Dead Stars - Part One (The Emaneska Series)

by Ben Galley

  ‘And where’s Evernia in all of this?’

  Loki raised a hand and pointed to the thatch roof and the sky above it.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Why now?’

  ‘Because I have news for you.’

  Farden groaned. He felt a tightness in his chest. His betrayal by Kiltyrin was bad enough, but it was his business. He groaned as he imagined his little world crumbling around him, as though it were being invaded and chewed by vermin. Vermin he had left far behind in another world, on the other side of a sea. Now one of them was staring down at him. ‘No,’ he spat. ‘I don’t want any news, I don’t want any information, I want nothing. Understand?’

  ‘What makes you think I was going to tell you?’ Farden pulled a face, confused. Loki looked up and down the mage’s tortured body. ‘It looks as if you have enough to deal with at the moment as it is,’ he said, and without a further word, Loki went back inside the cottage, and shut the door firmly behind him. Farden was left staring at the wood with his eyes-half closed. He was surprised, to say the least.

  Farden stared up at the thatch. A god arriving on his mouldy doorstep meant trouble. His past had come to bite him. Fine, he thought, it had saved him, but only so it could bite him later. Farden squeezed his eyes shut and tried to dig at the pain-sodden blur that had been the last few weeks. The moments flew through his head in flashes of light and colour and noise. He saw the faces of the men who had tried to kill him. He felt the rope tightening around his neck and found himself gasping. He felt the jab of a spear, and the grin of the man, Wartan. Kint was there, beady-eyed. The slow chuckle of Forluss. And the other man, holding his armour, his armour in his greedy hands. Loffrey. Farden cursed at them all behind clenched teeth.

  Then he saw a ship and a horrifying creature pinned to its bow. The mage felt ice-water between his toes. He felt the dead pushing him, then dragging him. Farden opened his eyes, breathing hard. ‘The bastard gryphon, indeed,’ he wheezed. Meddlers. They’d found him. He just wanted to be left alone to his own little world. As dark and as murderous and as treacherous as it was, it was his, and his alone.

  It took an hour for Farden to summon the strength and the wherewithal to sit up, and when he did, Traffyd appeared at the door with a bowl of watered-down stew and a spoon, right on cue. Farden asked for some bread, but the old farmer shook his head, muttering something about Seria’s orders. His stomach wasn’t ready for it, and Farden understood why; it took everything he had to keep the simple stew down. He couldn’t tell whether it was the nevermar or his dying.

  It took yet another hour to make it onto his feet, and even then Traffyd had to carry him to the chair on the edge of the porch. While Traffyd packed himself a pipe, Farden sat with his head on his arm and his hand in the rain, letting the coolness of it calm him. The wound in his left side throbbed and twitched with every little movement, so he thought it best to stay still.

  ‘We saw them, you know. The ones who did this to you.’ Farden tried not to look up. Traffyd nodded and tapped his pipe against his teeth. ‘We saw them and their cart a few hours before your friend brought you to us. I was in the front garden. Didn’t say a word to me. Just sneered and stared, they did.’

  ‘You’re lucky. If they had hurt you, I wouldn’t have forgiven myself.’

  ‘If they had, then you’d be dead, and have no use for forgiveness, lad,’ said the old farmer. ‘Bah. Maybe your friend would have saved you anyways. Who knows.’

  ‘He’s not my friend.’

  ‘I see,’ Traffyd said. ‘Then who is he? Seria’s beginning to ask questions.’

  Farden clenched his fist around the water gathering in his palm. ‘He’s not my friend,’ he repeated.

  Traffyd blew a smoke ring. ‘But he did save your life.’

  ‘That he did.’

  A moment passed, full of dripping and lazy smoke. ‘Do you want me to get rid of him for you?’ asked the farmer.

  Farden thought long and hard. ‘No,’ he said.

  And that was that.

  It was another week before Farden could move about freely. The mage was going stir-crazy in the cottage. Old Traffyd took him for short, shuffling walks around the garden to keep him from Seria’s concerned fussing. Loki would trail behind them, taking the tips from the herbs he passed and dabbing them to his tongue to taste them. At first, Farden had ignored it, but after a while he couldn’t help but remark on it.

  ‘I thought gods didn’t eat?’ he challenged him one afternoon, while Old Traffyd had gone to fetch some water for the mage and his plants. The spring sun had returned, and his garden had bloomed eagerly.

  Loki had shrugged, and nibbled on the base of a tiny carrot. ‘We don’t,’ he said, cryptically.

  Oddly enough, the god had also taken to smoking too, and drinking for that matter. He seemed to be intrigued by human occupations and idiosyncrasies, and while he was alone with the three humans, he seemed intent on testing and tasting everything. It was strange behaviour for a god, Farden decided, but after all, Loki was only the second sky-fallen deity he had met. He just kept to ignoring the slippery bastard. It was much easier.

  Seria and Traffyd seemed to be tiring of him too. As the days passed, their suspicions were only heightened by Farden’s cold attitude to his supposed saviour. The god swapped between streams of constant questions and hours of frozen silence, staring into dusty space. When the old couple challenged him on anything, such as his origins, or why he was visiting the mage, Loki would shrug and change the subject. Gentle and kind as they were, Farden could tell their patience was wearing very thin.

  And so it was, that at the end of the week, Traffyd and Seria returned from a walk to find Farden and his odd companion sitting on the front step of the cottage. The clothes that Farden had stolen from Wodehallow’s keep were long gone and burnt. He was wearing an ill-fitting tunic and trousers that Traffyd had lent to him. Farden got to his feet, shakily, when they reached the gate.

  Traffyd looked the mage up and down and sniffed. Seria’s hand hovered on the gate. ‘You’d best be going east,’ she said. ‘Or else.’

  Farden nodded. ‘I am,’ he replied. For now.

  Seria fixed him with one of her dark looks as she walked up the path to the cottage, husband in tow. ‘I ain’t joking, Farden. Those men tried to kill you. If they find out they didn’t, well, we won’t be savin’ you a second time,’ she said, putting her hands on her hips. ‘Too worryin’ it is.’ Farden might have been wrong, but he thought he saw a tear creep into the corner of Seria’s eye. She quickly flicked it away, a trespasser. The mage stood and held out his shaky arms. Seria nearly crushed him to death in the hug that followed. Traffyd stayed behind as she released him, nodded grimly to Loki, and then went inside. Once she had shut the door, the old farmer crossed his arms.

  ‘What are you going to do then?’ he asked. Loki looked to the mage, also eager to know the answer.

  Farden looked east, where the clouds cavorted like eels and minnows and chased each other across the upper reaches of the distant sky. Their long, spectral fins trailed for miles behind them as they rode the high winds. ‘I’m going to kill them all,’ he said.

  Traffyd looked at the flint in the path under his feet. ‘And what about the next time? What about the next batch of thieves and murderers that want you dead?’

  ‘There won’t be. Not when I’m finished.’

  Traffyd. ‘Then what?’

  Farden just shrugged. ‘Then maybe you’ll get that helper you wanted.’

  The farmer walked forward and patted the mage on the shoulder. He didn’t try to hug him. ‘Just you remember that corpses can’t plough fields,’ he said quietly, and then went into his cottage.

  ‘Thank you,’ mumbled Farden, just before the door closed. The words were foreign to his tongue. The closing door paused for a moment, and then shut with a click. A bolt slid into its hole, and all was silent. The mage exhaled.

  Loki stood there quietly. There was a blank look on his face
. Farden looked at him. ‘What of you? Where are you going?’

  ‘With you.’

  ‘I doubt that very much. I told you, I don’t want to hear whatever message you have for me. You can go back to whoever sent you and tell them I don’t care. That goes for my uncle, that gryphon, Durnus, Lerel, and whoever else. Tell ‘em all I’m dead.’

  ‘What about Elessi?’

  Farden began to march down the path. ‘Her too,’ he growled. The sun was hot. He tried to ignore how weak it made him feel. Loki followed in Farden’s wake. His hands were deep in his coat pockets.

  ‘Fine. But I can still help you.’

  ‘Help me with what?’

  ‘With your revenge.’

  ‘And for what price?’

  He heard the god come to a halt. ‘No price. I’m just a messenger. If, after you’ve slaughtered all the men you need to slaughter, you want to hear my message, you can have it. And if you don’t, then I will disappear back to Krauslung, and I will tell them whatever you’d like. No price. You have my word on that.’

  Farden stopped and turned around. Loki was holding out a pale hand. His skin almost took on a translucent quality in the light. His eyes, those blue-white eyes that had watched him incessantly for the past week, burrowed into him. Farden felt another shiver of weakness and queasiness run through his body. Did he trust him? No. Could he use him? Possibly.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. He reached out and grabbed the god’s hand. He found it cold and hard, just like he’d expected. ‘Just stay out of my way,’ warned the mage.

  ‘With pleasure,’ Loki replied.

  Chapter 12

  “Firstdew, Year 1301 - Last night I dreamt the goddess visited me once again. Her hand was cold as she led me to the deck of the ship. She pointed to the north, where Krauslung lay naked and glittering in the valley. ‘There,’ she spoke, distantly. ‘That is where you will build it. Against the face of Hardja, and facing east.’ ‘Build what?’ asked I, shivering for the cold. ‘The crown this city needs. A castle. A fortress. An Arkathedral,’ replied the goddess.

  “I must confess, now that I wake and write this down, I doubt that these are dreams at all. I shall consult Farka, and hear what he says. Arkathedral. How I could summon such a word from my own imagination…”

  (Diary of the Arkmage Los, one of the first female Arkmages to sit on the twin thrones. A note for the student - you may be confused by Los’ use of the year 1301. This is a common theme throughout her diary, as she always refused to use the new count. Los insisted that we should remember how long the humans have been free of the elves and their kin. As you know, at the end of the Scattered Kingdoms period, we began to count the years again, to signify a new age. For instance, I write this in the year 899, but by the old count, I am writing in the year 1899. Why did our ancestors do this? In hindsight, it wasn’t the smartest decision. We scholars never have it simple. Prepare for a lifetime of confusion.)

  From the notebook of Arfell scholar Yaminas, writing in the year 899 (or 1899)

  Whiskers returned that evening. Possibly drawn in by the smell and the light of the fire on the shingly beach, he hovered in the doorway of the shack before entering. He sniffed the evening breeze and squeaked softly to himself. The inside of the shack was still an upturned mess. Farden hadn’t bothered to move anything. That afternoon he had simply slumped onto his straw mattress and passed out for a good few hours, leaving Loki to rummage around in his bare cupboards and examine his strange collection of carved candles.

  The rat picked his way between the smashed furniture and broken floorboards. He paused at the edge of one particular gaping hole, near where Farden’s bed had been. Whiskers sniffed at the straw lying around the edges of the hole, and scuttled on.

  Drawn by the muffled sound of a voice, Whiskers wandered to the back door and onto the sand-dusted rocks of the little beach. Two figures huddled around a little cooking fire, sitting under the stars and the fingernail moon. One stoked the flames with an old poker, the other sat a short distance away, running a whetstone along a very long knife. The man with the poker was talking in quiet tones.

  As if he were eavesdropping, Whiskers sat for a moment on a nearby rock and listened to their mumblings, trying to make sense of the strange noises.

  Farden had been glaring at his unwanted companion for a little while now. ‘Where did you get that poker?’ he asked, suddenly.

  Loki looked up. ‘Was that a reply to my question?’ he asked. A moment ago he had asked if the mage felt any different after his foray into death. They had been having a one-sided debate ever since Farden had risen a few hours ago.

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ he said stiffly. ‘Where did you find it? I don’t remember ever having a poker.’

  ‘I have a habit of finding things,’ Loki replied.

  Another cryptic answer to grate on Farden. He ran the stone along his knife again with a metallic whisper. ‘Just like you found me?’

  Loki raised his poker and his spare hand to the evening sky hanging above them. The stars were pinpricks in its black velvet blanket. ‘It’s my power. Some of us know the truth in everything; some of us gave birth to the song of magick; some of us usher in the weather and the seasons; some of us wield power like you humans wield a spoon, and what is mine? I lead the dawn.’

  ‘That sounds pretty important to me.’

  For the first time since he met him, Farden saw a flash of emotion pass across the god’s face. Irritation, anger maybe. ‘A servant’s task. Ceremonial, rather than an actual duty. A menial chore passed to me when I was born, by an older god.’

  At that Farden had to pause his sharpening. ‘Born? Gods are born?’

  Loki looked up at the sky and shook his head. ‘Of course we are. Why do you think the stars constantly revolve and wander? Our war is still being fought, albeit slowly. I was born in Haven, in your tongue. The sky. This is the first time I’ve ever set foot on your earth.’

  ‘Well, that explains why you’re acting so oddly.’

  Loki gazed at the waves and let the susurrations of the calm sea licking the sand fill the silence. ‘The others would not condone it.’

  Farden smirked. ‘You sound bitter, Loki. Almost as bitter as me.’

  Loki delved into the inside of his coat and brought out a fork. There was a pan sitting amongst the glowing logs of the crackling fire. Inside it was a fish stew that Farden had thrown together. All fins and heads and mouldy vegetables. Better than nothing. He needed his strength back for all the killing he had planned. Loki lifted its lid and poked at its contents.

  Farden ignored him, plucking at the edge of his blade. He hummed satisfactorily and put the knife to one side. He reached for the next and began to sharpen that one. It was at that moment that Whiskers joined them. The rat scurried onto Farden’s lap, and the mage couldn’t help but yelp with surprise and joy. He hadn’t expected to ever seen the little beast again. He dropped his knife and stone and grabbed him. He held the rat up to the starry sky and watched him wriggle and squeak. ‘Old boy,’ he whispered.

  ‘A rat. It figures,’ muttered Loki. Farden didn’t hear him.

  Farden cradled the rat on his shoulder and he curled up instantly with a contented chatter. Farden picked up his blade and went back to his honing.

  The mage and the god sat there in silence for a while. Loki was content to poke the fire with the poker and shepherd the logs and coals into various positions. His line of questioning seemed to have died away. Farden was glad of it. Even if the man had not been an unwanted presence, his choice of conversation disturbed him; deep, invasive questions that Farden would grimace and scowl at. He feigned silence, but inside his tired and numbed mind, Loki’s questions rattled around like hot marbles.

  After sharpening two more knives, Farden put Whiskers on the sand and got up to check the stew. Loki produced another fork from inside his coat. Farden snatched it away and poked the fish. ‘It’s ready,’ he grunted. ‘I hope you have a bowl,’ he asked, swiping his from the
shingle near the fire. He had only the one. Why need any more, when his only house guest was a rat? Farden dipped the bowl into the stew and walked back to his spot. He tested the watery concoction with his tongue. It was a poor man’s stew, but he found himself ravenous, and quickly began to slurp despite the boiling heat.

  Loki watched the mage eat. He looked neither dejected, nor angry. He simply reached inside his coat and rummaged for a few moments. Then, like a jester pulling a coin from an infant’s ear, he yanked a small wooden bowl from a hidden pocket and dipped it into the pot. Farden caught the movement in the corner of his eye. He scowled. Gods and their tricks.

  The two ate in a silence. The sighings of the sea and the breeze were the only sounds. A lost gull squawked somewhere in the darkness. Whiskers nibbled on a spare bit of carrot. Farden grunted as he got to his feet. The broth had made his stomach churn. He collected his knives and headed back indoors. Loki didn’t look up. He was too busy examining each individual ingredient swimming in his bowl, nibbling and licking each one in turn. Idiot, thought Farden.

  The air was cold inside the shack. Farden shivered and clutched himself. His hand grazed his rib wound and he grit his teeth with a growl. There was a shard of broken mirror on the floor. Farden scooped it up so he could grudgingly examine his reflection.

  It was worse than he imagined.

  Aside from the ugly wounds around his neck, his split lips, and his bedraggled beard, the fever had burnt the fat from his face. He looked horrifyingly gaunt. Farden lifted up his shirt and examined his ribs, which now resembled sharp, jagged fence-posts. The spear-wound was an ugly thing. Puckered like a pair of blood-soaked lips, the spear had pierced him just below his lowest rib, a few inches down from an ancient arrow scar. He prodded it and then almost doubled up with the resulting pain. Seria had done a good job of sewing the wound up. She had been a seamstress in another life, and that had saved Farden’s. For the first time in many, many years, Farden wished for his magick. He could have wiped his hand across the ugly wound and have his magick seal it. Farden threw the shard of mirror aside and slumped onto his bed.