Dead Stars - Part One (The Emaneska Series)

by Ben Galley

  With Kiltyrin still reeling from the punch, Farden grabbed him by the cord around his neck and dragged him towards the huge window at the end of the room. The feet of his chair squealed in fear. As the Duke dribbled blood, Farden whispered in his ear. ‘I wish I had time to mount your head on your own wall, Kiltyrin, but it would appear that I don’t,’ he said.

  Kiltyrin’s eyes grew narrow when he saw where the mage was dragging him. ‘But you swore! You gave me your word you wouldn’t kill me!’ he choked. The soft curtain cord was strangling him.

  ‘What makes you think I’m going to kill you?’ Farden asked. With a grunt, he spun the Duke around in his chair and pushed him up against the stone wall beneath the window ledge. Kiltyrin cried out as his kneecaps were rammed up against the stone. He looked out at the rain and the distorted lanterns of Tayn below. ‘There are worse things than death, my good Duke,’ said the voice in his ear.

  Kiltyrin struggled for all he was worth. He felt Farden’s rough and calloused hands fumbling at his wrists. ‘Damn you Farden! What are you going to do with me?’ he yelled frantically. His snide confidence had all but melted away. ‘Help!’ he began to shout. ‘Help!’ The banging at the door became a deep and slow thud of something heavy slamming against the wood.

  Boom.

  Farden ripped the Duke’s silk sleeve from his shoulder and tossed it aside. He couldn’t help but hesitate as his eyes met the red-gold sheen of his vambraces. He licked his lips, like a starving man discovering an abandoned banquet. His eager fingers grabbed at them, and as he pinched the hidden latches, they came loose with a metallic whisper and dropped to the floor. Kiltyrin felt them fall and struggled even more. ‘Curse you, mage!’

  ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘As if I’d t…’ A cold knife slipped under his chin.

  ‘I’ve broken a promise before, and gods help me, I’ll do it again. Moirin or not,’ Farden growled, wrenching the man’s head back by the roots of his fiery red hair. They stared at each other then. There was utter death in the Duke’s eyes. Utter murder in Farden’s. The mage sneered, and pressed the knife closer.

  Boom.

  The knife bit into his windpipe.

  ‘Beside the bed!’ Kiltyrin screeched.

  Ignoring Moirin’s panicked eyes, Farden rushed to the side of the grand bed and ripped open the door of a little cupboard that sat next to the wall. Its insides glittered with red and gold, scarlet and treasure. Farden snatched at it.

  ‘Farden?!’ cried Moirin. Timeon was struggling now.

  ‘Father!’ he was shouting.

  ‘Stay there!’ Farden ordered. ‘And keep that boy quiet!’ Farden tossed the gauntlets on the floor and threw his hands into their open mouths. They seized his fingers in their metallic grip and fused to the vambraces in seconds. The greaves would take too long, so Farden ripped the case from a pillow and made an impromptu sack.

  The room bubbled with noise. Farden clutched his pounding head in his hands. The door creaked. The guards yelled. The Duke was screaming. Timeon was shouting. Only Moirin kept quiet. Farden knelt at the end of the bed and met her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t take you with me,’ he blurted.

  Moirin looked scared. ‘I wasn’t asking.’

  ‘I know.’ Farden looked to the Duke, thrashing in his chair.

  ‘Are you going to…’

  ‘No. But trust me. You’ll be safe.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘I’ll manage,’ Farden nodded. ‘I always do.’

  Boom.

  He looked to the door. Its thick lock was beginning splinter. The key was jangling loosely in its hole. The wood quivered as the guards struck it again.

  Boom!

  ‘Do what you have to do,’ Moirin said, and reached for his hand. Farden didn’t quite know what to do, but he grasped it all the same. A fleeting, cold, metallic goodbye.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ he told her.

  ‘Father!’ screeched Timeon, as Moirin clamped her hands over the boy’s face.

  Farden marched over to the window and his captive Duke. Kiltyrin saw him coming in the reflection of the rain-spattered pane. He could see the iron darkness of the mage’s intent in his narrowed eyes. It terrified him to silence. Farden went to the desk and snatched up his notebook, still open at that most dangerous of pages. Kiltyrin soon found his tongue, bloody as it was. ‘No!’ he cried! ‘NO!’

  In a cold, slow movement that was far more frightening than if he had done it with speed, Farden ripped the page from the notebook and pressed it up against the damp windowpane so that it stuck facing the Duke. Kiltyrin looked up at the ceiling, at the floor, at the metal-eyed mage, anywhere but the Book.

  Farden grabbed a loose end of rope and looped it around the Duke’s face. One, twice, binding him still. Farden yanked it, and Kiltyrin’s head snapped back. It was a moment’s work to knot it tightly to his bound hands. He was stuck facing the dreaded page. ‘No!’ he shouted, clamping his eyes firmly shut.

  Farden wasn’t done yet. He grabbed Kiltyrin in a headlock, and held him tight against his chest. ‘There are worse things than death, Kiltyrin, and I am one of them,’ he whispered. Then, with a final glance to check that Moirin was not watching, he lifted up his knife, and began to cut.

  The guttural screams rose higher than the rafters.

  When the mage was done, he wiped his hands and turned away, and headed straight for the fire. He reached inside his pocket and dug out the scraps of crumpled parchment Loki had given him. He held them over the flames for a brief moment until they caught light, and then sprinted to the door.

  Boom!

  It was not a moment too soon. ‘Cover your eyes!’ Farden snatched the iron key from its lock and wrenched the doors open. The guards staggered onto their faces as their rudimentary battering ram met nothing but empty air. Wide-eyed and panting, they gawped at the dishevelled man standing in the doorway, a piece of burning paper in each of his hands.

  ‘Er…’ was all one of them could stutter, as the burning papers exploded into twin balls of blinding light, miniature suns in their own right, fighting for space in the doorway. Farden screwed his eyes as tightly as he could and braced himself against the unfurling spells. His arms felt as though they had been hit by hammers. It took all of his might to stay standing. On the floor, the guards clutched at their faces, trying to shut out the blinding light.

  It lasted only second, but that was all he needed.

  Farden kicked his way through the dazed guards, slamming the door behind him and locking it tight. He left the guards moaning and pawing as he hurtled down the empty corridor, pillowcase of armour waving like a banner behind him. Steps flew past under his feet as he sprinted down the stairs. Soon he was flying through the hallways of the main castle, barging people aside in a mad dash for the main entrance. Nobody raised the alarm. Nobody thought anything of it. Just a rude man in a cloak. Not a murderous mage on the loose, busy escaping.

  It was only when he reached the main doors that he encountered a problem: a dozen or so guards standing at the main door, staring dumbly out at the dripping gloom of the night. He was out of ideas, but he didn’t let that slow his pace. The slapping of his feet echoed around the atrium, and the guards, one by one, began to turn. Farden opened his mouth, though what to shout he didn’t know.

  ‘Fire!’ he blurted. That was a surprise and no mistake. A pleasant one too. The guards turned, wary. ‘Fire in the banquet hall! Go help, quickly!’ he yelled.

  It was a stroke of genius. The guards, too bewildered to stop him, quickly began to take up the shout. They saw nothing of the blood-spattered pillowcase, his sooty and crimson hands. Instead they abandoned the door and jostled him aside, yelling ‘Fire!’ at the top of their lungs as they did so.

  Farden didn’t waste any time clapping himself on the back. Feet clattering on the slippery, rain-battered steps, a constant inch from stumbling, he flew down the precarious walkway and down into Tayn. The only thing he left behind
was a long iron key, tumbling into the inky, wet darkness.

  ‘The sand don’t lie, sir. Your time is up,’ said Jeasin, as she tapped the little hourglass by her bedside.

  There was a disgruntled sigh, followed by a rustle of sweat-laced bed linen and a muttered, ‘Fine.’

  Jeasin reached for her robe and swiftly folded it over her shoulders. She went to stand by the door and waited for the guard captain to dress himself. He was a regular; a portly, timid man, well entrenched in his later years. Many of her visitors were like him, sheepishly grasping at a long-lost youth well misspent. Wives none the wiser, of course.

  As she heard the clomping of his tired boots come closer, she put one hand on the doorknob to her right, and held the other out in front of her, open and flat. The purse was swiftly deposited. She clutched it, weighing it. Heavier than usual. Jeasin smiled. ‘Why thank you, sir. Now be sure to give the lordship his Duke our warmest regards. He and his men are always welcome here,’ Jeasin said, gently shepherding him closer to the door. In her mind, she sniggered at the thought of the Duke coming to her cathouse for an evening. His men had been flooding through her doors these past three weeks, ever since… well. Since. The Duke’s word had made business boom, and Jeasin was intending on keeping it that way.

  ‘I’ll be sure to mention it to him,’ muttered the guard captain, unconvinced. He probably shared the same mental image. Perhaps she could have her girls visit the castle instead, she pondered…

  ‘Be sure that you do, sir…’

  Her hand resting gingerly on the captain’s sweaty shoulder, Jeasin opened the door, and pushed him gently out. He didn’t move. Jeasin was about to tut when she felt the presence of somebody else standing in the doorway, somebody wet, dripping, and breathing heavily.

  The captain was fumbling for his knife. A rough hand pushed Jeasin aside and she heard the distinct wet thud of a fist colliding with a rather saggy jaw. It was swiftly followed by the bang of a head on a wooden floor.

  ‘Hel…!’ A wet, calloused hand clamped over her mouth. Another hand pushed her up against the wall. The door slammed and locked. Hot, tired breath wafted across her cheek and into her ear.

  ‘Entertaining the guards now, are we? And a guard captain no less. That’s a step-up for this house,’ rasped a familiar voice. ‘Must have been quite the favour you did the Duke.’

  Jeasin hissed his name under his hand. It was a muffled hiss of fury, garnished with a sour pinch of guilt. There was fear there too. Whatever the Duke had done with Farden, he had survived it. He had come for his revenge.

  She struggled against his tight grip. He didn’t feel as strong as usual. There was a distinct smell of vomit on his hands. Soot on his clothes too. That coppery tang of blood, steel, murder. The fear grew. ‘Mmhmm mmm!’ she mumbled. Farden parted his fingers so she could speak but she tried to bite him instead. The mage thumped her head against the wall for good measure. ‘I s’pose you want to know why I did it? Why I sold you out?’ she spat, breathless.

  Farden shook his head. He watched her misty blue eyes look this way and that, searching for something to glare at. Her hair was tousled and tangled. Her perfume, as always, verged on the overpowering, even with the smell of sweat and sex on her. ‘No,’ he said a long pause. That seemed to take her aback. ‘I know exactly why you did it.’

  Jeasin lifted her chin away from the mage’s hand. ‘Well, good… and I’d do it again in a second,’ she asserted proudly. ‘For my girls.’ Farden didn’t reply. She stuck out her jaw. ‘What did they do to you, anyways?’

  There was a squeak of wet leather as Farden slowly released her. ‘They killed me,’ he said.

  Jeasin spat again. ‘Sounds like they didn’t do a good job. If you’re expectin’ me to feel guilty, you’ve come to the wrong place. If you’re ‘ere to take your revenge, then bloody get on with it.’ Behind her flinty bravado, she was quivering, but she didn’t dare show it. ‘Well, what you waitin’ for? Do whatever it is you came to do!’ Jeasin demanded, pulling open her robe and pointing to her heart.

  ‘Such a small target,’ remarked the mage. ‘But I’m not here to kill you, Jeasin. Just to let you know I’m alive. And to wish you luck.’

  Jeasin snorted, barely masking her relief. ‘Luck? Luck with what?’

  Farden kicked at the unconscious guard captain sprawled on the floor. He was rewarded with a groan. The sound of bells and horns suddenly began to emanate from the distant castle. ‘After what I just did, and after he wakes up,’ Farden kicked again at the limp body, ‘you’ll probably need it.’

  Jeasin suddenly looked flustered. It was the first time Farden had ever seen her like that. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Let’s just say that whatever protection you had from the Duke has now been revoked. And I doubt the guards will look too kindly on you harbouring a murderous fugitive like me, or for assaulting one of their fine captains.’

  ‘Murderous… wait! I ain’t harbourin’ you! An’ you punched him!’

  ‘Really?’ Farden shrugged. ‘The girls saw me come in. They saw me come upstairs. No screams. No cries for help. Not a mark on you. An unconscious body. Hmm, I wonder if they’re as loyal to you as you are to them. Tongues wag when the knives come out. I should know.’ The horns and bells were getting closer. Farden leant against the door and chuckled, chatting almost conversationally. ‘Of course, you could get those hands of yours real dirty. Kill the guard before he wakes up and hide the body. Say I came for you, I killed him in a struggle, and then escaped. Strange though. I suddenly feel like sticking around. Or you could run, of course, but nothing screams guilty like running. All in all, it looks pretty bad.’

  ‘You bastard,’ Jeasin spat.

  ‘I guess you’re not the only one who’s good at screwing. As I said, good luck,’ said Farden, with a long sigh.

  Jeasin pulled at her hair. She began to pace back and forth. Farden was idly picking his nails. She could hear it, ticking by the seconds. ‘Oh, gods,’ she muttered. Her little safety net had been pulled apart by its seams. Without her protection her girls were vulnerable enough, but now, thanks to the mage’s meddling, they were more vulnerable than ever. The house would be torn apart. Their Jeasin, harbouring a fugitive, after all the Duke did for her. Double-cross they would call it. The girls would be locked up as traitors too. Beaten and worse. The half-empty bag of jewels in her bedside table would be all the proof they needed…

  ‘You bastard,’ she said again, venom dripping off her words. She considered going to her desk and fetching her little blade. Maybe she could catch Farden off guard, while he’s weak. Nonsense. He was a trained killer. She wrung her hands, feeling that sour sting of guilt again. He wasn’t the only one to blame here. She had brought this down upon herself. Her house. Her girls. All for a bag of bloody jewels.

  Beaten. And worse.

  ‘Take me with you!’ she abruptly blurted. The girls could claim ignorance, claim they never knew. It would look like the mage had abducted her. She could hear the shouting of the guards in the street now.

  ‘I travel alone,’ said the mage, coldly.

  Jeasin stamped her bare foot. ‘Get me out of Tayn!’

  She couldn’t know, but Farden was staring deep into her misty blue eyes. Something made of old memories prodded his heart sharply, and he cursed it. Why did dead things refuse to stay in their murky, forgotten graves? He grit his teeth. ‘Jeasin. The scapegoat,’ he said. There was no trace of mirth in his words.

  Jeasin nodded. ‘My girls,’ she gasped, barely a noise.

  ‘Fine,’ Farden grunted. ‘Put some clothes on.’

  Jeasin quickly felt her way to her bedside table and frantically fished out some clothes. While she dressed, Farden went to the window and peeked out. A swarm of wet guards brandishing lanterns and spears was surging down the street, yelling and braying for the blood of the mage. They were heading straight for the cathouse.

  ‘If you’re coming with me, then you’re coming now,’ Farden ordered. He ma
rched across the room and yanked Jeasin toward the door. She did as she was told, but her face bubbled with anger, pain, and a dozen other feelings.

  Farden quickly ushered her down the hallway and down a quiet set of stairs that led to the larders. They passed nobody. It was merciful in a way, thought Jeasin. Her ears told her the girls were busy staring at the guards from the windows, or downstairs watching them barge through the door. She would be their scapegoat, as Farden had said, and they would go unharmed. She repeated that to herself as she was half-pushed, half-carried through the silent wine larder and out of the little hatch that was the back door. Jeasin thought of little Osha’s face then, her confusion. It took all she had to fight back the urge to shrug herself free and storm back to her room to confront the guards. She could tell them they had nothing to do with it, that Farden had broken in, held them hostage even. No, she told herself, the guards were too angry for explanation. They had already made their minds up. If she stood with the girls they would be seen as accomplices. Ignorance meant innocence.

  Beaten. And worse.

  Cold rain splashed on her hot face. She flinched. The cold quickly penetrated the clothes she’d managed to snatch from her drawers; a thin dress to cover up her thin robe. Farden led her onto the street and away from the cathouse.

  ‘I’ve never left Tayn in my life…’ Jeasin was saying. Farden gave her no reply; he simply pulled harder on her arm and broke into a jog.

  Farden led her straight towards the nearest gate. The guards would be distracted at the house, but it wouldn’t be long before they realised Jeasin and Farden had disappeared, and alerted the gates. The bells and horns had already done half that job. They stumbled along a rain-soaked knife-edge.

  It didn’t take long for a set of gates to loom out of the rainy haze. Smaller than those he had entered by, but bristling with guards all the same. Twenty, at a glance. Farden began to slow his pace. He began to wish he’d stripped the portly captain of his uniform. Shouting ‘Fire!’ wasn’t going to work a second time, not in this blasted rain.

  Exhaustion had finally pounced on him. His bones and muscles were weary. He still felt sick from the mistfrond. All Farden wanted to do was find a warm, dry place, and curl up in it. Sleep for a hundred years.