The Written

by Ben Galley

  Suddenly she stopped, and the writing slammed to a halt, letters bunching up messily at the first line as their momentum carried them forward. As slowly as she had opened the book, Svarta closed the front cover and her eyes locked with her dragon. He made a deep rumble and her neck twitched involuntarily. The next moment she relaxed and nodded and then clicked her long fingers high above her head. Once again from the shadows, shuffling inch by inch, came the same old man with the crystal spectacles. With the same deliberation and overall speed he carefully picked up the tearbook, turned, and disappeared into the shadows once more.

  Farden was confused. Svarta fixed him with her usual condescending stare. ‘Feel privileged mage. Never before has an outsider watched a dragon rebond with his tearbook.’

  ‘I’m honoured.’ He said this to Farfallen.

  ‘I can feel the memories flowing through me again. I had not realised how much had been lost to me; names, places, kings and queens, all coming back to me now…bit by bit.’ The Old Dragon drew a long breath in through his nose and closed his eyes.

  Farden watched him as he held it for an impossible time, and then finally he exhaled a blast of red-hot breath from each nostril. The air rippled like the heat from a blacksmiths forge. ‘A long time has passed since I last breathed fire, far too long a time for a dragon.’ He pushed himself up and sat upright, making his scales undulate hypnotically in the candlelight. Rearing his spiny head, Farfallen took a deep breath of air and spewed forth a deafening blast of searing fire that curled around pillars and licked at the granite ceiling. Heat bathed the two standing at his side, and Farden’s eyes were wide with awe. Svarta even looked happy for a change, managing to clasp her bony hands together in what he could only guess was delight. Farfallen roared again and Farden had to cover his ears to avoid the pain. Echoes danced around the chamber like winter waves on a shore, but slowly the pillars stopped humming and vibrating, and the Old Dragon returned to crouching in front of the shrine. He closed his eyes once more and was silent.

  Svarta tugged at the mage’s sleeve and headed slowly for the door. She whispered to him while they walked. ‘Come, I’ll show you where the kitchen is. I assume the Written eat?’

  Farden’s eyes burned with the after-image from the bright fire and he rubbed at them to get rid of the dancing dots that swam through his vision. ‘We do eat, yes, but only live children.’

  ‘Very funny mage,’ came the reply. ‘Enough of your nonsense, let’s go.’

  ‘Do you think it will be long before you realise I’m not a spy? It’s just I don’t think I’ll be here for that long you see and…’

  ‘Good,’ she snapped and closed the tall doors with a bang. Her fists were clenched by her sides and her chin was high, pointing the way ahead like the scaly bow of a narrow ship. She led the way down another long corridor that looked like all the others. Farden had no idea how anyone could find their way around this place. ‘If you think you can toy with me, then you’re mistaken. Just because Farfallen has taken a liking to you doesn’t mean I have to.’

  ‘What is your problem? What else do I have to do to prove I’m not going to murder all of you in your sleep?’

  The Siren queen shot him a murderous look over her shoulder. ‘There’s something dark inside of you, mage, and I can feel it even if the Old Dragon can’t. I won’t be comfortable until you’re off this island.’

  Farden shook his head, and wondered how far he could push her. ‘Well what am I supposed to do then, while I’m staying here?’

  ‘Stay in the confines of the palace, and no one will harm you. No Arka has set foot in the citadel in fifteen years, so wandering around the streets is out of the question. I don’t want some angry over-zealous citizen deciding to pick a fight with you. Who knows what would happen with your witchcraft.’ Svarta looked the mage up and down with a flick of her head.

  ‘Thanks for being concerned with my safety.’ Farden said dryly. Guards stared at him as they passed, and the soldiers holding the doors open watched the two with quiet whispers and not-so-subtle pointing. Maybe Svarta was right: the ceasefire had always been shaky at the best of times. ‘Fine, maybe you’re right. What happens to the tearbook now?’ asked Farden, remembering the Arkmages’ words.

  ‘Like the Old Dragon, it must rest,’ said Svarta. Farden could hear the effort to stay calm in her voice.

  ‘Well when can we start reading it then?’

  ‘Soon mage, enough with this questioning.’ She glared at him. Farden scowled. ‘Where can I go then? Is there anywhere I can train?’

  Svarta stopped in her tracks and whirled around. ‘Are you joking?’

  Farden set his jaw resolutely and matched her stare. ‘No, I’m deadly serious. I’ve been unconscious for a week and I need to regain my strength.’

  ‘You want me to agree to you practising your dangerous Arka magick in the palace of Hjaussfell?’ She was incredulous.

  The mage nodded ‘Yes, if it’s not too inconvenient.’

  ‘By the gods,’ Svarta closed her eyes tightly for a second and clenched her fists. She breathed out heavily and spat her words at him. ‘Fine, leave it to me.’ And with that she turned around and resumed her fast pace.

  ‘Thank you Svarta.’

  ‘Don’t thank me, thank Farfallen, his word is law,’ she snapped, and shot him a look that would have killed a lesser man. There was an awkward silence, broken only by the smart tap of their footfalls on the rock floor. Farden was slowly realising there was a lot to the Sirens that he had never been told. ‘Why Farfallen, why is he king and not one of the others?’

  ‘He’s the oldest and goldest of them all. The longer a dragon lives then the golder he gets, much the same as we go greyer with age. The golder a dragon is, the greater his right to rule. The goldest out of all of them is crowned the Old Dragon, and he rules until he dies. A few of the elders in the council are close to his age.’

  ‘How old is he?’ Another boyish question.

  ‘We have been bonded for three hundred years, but Farfallen is close to a thousand years old,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t look older than forty,’ replied Farden. It wasn’t supposed to sound like a compliment, but it did, and Svarta merely nodded.

  ‘Whatever power the dark elves left behind gave our ancestors extremely long lives, hundreds of years longer than you Arka…’ Svarta said snidely.

  ‘You must be so superior to us peasants.’ Farden narrowed his eyes at her and tried to add as much sarcasm to his tone as he could. ‘Speaking of the Arka, I need to send a message to the magick council.’

  ‘You can do that after you eat.’ No sooner had she said that than the two of them emerged into a long room that roared with the sound of conversation and the clattering of plates. Steam rose from pots and stoves huddling together along the far wall, mingling with cauldrons and trays of food. Farden’s stomach did a little turn as the smell of broth, bread, meat, and all sorts of other victuals reached his nose. The tables filling the room were crammed with soldiers and servants. Svarta stood to his right with her arms crossed, her favourite pose. She leaned to one of the guards flanking the door and whispered something. He took a quick look at the mage behind her and nodded.

  ‘If anyone should take a disliking to you then these guards will see that you are escorted back to your rooms. I’m warning you Farden, I want no magick whatsoever while you’re here in the palace.’

  ‘Fine.’ Farden watched several Sirens lift their heads from their bowls and look at him. A hush slowly crept across the room until almost everyone was staring at the strange mage standing in the doorway.

  ‘I’ll be in my room if you need me.’ Svarta sneered and left, leaving him standing alone in the unfriendliest room he had ever encountered.

  Farden sighed and steeled himself to walk towards the food spread out at the back of the room. A hundred pairs of suspicious eyes followed him as he walked, watching their guest navigate his way through tables and chairs. Farden had never felt so unwelc
ome in all his life; wandering through the towns of Albion was bliss compared to this.

  Still, he persevered and reached the back wall. A cook fixed him with a disgusted look and shoved a plate into his hands. It was followed by some roast fish, a dollop of watery stew, and a brown bread roll. He nodded his thanks at the silent man and turned around. Everyone was still staring at him.

  ‘What?’ Farden shouted.

  It seemed to work, and many of the Sirens returned to their meals and carried on their conversations quietly. The mage sighed again and found a place to sit up against one of the walls of the long room. The people sat nearest to him cast a few wary, untrusting scowls in his direction but Farden just busied himself with his plate of food and tried not to cause any further disruption to the mess hall.

  The fish was oily, but tasty, and he found himself ravenously tearing at the bread with both hands, previously unaware of how hungry he had been. He finished his whole plate in double time and after deciding against licking the plate clean of stew he leaned back against the wall and tried to relax. A torch fluttered above his head and his rambling thoughts mingled with the flickering flames until he was staring blankly into space. Tiredness crept over Farden’s body like a snail, and he could feel the warmth from the fire and the torch seeping into his bones. He was getting too old for this business, he thought.

  The mage could still feel the unfriendly eyes watching him from the tables nearby. Conspiratorial whispers reached his ears. Gods damn that Svarta, he cursed mentally. Leaving him here alone amongst soldiers that hated him was a sure way to get him into a fight, or worse. Farden would not be baited, not this time. In his peripheral vision he saw a tall figure stand up from a bench and make his way slowly through the chairs and tables crammed with Sirens. Farden closed his eyes and tried to ignore the stares.

  ‘You’re the one they found on the beach.’ A deep voice interrupted his thoughts. Farden blinked and turned his head to see a very big man in a long brown robe standing with his arms folded into his deep sleeves. The man had lost an eye some time long ago, and a long silver scar ran across over the space it used to be and carved its way down his stubbly face to his neck. His hair was curly, dark, and hung in coiled tendrils over his remaining eye and forehead. Scales decorated his temples and neck, grey and dun-coloured like the granite walls of the palace, and there was something about his scales and the look in his one eye that seemed different to the other Sirens in the hall. He looked at Farden with a solemn, vacant expression.

  ‘The mage?’ The stranger asked again.

  ‘I guess so,’ Farden put his empty plate on the floor and rubbed his cold hands together. The man towered above him. He must have been at least a head and a half taller than the mage and rippling with muscle.

  ‘Follow me,’ the man said and nodded towards the door. The tall stranger’s voice was incredibly deep even for a man of his size.

  ‘I’m fine here thank you, I don‘t want any trouble.’ Farden closed his eyes again and let his head rest against the wall behind him. He heard the man crouch down next to him and lean closer, and Farden could smell the cheap wine on his breath. Magick thrummed at the base of his skull.

  ‘You’ve come to the wrong place if you want to be left alone, Arka. I suggest you come with me if you don’t want to find yourself in a brawl with some of the more unrestrained men.’

  Farden’s opened one eye and looked at the nearest table of Sirens. The men there whispered and pointed at the mage, one of them holding a fork rather menacingly. The mage considered his options: follow the big stranger or stay in the room with a score of unfriendly soldiers who with utmost certainty all wanted to cave his head in.

  ‘Lead the way,’ he sighed, blithely wondering why his decisions always seemed to be made for him, like riding a wild beast over which he held no power or sway. Durnus had always said that was the way of the Written. The man stood up and headed for the door with Farden in tow, much to the displeasure of the murmuring men clustered around the table.

  Farden followed the man silently, and picked bits of leftover fish from his teeth. He rubbed his chin and wondered where he could find a blade to shave with. His sword would probably be rusted, he thought. The air was cold outside the warm mess hall, a refreshing change from the stuffy and uncomfortable atmosphere. Farden contemplated going to find Svarta and confronting her but he honestly couldn’t be bothered with her foul mood. He coughed to clear his throat and the big stranger turned around questioningly.

  ‘I’ve heard a lot of rumours about you, Arka, people say you sent one of the healers mad,’ he said.

  ‘People seem to be saying a lot of things about me in this place.’

  ‘We haven’t seen an outsider in years. Some of the other riders are scared of you, or are instantly hateful of you because of the war. The dragons are just curious.’

  ‘It’s the magick in my blood,’ Farden said as they jogged down a tall flight of steps.

  ‘Only wild dragons hunt magick, Arka, not the old ones,’ the stranger corrected him.

  ‘Are you a rider?’ The mage asked.

  There was a long pause and Farden wondered if the stranger had heard him. He watched water trickle from a little rockpool on his left.

  ‘Yes I am,’ he said finally.

  The mage couldn’t think of any reply besides an acquiescent hum, so he just turned his attention to where they were going and his surroundings. The corridors were starting to close in and become narrower, rockier and less grand. Springs of water started to appear in little rock pools in the floor. Some hissed at the two men, and others gave off clouds of steam that filled their hallway. Their boots splashed quietly on wet steps and the air had suddenly become hot and humid.

  Soon they came to an archway and the stranger pushed a low wooden door set deep into the wall. A strong gust of air made Farden’s cloak billow wildly around his legs and snow scattered around his boots as he followed the man out onto a long balcony much like the one in Farfallen’s quarters. The sudden cold was bitter compared to the hot steamy corridors inside the mountain. Above him the sky was dark and heavy, streaked with low ashen clouds like the kind that always seemed to hang listlessly in the sky, somehow never moving despite the powerful wind. Stars struggled to find space in amongst the grey furrowed clouds and snow billowed out of the darkness to sting their faces. A burning torch flapped and fluttered nearby, turning the flakes into a swarm of yellow flies that melted instantly as they touched the wet floor.

  The stranger headed straight for the railing and stood, shoulders hunched, staring into the night sky. Farden just pulled his cloak around him and stood arms crossed by the door, watching the big man with a wary eye. The stranger pointed a monstrous hand into the air and the mage followed his pointing finger. Above the clouds, in the very darkest parts of the sky, there were streams of light dancing and running across the black canvas. Blues, dusty greens, and charcoal whites swam through the sky like a distant stream that wavered and surged through the stars.

  ‘The Wake,’ the stranger said, and Farden could barely here him over the sound of the wind. ‘The First Dragon is out flying tonight.’

  ‘What do you want with me?’ Farden asked the big man. His keen eyes were fixated on the swirling lights above them. He spoke without looking at him. ‘Have you killed dragons, mage?’

  Farden mentally tensed. ‘Only wild ones, on occasion,’ he said, choosing his words carefully.

  The man made a sucking noise with his teeth. ‘That alone is reason for the men to hate you,’ he paused, still looking at the sky. ‘Farfallen has asked me to watch out for you. Svarta’s his rider, but he knows she isn’t fond of you.’

  ‘Fond isn’t actually the word that best describes it.’ Farden walked forward slowly and leaned his back against the railing, facing the door. The huge mountain slope towered over him, a jet-black silhouette against the obsidian and mica-flecked night sky. Torches shone from a thousand windows and ledges, making the huge mountain look for all the
world like a solid island in the sky covered in a myriad of campfires.

  ‘She wants you to prove her right: that you’re dangerous and need to be locked away. So by sending you into the sabre-cat’s den, if it were, she was hoping you’d provoke a reaction from the other men,’ the stranger fixed him with his good eye.

  ‘I am dangerous, but not to anyone here in Hjaussfen. I’m on a peaceful mission…for once,’ said Farden with a humourless chuckle at the back of his throat. He turned to look at the murky darkness of the slopes spread beneath them.

  ‘Mhm, Farfallen’s told me,’ the man nodded and wiped some snow out of his curly hair.

  ‘Who are you anyway?’ Farden asked.

  ‘My name is Eyrum, partner of Longraid.’ The man bowed his head and put a hand to his chest in a formal greeting.

  ‘Good to meet you, I’m Farden,’ the mage returned the bow and smiled at his new ally.

  ‘Well met and good wishes, Farden. The Old Dragon speaks highly of you, which is, needless to say, strange under the circumstances of your arrival. They say you were washed ashore after a storm?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Then it’s a miracle that you survived the freezing waters, the weather god must hold you in high favour.’ Eyrum said in his deep solemn tone.