by Ben Galley
The Undermage stood up and went to the blood-encrusted Weight on the floor. With the cloth he picked it up and gripped it tightly. ‘I’ll meet you outside Farden,’ said Vice before he left the hall.
After he left, Åddren beckoned to the mage. ‘Come here mage,’ he said. Farden strode forward and bowed in front of the throne. The Arkmage leaned forward and held out his own Weight. It caught the light and glistening like the sun. Åddren spoke slowly. He sounded tired. ‘It seems you have proven you worth once more, Farden, and I am glad to have you back in one piece. Because you have been so loyal to the Arka in the face of such betrayal, I now want you to hold onto this, so that I may be exempt from any blame. After tonight I will stay in my chamber, and the council will be suspended until I say different.’ Åddren looked to Svarta and narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. ‘Vice has done well to chose you to lead the Written. I know you will not disappoint.’
Farden suddenly felt honoured, and for the first time he felt like he had escaped the shadow of his uncle’s legacy, that his dedication had been noticed, that he was no longer a pawn, but a player. Farden bowed once more and thanked the Arkmage. He took the Weight, marvelling at its lightness, and slipped it inside his cloak. As he turned he looked to Farfallen, who blinked slowly and hinted at a smile, and then left with Modren trailing behind. Svarta watched him go suspiciously.
As he reached the doors, Farden stopped and turned, an idea in his head. ‘If I might ask a favour of the Sirens, your Mage, I would like it if Brightshow flew me to the Arkabbey in the Forest of Durn, in Albion, if she and her rider are willing?’ he asked. Modren looked aghast at the notion of dragons and flying in the same sentence.
‘And what is the purpose of this diversion?’ Åddren inquired.
‘My superior at the Arkabbey, the vampyre Durnus,’ at this Svarta looked even more disgusted, ‘is one of the finest historians and scholars the Arka have. He has spent decades studying dark magick and Albion, and I think he would be invaluable in helping to find the elven well,’ said Farden.
Åddren thought for a moment and then nodded. ‘It makes sense, and I see no problem with it. Be quick though Farden, we have no time to waste.’ Åddren waved for him to go, and managed to give the mage a weak smile. The mage could see that the day’s events had hit him hard.
‘I’ll meet you in front of the main gates outside your city, Farden, as soon as night falls.’ Brightshow said, and her rider gave the mage a formal smile. Farden smiled at the dragon, bowed again, and left with Modren once again in tow.
Vice was waiting outside the door. The people had been ushered downstairs and swiftly out of the citadel at the behest of the Undermage’s sharp tongue. His soldiers now stood at every door and corner in the fortress, green and black armour clanking loudly as they patrolled around in pairs.
‘There you are,’ Vice scowled at them. The door banged shut and he whispered to Farden. ‘What did the Arkmage say?’
‘He said you did well to choose me as leader of the Written, and he thanked me for all I did in Nelska,’ said Farden. They walked as they whispered, meandering through the corridors and down into the fortress below. Modren remained a few steps behind, feeling altogether overwhelmed and left out.
Vice mused, rubbing his chin with a thoughtful hum. He smoothed his hair as he spoke. ‘Helyard all along,’ he said.
Farden shook his head and clenched his fists. ‘He’s been against our every move since the start of this whole debacle. I should have realised earlier when he tried to pin it on me.’
‘None of us could have ever predicted that the traitor would be an Arkmage. Even in my wildest dreams.’
‘I always knew there was something strange about him. He always was the more powerful of the two. I half expected him to try and fight his way out of there,’ said Farden.
Vice agreed. ‘Well he’s locked away now, and I’d like to see him try to break his way out. The prison walls are bound with spells for a reason. Even air couldn’t escape those cells,’ he said. Farden and Modren nodded. The prisons were legendary, and every criminal’s nightmare. Vice looked at the two mages. ‘Are the Written going to be ready in time? As much as I distrust that golden lizard, Farfallen is right: whoever Helyard was working with could potentially release the creature at any time.’
Farden lifted his chin proudly. ‘I’ll assemble them now and get them through the quickdoor to Dunyra as soon as possible. We’ll be at Fidlarig by nightfall.’
‘Good. You’re in charge now,’ he paused. ‘So don’t let me down,’ Vice threw him a sideways look and disguised the warning with a smile. Farden retorted with his own arrogant smirk. ‘Never been a problem before,‘ he said. They jogged down a flight of steps two at a time, boots clattering on the stone. The noise from below was getting louder. ‘I almost forgot, I’m collecting Durnus from the Arkabbey before I go to Dunyra.’
Vice looked confused, a little annoyed. ‘Why?’
‘That old vampyre has sat in his study for the last two hundred years studying the dark elf wells and their history. If we want to get to this well as quickly as possible then he’s our best bet.’
‘Fine, bring him,’ said the Undermage reluctantly. ‘I’m staying in Krauslung. Someone needs to be here to stop it falling apart. Åddren is shaken, and I don’t think he’ll be thinking clearly, so I want to be here in case anything goes wrong. And those dragons need watching too,’ said Vice, and leaned closer to whisper in Farden’s ear. ‘I see what you mean about that Siren bitch,’ he hissed. Farden nodded and said no more.
The three of them descended into the depths of the Arkathedral fortress, their steps gradually getting faster and faster with each flight of stairs and every corridor they came across, as if success depended on their haste, and in no time at all they reached where the crowds were at their busiest. Vice paused on the steps. The noise was deafening, echoing and bouncing off the marble walls and floors, and he had to shout to be heard. ‘I will join you in a few days, don’t let me down Farden! Remember, you’re in charge now.’
‘If there’re any problems I’ll be back here instantly, so keep the quickdoors open!’ Farden shook Vice’s hand, and Modren bowed low. The Undermage gripped the Farden’s shoulder tightly and then turned to go back the way they had come. ‘May the gods be with you!’ he called over his shoulder.
Once he had left Farden sighed and shrugged at Modren. His blonde friend shook his head and breathed an exasperated and somewhat tired sigh. ‘You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.’
Farden rolled his eyes ‘Tonight, when I get back from the Arkabbey, then I’ll tell you everything,’ he said. ‘This day has been fucked up,’
‘This whole situation is fucked up! Moral’s going to be terrible when word gets out about Helyard,’ Modren cursed.
‘I know, but we’ve got more dangerous things to think about now, and places to be, so get a move on. I’m going to get my things and get ready, and then we’ll meet back here at sunset like I said.’
‘Fine.’ said Modren, and the two mages strode purposefully down the corridor and into the atrium. It was buzzing, as it had been all day, and once again they had to push and barge and shout and squeeze to get through the mass of people. Farden waved to Modren and fought his way outside and back onto the streets. Within half an hour he was back at the Bearded Goat and quenching his thirst with fresh cold rainwater. The drunks had been turfed out and gotten rid of, and the inn was being slowly cleaned by a set of very tired staff indeed. The innkeeper barely said a word to the mage. He had deep purple bags under his eyes and his hair resembled a dishevelled haystack. Farden paid the man for his room and his drink, and then went upstairs to gather his things. It was just past midday, and there were at least four or five hours until sunset. He slumped onto the bed and quickly fell into a deep sleep.
When he awoke it was no more than an hour later, and he felt refreshed and eager. The sun was beginning its slow fall to the western slopes, and the city outside his window was stil
l crowded and turbulent. He was glad he had kept the window shut. Farden stretched, and then yawned, and then got of of bed. Most of his clothes were already packed, seeing as he hadn’t quite unpacked yet, but his sword was blunt and his boots were looking a little too worn. He checked his supplies, of which he had plenty thanks to the Sirens. The little vial of ice water sparkled blue in the sunlight. The maps they had given him didn’t make much sense, but they could come in useful, so he packed them as well. The book followed, as did Cheska’s fjortla, and then he was ready to go. Farden grabbed his cloak from the chair and flung it around him. Something solid knocked against his shoulder, and he made a confused face. The mage rummaged around in the pockets until he found the culprit: the Weight. He brought it out into the light and ran his coarse fingers over the gold, feeling the ridges and dents of the script. The words were strange, foreign, like the old spellbooks he had seen on Durnus’s shelf. Farden handled the disk as if it would explode in any moment, as if it would whisk him away to some unknown place just by holding it. He carefully put it back in his pocket, and made sure it was safe. With that, he was done, and he hoisted his pack and his sword onto his shoulders. Once again, the mage was ready to go.
Farden left the Bearded Goat jogging and headed towards the nearest market. People were beginning to barricade doors and windows with planks and boxes. Someone had left an old cart in the middle of the road, and a man had clambered on top of it, yelling at the top of his voice that war was coming. There was a bottle in his hand, and he swayed back and forth as the cart rocked. Soldiers stood on every street corner and patrols meandered through the crowds. They seemed restrained, edgy, and Farden didn’t blame them. He looked up at the sky. The clouds were still gathering, as they had been since that morning. No doubt Helyard was up to something, sitting shackled in his cell. Shadows scuttled over the city as clouds passed over the sun, and the light of the clear day began to fade. As he strode briskly through the streets, Farden kept an eye on the weather.
The mage found the market, and crammed as it was with people, he managed to make his way to the blacksmith’s forge. Weapons were piling up on the tables, and a backlogged queue of soldiers stood tapping their feet and fingers. Their expressions were of impatient boredom, and they were all silent, waiting for their turn. Farden approached the line of men. He could feel their eyes on him. As he moved to join the back of the queue, they moved, one by one, out of his way, and gestured for him to move forward. Farden nodded and smiled as each man silently shuffled aside. Word spread fast in the city.
A skinny young boy took his sword and unsheathed it, testing its edge. He couldn’t have been more than ten years old, but he swung it around him once or twice, nodded, and then gave it to the man at the grindstone. He looked at it, thumbed the blade, and then spun his wheel. A shower of sparks flew from the steel and it hissed and whined as the metal moved against the rough grey edges of the stone. Farden waited, running his hands over the armour and shields on display, and thought to himself.
After a moment, the blade was finished, and the boy handed it back to the mage. Farden could see the boys eyes widen hungrily at the sight of the red and gold metal around his wrists. Farden smiled and tapped them with a finger. ‘Not for all the coin in the world, boy,’ he said, and walked off, nodding his thanks to the line of soldiers as he left.
Replacing his boots took a while, as it seemed difficult for the people at the stalls to find any pairs that fit him. After an hour or so he found a pair of black travelling boots which matched his black cloak, and they hugged his feet comfortably. Once they had been “blessed” by the owner of the stall, a very strange and twitchy young man, Farden left, and headed back towards the Arkathedral. He gathered a few more supplies on his way out, but just as he was about to escape the clutches of the busy market, he saw a tiny little stall, no more than a banner and a tall box, hiding under the porch of an old building on the corner of the street. A tall woman, almost taller than him, stood behind the stall and watched the passing commotion with a calm and expressionless face. He didn’t have time to spare, but there was something about her wares that caught his eye. Spread out on the top of the dusty box was a white cloth, and dotting the cloth were stones and gems of all different kinds. Farden walked a little closer and looked at them.
Some had smooth surfaces, and some were rough and spiky. One glittered in the fading light and shined with every colour imaginable. Another looked like a lump of gold while the rest were collections of deep molten purples and greens, metallic mottled oranges and veiny crimson reds. Farden couldn’t help but examine each of them, while the tall serene woman watched him calmly. ‘Would you like help, sire?’ she asked, and Farden looked up at her. She was pale, very pale, and had long jet-black hair that reached her hips. Her limbs and fingers were thin, like her face, as if her whole body had been stretched and drawn out. The woman’s eyes were like a lizard’s, and almost seemed to move independently of each other, dark, serene, and inexpressive like two murky rockpools of glassy water. Farden pointed to the small cabochon quartz that was nearest to him. It slowly changed colour, back and forth between green and red.
‘What is this?’ he asked, and she leaned forward as if she had just noticed the stones for the first time. ‘The bloodstone heals feuds, and protects against injustice,’ her voice was small and without accent, and strangely monotone. ‘Many women come to me for it, to bring back lost lovers.’ She pointed to a grey stone that shimmered like steel. ‘This too, they buy,’ she said, and then cocked her head to one side like a bird looking at a worm. ‘Are you here for a woman?’
Farden quickly shook his head. ‘No, well yes, but just a present for my, er, sister. She’s gone away for three days, and I wanted to get her something for when she returns,’ said the mage, with a brief smile. ‘Which she will,’ he added.
The woman grinned back at him, but it was a tight expression that bore no emotion. ‘Well then, Written, this would be a fine and useful present for her.’ Her long fingers moved over the cloth slowly, and then finally rested on a brass-coloured rock. It looked like a lump of tarnished gold, full of angular faces and sparkling edges. ‘These fall from the stars in the east, usually in the morning hours. Some call them the stones of fire, others daemonstones. But they show the truth of things hidden, give hope, and make an excellent present for a, a loved one.’
‘My sister,’ said Farden.
The woman nodded and smiled again. ‘Of course.’ The mage rubbed his chin. ‘How much?’ he asked. ‘Only two silver for my trouble,’ said the skinny woman. He had never really bought a present for anyone before, but it seemed nice enough, and Farden reached for his coins. He placed two silver bits on the cloth and the woman snatched them away before wrapping the small rock in a sheet of waxy brown paper. Her hands moved rapidly over the package to the sound of crackling paper, and soon enough Farden’s present was wrapped, and waiting in the thin woman’s hands. He smiled again, uneasily, and reached for it. From the way the corner or her mouth curled, and the way she stared at him, he half expected her to pull back and ask for something more, but she didn’t move a muscle. The mage stuffed the paper package inside his cloak and made to leave. The woman looked to the grey skies with her glassy eyes and muttered to herself. ‘Rain’s on its way, it seems,’ she said.
Farden looked up at the clouds gathering overhead, their dark bases heavy with precipitation. The Arkmage was hard at work indeed, and it was time to meet the rest of the Written. He nodded to the strange woman and left her stall, feeling her strange gaze upon his back. The gem knocking against his chest with every step he took, and every time it bumped him he thought of Cheska. Farden would keep it for her, while she was in the Spire, and after, once she was rested and healed, he would give it to her as a present. He could almost see her face lighting up in his mind. He took a deep breath, and seeing as she had kept him safe so far, he threw a quick prayer to the goddess and made his way towards the Arkathedral, just as the first heavy rain drops began to
fall, and as darkness gathered in the corners of the wintry skies.
Almost an hour later he reached the Arkathedral gates. Heavy raindrops splashed on the walls, soaking everything to the bone, making buildings creak and swell, a city drowned in the downpour. With the outbreak of rain the streets had quickly emptied. The angry crowds had dispersed and the people had gone home for the evening to shut their doors and pull their curtains. There was no shouting to be heard, no revelling, the news of the Arkmage’s incarceration had spread fast and the blow had been heavy. Farden looked around and listened to his boots splash in the bubbling puddles. Krauslung seemed strangely subdued and quiet that evening.
Modren was waiting for him in the rain, hood up and grinning like a fool. He watched Farden striding across the cobblestones towards him and raised a hand. He walked towards him and shook himself loudly with a shiver.
‘Getting cold out here,’ said Modren.
‘You are standing in the rain,’ replied Farden. The mages walked forward to where the torches hanging from the Arkathedral walls sputtered. The gates were barely ajar, and there was a loud clamouring from behind them, a roar that rose above the noise of the raindrops. Bright light poured onto the street and the guards at the gates looked unsettled and wary. Modren leaned towards Farden and whispered behind a cupped hand as they reached them. ‘You wait until we get inside, mate, I haven’t seen something like this in a long time.’ Farden threw him a quizzical look, and then realised what he was talking about. His heart began to beat. Without any ado whatsoever the guards pushed the heavy doors open and the bright torchlight momentarily blinded the two mages. The roaring noise slowly ground to a halt, and as Farden blinked the spots from his eyes, more than a hundred faces turned to look at him. His stomach suddenly bubbled with momentary fear, or maybe stage-fright, Farden couldn’t tell.
