Dead Stars - Part One (The Emaneska Series)

by Ben Galley

  The visitors were led across the marble-tiled atrium and after a brief apology from Durnus regarding the amount of stairs and the state of weary travellers, they pressed on towards the peak of the Arkathedral. It took them almost half an hour to walk to the top. Strangely, once they arrived, the visitors were not the slightest bit out of breath. Tyrfing took a moment to clear his throat again, receiving a grimace from Durnus, before he clapped his hands and bowed to their entourage. ‘If you will excuse us, Councils, gentlemen, ladies, I think it’s time that we served our guests some lunch.’ He turned to the three. ‘You must be hungry after your travels?’ The three nodded in unison.

  One of the others held up a hand, a grey-haired crow of a woman. ‘I assumed we would be joining you?’

  Durnus shook his head. ‘Let our visitors rest for now, Council Fessila. There will be plenty of time for that tonight, after this afternoon’s council meeting.’

  ‘As you wish, Arkmages,’ sighed Harrigin.

  Ignoring the frowns and pursed lips they imagined were now firmly fixed on the faces of those they left behind, the Arkmages turned to lead their guests further down the corridor, towards their private rooms and towards peace and quiet. They were almost safe and sound when a jovial shout caught them mid-stride.

  ‘Your Mages! Guests!’

  They turned to find a well-built man wrapped in fine attire jogging down the corridor towards them. His face was one giant, welcoming smile. He slowed to a walk and then bowed as low as his spine could possibly allow.

  Malvus Barkhart was a snake. He had slithered into the magick council and made his home beneath its marble trees. Unfortunately, a great many of its members seemed content, and even pleased, with his presence. The man was charming to say the least. Sickeningly so. He had the ear of almost every member the council had to offer, which might not have been a problem had his vision aligned with the Arkmages’. But it didn’t. In fact, he opposed them on every single matter, however trivial. How he had been elected, they would never know. They had long suspected it was his deep, silken pockets, or his connections in the dark alleyways of the city and the velveteen offices of the traders, or his forked tongue perhaps, equally silken and yet as poisonous, and sharp as a dagger too. He had used them all to worm his way in.

  Malvus folded his hands behind his back. His waxed hair, slicked back and plaited into a tail behind his neck, glistened in the sun that was sneaking through the windows of the long, curving hallway. There was a narrow goatee on his pointy chin. He was a tall, narrow man, almost as tall as Tyrfing, and dressed in the finest clothes Krauslung’s markets had to offer. His shirt was blue silk and buttoned to the collar. His trousers were of a light grey and baggy around the knees, an eastern trend. The short boots he wore were polished to obsidian mirrors. There was a small necklace hanging around his neck, a thin silver chain with a ruby pendant. The jewel glowed softly even in the daylight; a trick of whichever spell its maker had written in the silver beneath it. ‘Sirs, madam, allow me to say on behalf of the entire council that it is a pleasure to have you here in Krauslung. It has been too long since we have seen visitors from Hȃlorn. Far too long indeed.’

  Once again, the three visitors chose not to bow, but instead nodded deeply. It didn’t faze Malvus in the slightest. ‘We are eager to discuss how our two countries can further benefit each other. Gods know the Arka need every alliance we can get these days.’

  ‘You speak as if we were at war, Council Barkhart,’ muttered Durnus.

  ‘Aren’t we, Arkmage? Our soldiers may fight with spears and spells, but our war will be won with politics and coin.’

  The woman spoke up. Even inside, away from the breeze and the city noise, her voice was still distant, zephyrous. ‘And who might your enemies be, sir? I see none.’

  Malvus bowed again, eyes fixed on the slender woman’s pale eyes. ‘The enemies of progress, madam. The same enemies that would see Krauslung’s expansion and well-being damaged beyond repair.’

  Durnus sighed. ‘As always, Council Barkhart, you distract us with your outlandish opinions. Our guests are hungry and tired. You will have a chance to speak to them later, over dinner, if you wish.’

  Malvus’ eyes narrowed. ‘I wholeheartedly look forward to it. I bid you a good day, sirs, and madam,’ he replied, and with that, he walked away, hands still folded firmly behind his back, polished boots squeaking on the marble.

  Tyrfing and Durnus quickly led the others into their rooms and locked the door firmly behind them. ‘Finally,’ Tyrfing sighed, spreading his hands over the door. The door seemed to hiss and quiver for a moment. When he rapped his knuckle on its gilded wood, it sounded as though he were knocking on stone. ‘We’re safe from eager ears.’

  The three visitors stood in a little triangle in the middle of the room. They were staring at a red velvet armchair in front of them, an armchair which held a blonde man dressed in steel armour, wrapped in a black and green cape, his head back, limbs limp, and snoring contentedly. Tyrfing shrugged off his heavy robe and hung it on a hook. He looked over at their guests and followed their confused gazes to the man in the armchair. With a sigh, he wandered over and flicked the ear of the man, eliciting a grunt and a surprised snort. The man came awake with a start and sat bolt upright in the chair. Rubbing his ear, he looked up and saw three strangers staring back at him. ‘Well, isn’t this embarrassing?’ he muttered. ‘I was on the night shift again.’

  Tyrfing gestured to the three. ‘Modren, might I introduce our three guests. The goddess Verix, and the gods Heimdall and Loki. My lords and lady, this is Undermage Modren.’

  Modren jumped from the chair and instantly dropped to his knees. ‘It is an honour,’ he whispered. Durnus and Tyrfing also dropped to their knees, now that they could show the proper amount of respect.

  ‘Please, rise,’ said Heimdall. ‘We have not come here for that.’ The god shrugged off his warm, woollen coat and let it fall to the thick green rug that covered most of the floor. He looked around at the swollen bookcases and drowned desks, the trunks stuffed with trinkets and artefacts and scrolls. He took it all in with slow movements of his tawny eyes, as he had in the streets, absorbing every minute detail like a hawk examining rabbits. A moment of weakness washed across his face, and he rubbed his eyes. The prayers had been strong enough to wrap his ethereal form in bone and skin, but his powers had been left behind. Summoning them was difficult. He sighed and went to one of the six chairs that sat in a circle in the middle of the room. He tested it with his hands, feeling its soft velvet and its plump cushions, before settling awkwardly into it, almost as though he had never sat in a chair before, or if he had, he couldn’t remember how to. Modren and Tyrfing watched with blank expressions, while Durnus felt his way to an oak cabinet.

  ‘Please, sit,’ he asked, feeling for the cabinet’s handles. Tyrfing didn’t move to assist him. He knew better than to offer help. The blind Arkmage’s hands soon found a trio of glasses. ‘Would you like a drink? Some wine? Food perhaps?’

  Loki opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Heimdall. ‘We will not require any, thank you,’ he answered. ‘Our bodies are merely shells.’

  Tyrfing and Modren took their seats. ‘Well, you might have to pretend they aren’t. Gods might not eat, but trade delegates from Hȃlorn definitely do. We don’t want to arouse any suspicion.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Heimdall, smiling politely. While Verix found her own armchair beside Heimdall, Loki wandered to the windows that spanned the entire length of the far wall. He stared out at the city far below, hands still firmly in his coat pockets. Modren watched him intently. He didn’t look like a god. Like the mage, he was fair-haired. He had deep brown eyes, flecked with yellow, and his skin was pale and clean-shaven, youthful. Modren tried to assess his age, but found himself getting confused the more he watched him. He looked younger than Heimdall, that was for sure, but it was hard to tell. He was neither tall nor short, somewhere in the middle, neither muscular, nor skinny. He just was
. The Undermage frowned. It was an odd sort of description, but it was the best he could summon. Maybe he was still sleepy.

  Durnus soon joined them, bearing three glasses of amber-coloured wine. Modren and Tyrfing took theirs, and Durnus felt his way to his chair. Verix was staring at him intently. Somehow, Durnus knew it. He smiled in her direction. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘You look nothing like your brother, Ruin,’ she whispered.

  ‘Then I will take that as a compliment,’ replied Durnus, with a tight smile. ‘And please, call me Durnus, or Arkmage, if you prefer. Anything but Ruin.’

  ‘Though your blood reeks of daemon.’

  Durnus’ smile faded. ‘That it probably does.’

  ‘Verix,’ chided Heimdall, and the goddess looked confused. She ran a hand through her strange, sea-green hair.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m used to speaking my mind,’ she said.

  ‘As goddess of truth, I’m sure you are,’ chuckled Durnus, and the moment was forgotten.

  Heimdall clapped his hands. Modren was trying to assess him now, staring as intently as he dared. The god was pale-faced, like his comrades, and his hair was golden, like dried wheat. The god was as tall as the Siren Eyrum, but once again, impossible to fathom. It was the same with Verix. Their faces, aside from the colour of their eyes and hair, seemed to evade scrutiny like the very stars themselves. Modren found that the harder he looked, the stranger they became. Their chests did not rise and fall with their breathing. They did not blink. Not a single mole nor blemish marred their skin. The closer he leant to them, the larger they grew. Modren moved forward to take his drink from the little table in the centre of the circle, and found himself confused at how much Heimdall had suddenly grown. The god towered above him, in ways the Undermage’s brain couldn’t comprehend. He felt bludgeoned by his mere presence, breathless in the man’s shadow.

  ‘Modren?’ said a voice, shattering the mage’s thoughts. Modren blinked, and realised Heimdall was staring down at him, a bemused look on his face.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ he muttered. ‘It’s not every day you meet a god.’

  At this, Heimdall laughed. It was a deep booming sound, like thunder. For a moment, it shocked the others in the room, and then somehow some of the tension seemed to bubble off, and the mages and Durnus found themselves relaxing.

  ‘I imagine not, Undermage. I imagine not.’ Heimdall shook his head. ‘What strange times these are, that gods sit in armchairs and watch men drink wine. For the first time in my existence, I have trouble trusting my eyes and ears.’

  Durnus smiled and sipped his wine. ‘To business, then?’

  ‘Indeed. Loki, come sit,’ ordered Heimdall. The younger god did as he was told. He tore himself away from the window, and, ignoring the last spare chair, he perched instead on the edge of a stool.

  ‘Where do we possibly start?’ Verix asked.

  ‘First things first,’ sighed Tyrfing, running his hand across his jet black beard. ‘Has there been any sign of her?’

  Heimdall shook his head sadly, a hint of frustration in his flaxen eyes. ‘Wherever the spawn is, I cannot see her, not here, nor from our fortress. She is too strong.’

  ‘What of the woman that travels with her?’

  ‘She too is hidden.’

  Tyrfing and Durnus sighed as one. They had secretly been hoping for some good news from Heimdall. If anyone could find Farden’s child, it would be a god who could watch a blade of grass growing from a hundred miles away, a god who could see the shadows slinking back to their holes at dawn. If he couldn’t see her, then nobody could. This was dire news indeed. They sipped their wine.

  ‘What of the other gods?’ asked Durnus. ‘Can they be of any help?’

  Loki sniffed. ‘Are we no use to you?’

  ‘Loki,’ growled Heimdall.

  Durnus looked in the direction of the younger god’s voice. ‘That is not what I meant. I know the prayer is strong at the moment, and therefore so are the gods. What I meant was are any of you capable of helping physically, in battle?’

  Verix shook her head. ‘If we were, we would not have come here on a ship.’

  Loki looked out the window again. ‘No, we would have fallen from the sky as brimstone and fire instead of slipping down a shaft of moonlight.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ said Modren, eyeing the younger god.

  Heimdall leant back in his chair and spread his hands over the velvet. It felt so foreign to him. ‘What Loki and Verix mean is that if we could have, we would have. We would not waste time with ruses such as these.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘What have you done to find her? I have seen some of your efforts already.’

  ‘Everything in our power,’ replied Tyrfing. ‘We’ve sent countless messengers, trackers, ships, hawks, and mages into the wilds, chasing every lead we’ve ever had. Every time, she disappears like smoke.’

  ‘And we’ve lost plenty of good mages because of it too,’ said Modren. The gods and goddess looked questioningly at the Undermage. He elaborated, narrowing his eyes. ‘The only clues we ever get are the dead she leaves behind. The maimed, skinned dead that they are. She and that old crone seem to make a point of actively hunting down our best mages, and then taking their Books. I hope they go mad, and save us the bloody trouble.’

  ‘She is hunting Written?’

  Modren nodded. There was bitterness in his eyes. He rubbed his knuckles together. ‘Almost always. But she isn’t picky, either. If a normal mage gets close enough, she’ll kill them all the same. I’ve lost more mages to that little bitch than I care to count. That’s why I’ve recalled every single Written to the city. I intend to keep them here too, sirs,’ he said.

  ‘Why Written?’ asked Loki.

  ‘Because we’ve become stronger,’ Tyrfing answered. By his side, Modren nodded. ‘We’re more dangerous than we’ve ever been. I think she must be worried.’

  ‘Picking us off on our own, rather than facing us as a group.’

  Loki looked confused. He frowned. ‘And how is that possible?’

  Heimdall hummed. ‘The magick in this world is getting stronger by the day. Like a storm brewing or a season shifting. Even Evernia is puzzled by it.’

  Loki’s frown got even deeper. ‘Why haven’t I felt it?’

  Verix closed her eyes and sniffed the air again. ‘Because you, like I, have never travelled here before,’ she told him. ‘Do you think it is her?’

  ‘Are you serious?’ asked Modren. ‘One little girl, affecting the whole of Emaneska’s magick? That’s ridiculous. I spent the all of last night watching ten year-old farmhands flick through beginner’s spell books and cast spell after spell. Half of them had never even seen a spell book before last night. Yet here they are, a mere handful amongst the thousands of people that flood into Manesmark every day, all showing signs of magick in their blood, keen as daggers to be a mage. Young, old, rich, poor. One man set fire to his wife’s dress just by singing a song that he swore he’d never heard before. Just the other day, another turned a chicken inside out. I, for one, find it very disturbing. The magick is simply tumbling out of these people. And don’t even get me started on the things I see in the magick markets these days… Something’s wrong with the magick in this world.’

  Tyrfing stood up to circle his chair. ‘I agree with Modren. It’s not just the magick or the markets. Stranger and stranger things keep appearing in the wilds. Faeries, huldras, ghosts, talk of other gryphons even. There is talk of creatures even we have never heard of, creatures that seem to have emerged almost from nowhere.’

  Durnus tapped his fingernail on his wine glass. ‘Almost as if they’re drawn to something.’

  Tyrfing shook his head. ‘It can’t be her. If she’s that powerful, why would she be hunting us Written down, sneaking about like an assassin? Why would she fear us in number?’

  ‘Then maybe she’s just hunting one Written…?’ ventured Loki. The room fell silent. Tyrfing and Modren both sipped their wine, while Durnus just stared sightles
sly into space. His pale eyes said nothing. His lips however, said it all. They were drawn tight, almost as white as his eyes, as if the blood had been sucked straight out of them. Durnus didn’t trust himself to speak. If Loki felt the tension, he didn’t show it. He just waited for his answer. It never came.

  Verix sighed. ‘If that is the case, and what Loki suggests is true, then it is either because Farden is a danger to her, or she and the old woman want vengeance. Both can be useful to us.’

  Modren glowered at his wine. ‘And what of my dead mages?’

  ‘Collateral.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever cursed at a lady before, never mind a goddess, and I don’t intend to start today. I would appreciate it if you could inject a little tact into that truthful tongue of yours. With all due respect,’ Modren said, slowly and carefully. Verix simply closed her eyes and said nothing in return.

  Heimdall held up his hands. ‘We digress.’

  ‘Indeed we do,’ Durnus sighed. ‘I think we have time on our hands. We’ll discuss what our defences are later, after dinner. For now, you three need to change. Elessi has supplied clothes for you in the adjacent rooms. She will get you anything else you need.’

  ‘Thank you, Durnus,’ said Heimdall, getting to his feet. Loki went to stare out of the window again. Verix stayed in her chair, eyes closed and concentrating on something. As he moved to leave, Heimdall put his hand on Tyrfing’s shoulder. ‘I should like to see Ilios, when there is a chance.’

  ‘Tonight,’ muttered the Arkmage. It was impossible to miss the flicker of angst in his face. He caught the god by the arm as he moved away. His ocean-blue eyes met Heimdall’s tawny ones. There, under the weight of them, it felt as though the god was looking through him, as if he were as faceless as glass. ‘Do you know where he is?’ he asked. ‘Farden?’