The Written

by Ben Galley

  Modren had been right. The main atrium was crammed with Written. Farden wasn’t sure he’d seen so many of them in his lifetime, and his heart filled with pride. They were armed, equipped, eager, and ready to fight, eyes blazing with the anticipation of battle. Farden looked over the multitude of different faces, picking out a few he had fought with many times, others he had never seen before. Fresh-faced confident youngsters stood beside grim hardened men, both standing battle-scarred and more than a little proud. Every Written wore that smile, the one the Farden had flashed countless times, that self-assured mettle that burned across their faces and their backs. Farden tried to stand as tall as he could. He tried to look authoritative. He tried to act like he belonged to this crowd. He tried to forget that they all knew about his uncle. Any eyes that held his gaze too long he tried to drill into them, command their respect. He tried to do a hundred things, and he wanted to be everything everyone was expecting. If the Undermage thinks you’re capable, then so should you. Cheska’s words echoed in his mind.

  Farden spoke clearly and with a commanding tone. ‘Listen up!’ he barked. Farden could hear his name being whispered around the marble hall. He ignored them. ‘I’m sure you all know me, and for those who don’t then I expect you soon will. No doubt you’ve heard about Helyard, and the traitors who killed the scholars at Arfell. Word has always travelled fast in these parts.’ A few people chuckled, others nodded. There was more whispering.

  ‘I’m not going to waste our precious time talking, so here’s the problem. The ones who killed the old scholars stole a book, a powerful summoning manual from the times of the dark elves. Using this book, they want to release an ancient monster that will tear Emaneska in pieces, and now that Helyard has been thrown in jail the council have no doubt that the rest of these traitors will accelerate their plan. The only chance we have is to find a dark elf well before they do, and that’s why we’re going to Albion tonight, to the port of Dunyra.’ Farden took a breath and looked at the calm faces of the crowd, simply waiting, staring at him, and not even the slightest bit worried. The mage didn’t hesitate to continue. ‘We all know that we’re the best at what we do because we’ve spent our lives proving it. And, once again, the safety of the Arka rests on our shoulders, and we’re going to put a stop to all this nonsense, the only way the Written know how. I’m not ordering you to go, I’m saying let’s go do our job, so let’s do it fucking well as always!’

  A hundred fists punched the air to his words and the roar that echoed in the marble hall was frighteningly loud. Farden turned to Modren standing by his side with a grin. He puffed out his skinny chest and looked around at the shouting Written with a similar expression. Farden laughed out loud. Shouts filled the hall and the mages began to form long noisy lines, facing the stairs. There were a few more yells and calls, and once they were finished, they started to stamp their feet with the most impatient eagerness, warming themselves up and getting the magick ready with a great roaring throbbing sound. Farden turned to Modren and shouted in his ear. ‘Get them to Dunyra, and meet up with the dragons there, if they’ve arrived. Make sure you don’t waste an time! You’re in charge while I’m gone!’

  ‘You’re going to get that vampyre of yours?’

  ‘Durnus yes! I should be back by morning, but just make sure that if it comes to the worst, don’t hesitate, understand?’ he shouted. Modren nodded fervently. With a grunt Farden tightened the straps on his pack and clapped his friend on the arm. Without another word he turned and left. Modren watched him disappear behind the edge of the door, leaving the zealous stamping Written to themselves. He stood on the wet cobbled street and took a massive breath and then let it out slowly through his nose. He hadn’t realised how hot he’d been, but as the cold raindrops splashed on his skin he shivered, and listened to his heart slowing down. The rain knocked against the gutters and rushed into the drains, making a noisy din as it collided with the world. Dusk was quickly approaching, sneaking along the horizon like a hungry cat. Farden waited for a moment and then he was gone again, off into the evening and towards the city gates.

  It took him just under an hour, and when he got there it was dark and the downpour had only gotten worse. A couple guards had taken shelter under the thick arches. They saluted the mage as he approached and quickly hurried to part the thick iron gates. Once through Farden stood in the shadow of the wall and blew hot breath into his wet hands to try and warm them. A rumble of thunder rocked the gloomy sky and lightning split the darkness. The mage spotted Brightshow standing further up the path. She was shiny with rain and blinking water from her great eyes. She smiled toothily. ‘Well met once again Farden!’ she called to him over the roaring downpour.

  The mage smiled to himself and went to meet the dragon. ‘And good wishes no doubt!’ he said as he he reached her. ‘Thank you again for agreeing to take me to Albion.’

  ‘It is my pleasure! Lakkin has left his saddle on so it’ll be easier to hold on in this weather. I wouldn’t really recommend barescale on your first time riding a dragon.’ Farden had to agree. She flicked her white and gold head to the leather seat strapped behind her at the base of her neck. Farden clenched his fists in a last effort to coax some heat into them. He looked up the hillside towards Manesmark where the lights of the Spire shone brightly. The mage took a deep breath. ‘You scared?’ laughed Brightshow, breaking into his thoughts.

  Farden smiled. ‘Hah, a little,’ he confessed with a shrug.

  Brightshow winked. ‘I don’t blame you, our riders train for years. But it’s much more fun than a quickdoor I hear.’

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ he paused for a moment. Rain dripped over the edge of his hood in tiny waterfalls. ‘Shall we go?’ he said.

  Brightshow nodded. ‘As you wish. Climb up then, before this storm gets any worse!’ She bent her shoulder to the ground, and extended the edge of her wing to make a little ramp up to the saddle. After a moment of uncertainty, Farden climbed up her wet scales and tried to balance so he could slip his foot into a little leather loop that hung from a thick strap. He teetered for second but then regained his footing and quickly swung the other leg over the side so he was sitting astride the dragon. Once he had pulled the leather belts securely over his thighs and feet Brightshow stood up and spread her wings like a massive umbrella over his head. Farden made sure his supplies were all in place and not likely to fly away, and then yanked the strap that held the sword to his back.

  ‘Are you ready?’ she shouted to him.

  Farden blew rain water from his face and smiled grimly. She turned her head to look at him. ‘I think so!’ he called, and she flashed a mouth full of teeth.

  ‘Then let’s go!’ she cried. The pale dragon crouched for a mere second, just enough for Farden to suddenly regret his decision, before she exploded upwards into the sky with one giant leap, rain and wind pressing his body flat against her rough scales until that first huge flap of her enormous wings was finished. And then came another. The air howled around him as her white wings beat the air with huge deep whooshing sounds like trees falling. The mage bounced up and down in the saddle with each lurching stroke. The tight straps protested but they seemed to hold. Brightshow shifted her body and pointed her head to the sky and Farden found himself strangling the leather horn at the front of the saddle for dear life. It felt like he was in a quickdoor. The noise of the wind was deafening. He swallowed nervously as he caught a glance of his city spread out below him like an intricate model that was quickly getting smaller and smaller with every flap of the dragon’s mighty wings. Somehow in the back of Farden’s mind it was exhilarating to see the ground fall out from him, if not a little terrifying. His teeth chattered with excitement and the knuckles gripping the saddle were so cold and white they looked as though they were someone else’s.

  Farden crouched low to match her streamlined shape and started to feel the dragon’s body moving through the wind, noticing the twitches and swerves of her tail keeping them steady in the face of the weather.
The Össfen mountains now looked like scattered rubble beneath them, and Farden pulled his cloak around his head to shield his eyes from the stinging, biting wind.

  Chapter 13

  “No one would ever suggest that the Written are out of control, but they seem to work best when we leave them to their own devices, and we know that. They act in pairs or they act alone and as long as the job gets done, then the council turn a blind eye to the method, but thank the gods that we ruled against the fourth and third rune. Some of the older Written are almost as skilled as I am...”

  From pages found in Arkmage Helyard’s rooms

  Jarrick had been on watch for the last twelve hours, and he was starting to fall asleep at his post. He shook his head and sniffed, and tried to keep his drowsy eyelids from closing completely. Ganlir should be here soon, he thought to himself, but Ganlir was probably fast asleep. The guard shrugged in his heavy gold armour. Jarrick eyed the corridor to his right, a dark hallway untouched by the light of the flaming torches near the door. Further down that corridor and to the right was another door made thick with steel and strong oak, and behind that slept the traitorous Helyard, locked away in a windowless room with nothing more than straw and a scrap of sackcloth to keep him warm.

  The Arkmage had been brought in almost a dozen hours ago, when Jarrick had just started his long watch. The old mage, once a proud ruler of the Arka, had been reduced to a snarling angry old man, spitting curses and threats like a common thief on the way to the stocks. Helyard had pounded on his cell door and hollered for hours until he finally gave up when night fell, and now all was silent.

  Jarrick watched the shadows of the corridor for a moment and sniffed again. At least he was warm and not out on patrol in the pouring rain, he thought. Happy that nothing was amiss, the sleepy soldier turned back to his staring spot on the wall opposite, counting the bricks and patches of lichen. His eyes closed briefly, but he shook himself awake again and changed his grip on his spear. He felt the rough wood in his palm and tried to stay vigilant... where was that Ganlir fellow anyway? he pondered with a yawn.

  A minute later and Jarrick was leaning gently on the cold wall, his armour grating softly against the stone as his chest rose and fell. A low snore came from his open mouth, and his eyelids fluttered in the throes of a brief dream. He did not notice the door on his left slowly creeping open, and was completely unaware of the dark shadowy figure sidling into the room, cloaked and dangerous. With slow movements the intruder pushed the door shut and reached for a set of keys on a hook. They jingled lightly in his hand. Above him was a torch hanging from a bracket in the wall. With his free he hand touched the flames and the fire seemed to flow into his skin, plunging the room into total darkness. The man listened to the shadows, but all that could be heard was the quiet snorting of Jarrick’s snores.

  The figure crept on and into the hallway. He found his way to a thick oak and steel door, to the right, that had been barred and bolted from the outside with intricate brass cogs and latches. The keys jingled again as he felt their jagged edges to find the right ones. With a scraping he inserted the strange shapes of metal and slid them into their holes. With a click and a brief whine something within the door came loose. The figure reached for the handle but felt something still holding it tight. An invisible face frowned in the darkness. The man’s fingers rippled over the face of the door, feeling the cracks and contours of it, searching. He pressed his palm flat on the wood near the keyhole. There was a dull thud, and a pulse that rippled across the oak. The figure paused warily and then pushed the door gently forward. With a creak and a moan it shifted an inch or two, and then with a bit more persuasion, swung open into a room that smelt like sweat and frustration. The bitter scent of rank urine made the figure wrinkle his nose, but he stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him, and locked it with a spell of his own.

  Somewhere there was a quiet snuffling and a rustle of hay. A burst of flame pierced the gloom and send the shadows running. The fire burned and crackled in the intruder’s open palm and he held it high to peer around the room. Orange light scattered around him, illuminating piles of straw and a rickety cot in the corner made from a few spars of driftwood and sackcloth. Curled into a ball on the uncomfortable bed was Helyard, groaning and scrunching up his eyes. The Arkmage was covered in dust from head to toe, and his robes were stained and wet.

  ‘What do you want from me now?’ he said in a gruff voice.

  The figure took a step forward. Thick travelling boots scuffed the stone as he bent close to the Arkmage’s face. ‘I have come to set you free, your Mage,’ he whispered.

  Helyard peered into the gloom but the darkness of the figure’s cloak obscured and covered the man’s face completely. ‘Who are you?’ asked the Arkmage quietly. The tall stranger stepped back and gestured towards the locked door.

  ‘A friend,’ came the reply. Helyard sat up with a tired groan and tried to steady his legs underneath him. The old man ran a hand through his dirty blonde hair. Mahogany eyes looked sadly at the hooded figure standing tall between him and the door. ‘Those seem hard to come by these days,’ he said, and stood up with a very tired sigh. The Arkmage waved an impatient hand. ‘Well whatever it is you want from me, let’s go,’ he said. But the stranger just stood there. Helyard coughed quietly and crossed his arms and waited.

  Underneath his hood, the man smirked and grinned wickedly. Suddenly he grunted and jabbed the air with hands held like blades. The air hummed and split and knocked the Arkmage against the stone wall behind him. His skull cracked on the stone and he tried blinked pain from his eyes. Helyard’s mind spun, but he quickly threw up his hands as a lightning bolt flew towards him. The spell exploded against an invisible wall about a foot in front of the old mage. Sparks flashed and crackled angrily against his magick shield, but he stood firm and his eyes blazed defiantly. Helyard stamped his foot on the stone floor with a thud and a wall of air expanded outwards from him. It rippled through the floor like a grey wave crashing on a beach, crushing the cot into splinters against the wall. The stranger was thrown backwards against the metal door but he quickly recovered his footing. He made a claw-like shape with his bony fingers and suddenly his whole arm started to shake and convulse. The hooded man cursed and choked on the words of the spell as if they scraped at his throat like sharp sticks.

  Across the room Helyard suddenly went stiff and his eyes bulged in their sockets. His legs began to dangle beneath him and his arms thrashed wildly, tearing at an unseen hand that grabbed his throat in a vice-like grip. The Arkmage gargled and croaked as the life was slowly crushed from his neck. Vertebrae audibly crunched and ground together. The stranger slowly dropped his clawed hand and Helyard was lowered inch by agonising inch, feet and arms still frantically fumbling on the floor, while his breath came in ragged gasps.

  Abruptly he was released, and the Arkmage collapsed in a heap on the cold stone. He seemed paralysed, unmoving and unconscious in his fallen position. With a contemptuous snort the hooded man strode to where his victim lay on the floor and drew a long wicked knife from beneath his cloak. In three quick steps he reached him, and crouched over him. Helyard’s eyes were frozen shut and screwed up in agony, so the man leaned close to his face, poising the knife high above his prey and ready to strike like a cobra. But the Arkmage was waiting for him. With speed that belied his old frame, Helyard grabbed the intruder’s arms and gave a guttural cry. Green light exploded from around his fingertips and the stranger flew into the air with a yell. He smacked into the ceiling under a shower of broken stone and dust that instantly choked the room. With a rending crash the man fell back to the floor and the breath escaped his lungs in a loud wheeze. Chips of stone flew in all directions and clogged the air like fog.

  ‘Thought you could get rid of me quietly, did you?’ shouted the Arkmage. ‘Thought you could come in and murder the old mage in his sleep, hmm? Who are you? Answer me!’ He wiped stone dust from his eyes and grabbed at the man on the floor, kicking him
roughly before he could move. The old mage pulled at his cloak and seizing his opportunity he tugged his hood back and cast a light spell to reveal his assailant’s face.

  The knife was nothing but a long silver flash in the dusty air as it buried itself deep inside the Arkmage’s chest. Blood appeared uninvited at the corner of Helyard’s mouth and he blinked and gasped with a somewhat confused expression. The stranger fixed him with a burning stare, watching every emotion that crossed his opponent’s face, every twitch and movement he made in his last few moments.

  ‘You?’ Helyard croaked, squinting his eyes.

  ‘Since the beginning,’ whispered the stranger in a low voice. He slowly released his grip on the knife and the Arkmage fell to his knees. He leaned back on his heels and kept his eyes on the man’s face. Blood was running down his chest and across his lap, but he couldn’t move or wrench his eyes away, all he could do was watch a smile curl at the corner of Vice’s lips, an arrogant smirk that slowly lifted his cheek to meet the victoriously evil look in his eyes.

  ‘Since the...’ Helyard gasped weakly. He rocked back and forth on his knees and swayed like a plume of pale smoke in the breeze.

  ‘The beginning. Yes. I have been planning this since before you were Arkmage, Helyard, since before the war,’ said Vice, the once-kind gaze of his brown eyes now hard like volcanic glass and just as sharp.

  Helyard took a sharp breath. ‘Wh...why?’

  ‘Why what?’ Vice chuckled. He watching the old mage’s life gradually slipping away and pooling on the stone floor. ‘Why you?’ he pointed a finger. ‘You were just a diversion, Helyard, a simple parlour trick of sleight of hand to keep all eyes on you while I went about my business. You were just too easy to imitate old man, ridiculous for someone of my skills, and stealing the precious Weight from your rooms was nothing but child’s play. The scholars and the Sirens had no idea,’ he snorted sardonically.