked away.

  ‘Leave us,’ Svarta looked over her bony shoulder and nodded to the men flanking the mage. They stepped aside, bowed, and scurried back the way they had come. Farden swayed like an old willow on his tired legs.

  ‘Come Farden, let us talk in private,’ said the Old Dragon without turning around. He waited for the two soldiers to slide open the doors. Even though the curve of the doorway was massive, the huge lizard still had to duck his head and wings as they passed under the gilded arch. The mage followed quietly. He caught one of the soldiers stealing a glance at him as he passed. Their eyes met for a second and the soldier’s head snapped back to position. Farden shrugged and hobbled into the room. A fresh arctic breeze caressed his unshaven face, and he could smell the clean, pure scent of snow and mountain air coming from somewhere nearby. The tall domed roof reminded him of the hall he just left, but the long windows lit the huge space with crisp white light that hurt his eyes. Thick carpets covered the stone floor, and wide benches and platforms followed the line of the walls, there was even a resting spot for the huge bulk of the Old Dragon. Big circular doors led to other rooms and quarters to his left and right, and thick wooden bookcases lined one far wall next to another door to a long balcony. The dragon shuffled his gold feet in that direction, and Farden followed like a loyal dog. Svarta lingered by the bookshelves.

  The brisk mountain air almost knocked Farden over as he stepped over the threshold onto the expansive balcony. High overhead he could see more dragons circling, coloured shapes whirling through the sky, big and small depending on the distance and of all hues and sizes. Scattered snow drifted through the overcast skies, as if the clouds were trying but couldn’t quite muster the energy for a blizzard. The thick white flakes were a stark contrast to the dusty grey clouds that rolled and yawned above, a sky so cavernous Farden was sure he had seen it before. If he stood at the railing he could see the whole mountainside spread below him, but leaning over made his stomach churn so he looked straight ahead at the mountainous countryside that stretched out into the distance like a crumpled chart. He held out a hand to let cold snowflakes land on his hot skin.

  The citadel of Hjaussfen seemed to be mostly contained within the extinct volcanic shell of the mountain, but the villages and towns had pooled together around it, linking roads and boundaries to form a suburban sprawl of buildings much like the cramped streets of Krauslung. Through the curtain of snow Farden could pick out clusters of houses and low round towers poking from behind volcanic crags and rugged cliffs. Farms of dark soil popped up between the rocks every so often, now barren in the winter months. Here and there he could see flat roofs and circular areas lit by wind-blown torches. He assumed they were for dragons to land on if they so wished. Strange, he thought, how easy the harmony was achieved between these massive beasts and their Siren friends. Everything he saw was built for two different kinds of citizen, no road was too narrow, or step too tall, and everywhere he looked he could see the Sirens living in complete cooperation with the dragons. If only the social boundaries of the Arka could be so blurred, he thought.

  ‘We love the snow.’ Farfallen said from behind him. The dragon had joined him at the railing. ‘Keeps us cool.’

  ‘I’ve never seen so many of you in one place,’ confessed Farden.

  ‘Even in the war?’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘before my time.’

  ‘There used to be many more of us in the world, not only in Hjaussfen or Nelska, but in every corner of Emaneska,’ he sighed.

  Farden thought of the empty nests in the great hall and thought about asking, but Farfallen spoke up, so he stored that question for later. ‘You must be surprised to see me alive, mage, after the stories you have no doubt heard of brave Lord Vice the dragon-slayer?’ A smirk curled on his lip.

  Farden nodded quietly, eyeing the scar on the dragon’s neck.

  ‘It was a lucky strike, and one that almost killed me. But I think it would take a lot more than just a sword to finish the job. Vice foolishly left me for dead, and I decided it was better to stay that way, at least as far as the Arka were aware, that is,’ said Farfallen with a far-off look.

  Farden wondered what Vice would say when he found out. He would not be best pleased. ‘There’s a lot to be reconciled between our people, but I’m here for something much more important,’ the mage said.

  The dragon dipped his massive spiky head and cleared his throat. The noise was like a landslide under a hollow mountain. ‘I assume you speak of your mission?’ He rumbled.

  Farden turned to face him. He closed his eyes as a wave of weakness came and went. ‘I was sent here with an important task, one that is best kept as quiet as possible. We’re still not sure who is behind all this, and several members of the magick council believe that some of the Sirens could be responsible.’

  Farfallen matched his solemn look with both giant eyes. The reptile settled down on the cold floor and his tail swished noisily from side to side. Farden shivered in the wind. ‘Tell me,’ he said.

  Farden told the story of what had happened at Arfell, leaving out no detail whatsoever and remembering to be exact and mind his manners. Even though he kept glancing at Farfallen’s claws and teeth, something in the back of his mind told him he could trust the dragon, and he could see reliability in the dragon’s eyes. So he kept talking.

  When it came to the subject of Jergan, Farfallen held up a single claw to interrupt the mage.

  ‘Jergan, the lycan?’

  ‘You knew him?’ asked Farden, confused.

  Farfallen squinted into the distance and tried to think. ‘Yes, a long time ago, the memories are hazy, but I remember him, or at least the memory of him.’

  A voice came from behind them. ‘I remember when we heard he was bitten.’ Svarta glided across the flagstones, her slim green dress blowing in the wind. Farden didn’t turn around and carried on staring at the rocky landscape.

  ‘He came back covered in blood and deep scratches, soaked by the snow and half-dead from the cold. The healers knew instantly what had happened and we sent him away.’ Her words sounded cruel and heartless, but Farden knew there was no easy cure for a lycan’s bite; exile was the only answer.

  ‘The wolf-curse is a strong one, and there was nothing we could do for him. He was a danger to us all.’ Farfallen agreed, as if reading the mage’s thoughts.

  ‘I know. He wishes you to know that he is alive and well… sort of. I fought him in the south of Albion about a week ag…’ Farden paused for a moment. ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘We’ve put up with you for six days,’ said the stern woman. She reached the railing and put her hands slowly on the cold stone. Her yellow eyes wandered over the view.

  Farden counted the days in his head, and then realised he had no idea how long he had been stranded at sea. Eleven, twelve days altogether? With no messenger hawk the council would be getting worried, and probably fearing the worst. ‘I have to send word to the Arka.’

  ‘We’ll get to that after you tell us what you’re doing here, and why you had Farfallen’s tearbook.’ Svarta snapped.

  ‘I came here to enlist the services of the Sirens in battling this common enemy. Whoever stole the summoning manual wants to use it against all of Emaneska, and only the memories in the tearbook can tell us where they’ll try and summon this creature.’ Farden crossed his arms defiantly.

  ‘Which creature?’ asked the Old Dragon.

  ‘One spell in the book spoke of a massive, apparently unimaginably terrifying monster, the one that we think they’re after. If the scholars and Jergan were right, then none of us, not the Arka nor the
Sirens, could match it.’ Farden explained.

  The grin that ran across Svarta’s face was no less than sarcastic. ‘The last I heard, the Sirens weren’t in favour with your court.’

  ‘If we are to stop this from happening we need to fight together. True, there were some in the council who accused you of being responsible for this chaos, but it was the ruling of the Arkmages that I was to come here and try and make peace. Unless, of course, your pride isn’t damaged in doing so?’ Farden returned the grin. Svarta smouldered, but Farfallen put a huge claw on her shoulder lightly.

  ‘We have no objection to peace, Farden, Svarta is just trying to look out for the best interests of our people. But if you found a strange foreign man washed up on one of your beaches with a stolen treasure in his hands what would you assume?’ the dragon asked, and the mage had to agree with him. ‘Still, I am grateful for the return of my tearbook. Since it was taken things have been hazy in my mind, not so clear. When I try and remember something it’s like grasping at a wet fish. Difficult,’ he said, with more than a hint of wistfulness. ‘Why are my memories so important to the safety of Emaneska?’