by Ben Galley
No, that felt too much like death.
‘Where are we?’ Jeasin whispered. She kept looking back, listening to the yelling and crashing of the guards, barely three streets away. It would not be long before they discovered they’d escaped.
‘By the gates,’ Farden gruffly replied.
‘Guards?’
‘Dozen.’
‘What’s your big plan?’
‘Kill everything that moves?’
‘Great plan.’
‘You didn’t have to come with me.’
‘Didn’t I?’ came the hiss. Farden swore he felt spit on the back of his neck. Maybe it was the rain. He pulled his hood up just in case. Farden bit his lip. It was risky, but it might just work. ‘You want to keep your girls safe?’
‘Stupid fuckin’ question.’
‘Then do as I say.’
‘What’s all that ruckus up there then, Cap?’
The captain swaggered through his bunch of men. There was mischief afoot, that was for sure. They could hear the bells of the castle clear enough. Lanterns too, in the streets up ahead. Like firefangs at dusk. ‘How should I know?’ he barked. ‘Jus’ you keep your mouths shut and your hands ready, understand?’
‘Aye,’ came a grumbled chorus.
‘I bet it’s Dunfoot and ‘is lot. They always get to have all the fun,’ muttered a voice in his ear. It was the sergeant.
‘You ain’t wrong Tirst, you ain’t. That’s what you get when your old father sits on the Duke’s court.’
‘What do you reckon the bells are ringin’ for?’
‘Mischief.’ That was for sure. There was always mischief going on, and Captain Yaggerfell was damned if he ever saw any of it. That’s what you get when your old father gets drunk and vomits on the Duke’s best rug. Shitty posts with the dregs of the barracks, he told himself. Yaggerfell spared his guards a glance. Reprobates all. Half of them couldn’t even put their armour on the right way round.
‘Somebody’s coming!’ hissed one of them, the fat one. Yaggerfell had forgotten his name.
‘Spears!’ Sergeant Tirst shouted. Sure enough, a figure was coming out of the rain. A slim figure at that.
‘Spears down, you morons. Don’t you know a woman when you see one?’ the captain snapped. Truth be told, with his lot, anything was possible. At the mention of a female, all alone and out in the rain, they perked up. Grins widened. Eyebrows raised. Elbows nudged.
A woman it was and pretty one too, albeit drenched to the bone. She clutched her soaked robes to her skin, betraying more than a hint of curve and bump here and there. A few of the guards began to edge forward. Tirst whacked them back into place with his spear. She was shivering, and she looked agitated. It was hard to tell through the rain and the bedraggled hair wrapping her face, but Yaggerfell still recognised her. That blind whore. He’d heard many a story of her over a mug of brimlugger.
‘Please…’ she began, teeth chattering. ‘He’s tryin’ to kill me!’
Yaggerfell stepped forward, eyeing the rainy gloom behind her. ‘Who is, m’dear?’ He threw open an arm and the woman ran into it, clutching at him. A whistle or two came from behind him. More whacks of the spear.
‘The man the others are chasing! The man who’s killed the Duke! He’s after me, tryin’ to kill me too!’ the woman wailed.
The guards erupted into shouting. ‘The what?’
‘An assassin?!’
‘Where ‘is ‘e?’
‘Duke’s dead?’
‘I’ll show him!’
Farden began at the back, knifing out of the hazy gloom. The blade opened the throat of the first, spinning him like a bloody top on the second. That one got the knife-point in his guts. It didn’t take long for him to start howling. A man will do that when he unexpectedly finds a long blade in his midriff.
As the guards began to turn and yell, Farden sprang from one to the next, slicing at legs and arms and throats and hands before they could even wipe the rain from their eyes. Mud splashed as he kicked and darted. The rippled puddles turned golden as blood mingled with the light of the lanterns. Roars met whimpers as the mage’s blades whirled.
There were three men left standing when the first spear caught him. Up high, in the shoulder. The other followed soon after, catching him just above his arse. Farden cried out as he twisted and knocked the blades aside. They had been frantic jabs, ill-aimed and desperate. He’d live, but their owners didn’t. Farden grabbed the nearest by the neck and dragged his head down, at the same time as he drove his knife up. The blade popped through the back of his skull with a sickening crunch.
Before Farden could drag the knife back out, the last two were upon him. Jeasin was screaming something about being abducted. Fine little actress she was. Farden was half-surprised that she hadn’t grabbed a spear and tried to skewer him herself.
Farden felt the breath go out of him as the two men bore him down. His other knife was being wrestled out of his hand. The one that Jeasin had spoken to was trying to force the mage’s head into a puddle, and winning too. Farden coughed filthy, bloody mud.
Through the corner of his eye he spied his chance, and took it. He reached up, grabbed the man by the roots of his hair and yanked him down with all the might he had left, straight down onto the knife-point protruding from the dead man’s skull. The man screamed as the blade took his eye. It was enough to make the second man pause, and Farden drove his other knife into his neck.
Yaggerfell rolled in the mud, clutching at his face. He was screeching like a tortured eagle. Farden put his boot on his neck, making sure he was paying attention for the finale of their little escape, and for Jeasin’s little ruse. Yaggerfell still had the one good eye.
‘Come here!’ Farden yelled hoarsely, still spitting mud. Jeasin struggled as he grabbed her, feigning horror.
‘No! No!’ she cried. Farden seized her by the wrist and yanked her forward, almost tearing her hand from her arm in the process. He could hear boots. She yelped, but followed, and together, Jeasin still screaming at the top of her lungs, they barged through the gate and out into the soaking darkness.
When the castle guards finally managed to break down the door to the Duke’s room, some time early in the half-dawn morning, they were presented with a sight that would haunt their dreams for the rest of their lives. They didn’t dare touch him. They didn’t dare come any closer than they had to. Some even had to run from the room, hands clamped over their mouths. For, at the window, tied to a chair with a curtain cord, sat Kiltyrin, a rich and powerful Duke of Albion, reduced to a gibbering, foaming madman, both his eyelids lying on the floor beside him.
Chapter 16
“As requested, Arkmages, we enclose our findings. I must say, we scholars find ourselves both excited and fearful. We have glimpsed the strange things of the new magick markets, but we confess, things are no less strange nor outlandish here in the libraries. Long-lost tomes are coming to life before our very eyes. Texts and scrolls we thought lost to decay and faded script are seemingly repairing and rewriting themselves. Only the other day, a colleague was reading aloud from a smithing manual, only to have the script burst into flame as he read it, the very words burning themselves from its pages!
I beg you again for more staff. We suddenly find ourselves in an age of discovery the likes of which have been lost to history. Forgive me if my words exceed my station, but it seems as if magick is reinventing itself, and I implore you to allow us to keep up with it. My utmost regards, Fontin Carga, Scholar of Arfell.”
Excerpt from a report on the Arfell Libraries, year 903
‘I’m beginning to wonder if he’s dead,’ said a ponderous voice to the sighing sea. It was quickly reprimanded by a sharp clacking of a beak and an irritated whistle. The gryphon was beginning to tire of the god’s pessimism. Ilios clawed at the empty shell of a crab that had washed up with the tide. He whistled again.
Loki shrugged. ‘So you keep saying, but I’m not like the others. I will reserve my judgement
until I see him.’
Silence, save for the sea and the crying of a few gulls on a nearby rock. In the distance, a fishing cog plied the waves; its yellow sail chasing after the breezes. Loki and the gryphon watched it disappear around the headland.
It was a while before either of them made any sort of noise. Neither were truly worried about the return of the mage. Ilios had his dreams and his sight to calm his concerns, while Loki had his indifference. Whether it was a cunning front or genuine insouciance, even the gryphon couldn’t tell.
He didn’t have much time to ponder that question. The sounds of tired feet on flint pebbles wafted to his sensitive ears, and he sniffed at the salty air. Without so much as a whine or a whistle, Ilios got to his feet and launched himself into the air. Despite the down-draught of the gryphon’s wings almost knocking him flat, Loki barely spared an upwards glance.
Jeasin, on the other hand, was terrified.
It had been over a week since Jeasin had been wrenched from the gates of Tayn, and she had barely let a single word fall from her lips. Silence seemed to be the order of the day with her. An angry, sour silence. Farden counted his lucky stars her blind eyes couldn’t catch him. The look she perpetually held in them was as sharp as hot swords.
They had travelled by night, sleeping in ditches and deep forest by day. Only once did they encounter a guard patrol, and only Farden had been awake for that. His hands had hovered over her mouth, ready to stifle her should she cry out in her sleep or awake suddenly. Thankfully, the light had been fading, and the guards marched on, completely oblivious to the fugitives hiding in the ditch, inches from their boots.
Fortunately, Farden’s actions had left a tantalising power vacuum in Albion. A certain raving mad Duke had been quietly ushered into the a secluded wing of Castle Tayn and locked up for good. With only the young brat Timeon for an heir, the duchy was declared fit for the taking. Claims to Kiltyrin’s throne fell from the sky like ripe fruit in an autumn gale. The court descended into uproar. Every noble, lord, and count in the duchy whipped their carriages into a frenzy and made a beeline for the city of Kiltyrin proper. Even a few neighbouring Dukes arrived to lay claim to the right to rule from its vacant seat. Kiltyrin’s duchy was a fat calf delivered for slaughter, and it provided the perfect distraction for Farden and Jeasin. After all, why waste time pursuing the murderer whose hand had delivered it?
After a few days of skulking in the wilderness, Farden finally realised that nobody was chasing them, and they began to follow the flint roads east towards the coast and Fleahurst. She would occasionally make a sulky, bitter mumble of a remark, but nothing more. He could feel her storing up her venom, ready to unleash when they finally reached safety. Farden only wished he had some mistfrond left.
And so it was that after nine days of ditches and roads and sulking, Jeasin came face to face with a most terrifying creature indeed.
It swooped down from the striking blue sky with a screech that made her ears hum for hours afterwards. The monster, half ferocious eagle, half giant lion, flared its wings a mere moment before it crashed into the ground, flapping so hard that she had to cling to Farden to keep from toppling over. Jeasin didn’t need her eyes to know there was a monster in their path. Her blood had already run cold from the sound of it.
Farden stood perfectly still as the creature came to a scraping, whistling halt on the flint road. He stood right in the creature’s path, arms crossed and eyes closed as the road dust flew in his face. He sighed and waited for the gryphon to sit down. Behind him, Jeasin trembled.
‘What is it Farden? Farden?!’ cried Jeasin, looking around frantically.
‘It’s fine, is what it is,’ replied Farden. Ilios also caught the edge of his dry tone and whistled warily, yellow eyes squinting at the long-lost mage. His claws tapped rhythms on the stones.
‘What is it?’ she hissed.
‘A gryphon.’
‘A what? Oh, I don’t want to know. What’s it doin’ here?!’
Farden sighed. ‘Gods only know,’ he said. The gryphon was just as his murky memories recalled him. A few grey feathers hiding amongst his tawny plumage. His tail swished back and forth, unsure of itself.
‘Is it dangerous?’ she asked.
Farden shook his head. ‘Not to us.’
Ilios warbled a polite little tune and leant down to nudge the mage’s elbow with his beak. Farden didn’t respond. Jeasin just flinched away. ‘Keep following the road, you hear me? I will be right behind you,’ Farden told her.
‘Not a chance. I’m stayin’ with you. This thing sounds like it could eat me whole.’
‘He won’t hurt you,’ Farden sighed. As if to prove his point, Ilios gently touched his beak to her shoulder. Jeasin tentatively held out a hand, and the gryphon let her touch his beak.
‘Bloody hell,’ she muttered.
Ilios fixed Farden with a worried stare. The mage narrowed his eyes in reply. ‘First Loki, now you. Is Durnus at the shack?’
Ilios shook his head.
‘Don’t tell me, my uncle’s on the beach?’
Another shake of the gryphon’s feathery head. Farden didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. ‘Well, I’d say it is good to see you,’ he said gruffly, ‘but I’d be lying.’ Ilios whistled a low note and shuffled aside to let Farden and Jeasin pass. ‘Oh, and stay out of my head.’
With a silent, and confused, gryphon in tow, Farden stalked along the road, Jeasin stumbling behind him. She kept asking him about the gryphon. He wasn’t in the mood for her questions. He had enough of his own.
It took them mere minutes to reach the ash tree and the lip of the hill that hid his shack from the rest of the world. A shiver ran through the mage when he saw the tree. He had ignored it on his outbound journey. He hadn’t the courage to look at it. But now face to face with it once more, he couldn’t spurn it. The tree swayed gently, innocently, in the breeze. Its slate fingers caressed the sky.
Half of him wanted to hack it down and burn it to its very namesake, right there and then. The other half didn’t know what to do but stand in its shadow and stare up in dull horror at one bough in particular, a dozen feet up its trunk, where a frayed knot of rope danced on the wind’s back. That will be the only gravestone I will ever have, he promised himself.
With a tired grunt, he led Jeasin and a sulking gryphon over the stubbled lip of the hill and down to his shack and beach. Loki was nowhere to be seen, presumably in the shack. A pair of scrawny rimelings had set up camp on the roof. They mewed boldly at their newcomers and the strange creature that padded along behind them. Ilios screeched at them, and they beat a hasty retreat, leaving nothing behind but their dung.
As it turned out, Loki was on the beach. Farden marched straight through his shack as though it were nothing but an archway, pausing a bare second to toss his haversack onto the floor. Striding across the pebbles and grit, he headed for the sea. He barely cast the god a second look as he passed him. Farden’s feet met the gentle water, cold in the wake of winter, and kicked it aside. He marched straight in, clothes, cloak, boots and all, right up to his waist. He stood there for a moment before ducking under. He didn’t come up for a long time. When he finally reared his head, he took a deep breath and went under again, scrubbing the dirt and blood from his long hair.
The mage stayed in the water for almost an hour, shedding his clothes and his filth, until his bones felt as though they would shiver right out of his skin. When he was done, he marched back up the beach, a little slower this time, and slumped into a heap on the straw-strewn floor at the foot of his bed. Jeasin was perched on a crate near the door. She hadn’t moved. Her nose had told her to stay put, and not touch anything.
‘The bed’s good, if you want it. If not, use the chair. Make yourself at home,’ the mage muttered to her, as exhaustion finally began to take him. Its hooks pulled at his tired muscles, his aching bones. His fingers stroked his eyes shut. His breathing grew heavy, leaden. Darkness gathered, and swallowed.
/> The smell of burning awoke him. An acrid smell that burnt his nostrils, made his throat sting. His eyes fluttered and found his world at a precarious tilt. Everything was on a slant. He had somehow found his way into his bed in his sleep, and propped himself up on its straw pillows.
Roasted fish. That was the smell. Greasy, salty, roasted fish. As he sniffed the air, Farden became aware of the deep emptiness his stomach had been harbouring. It felt as though he had gulped down a sharp lump of rock in his sleep.
Farden could hear voices too, and a low whistling. He tried to shut his eyes but his hunger pried them open. It was no use. He tried his legs. They were there at least, but they were tired, aching, and barely working. His arms were the same. His whole body felt borrowed and foreign. It took him a full minute to fling himself into an upright position.
Step by shuffling step he made it to the door. The others were sitting in a circle under the blanket of stars. Jeasin was lying on a filthy blanket in the sand, probably asleep. Ilios lay like a cat, with his forelegs curled underneath him and his tail wrapping around him like not enough twine around a present. Loki was prodding the orange fire with a stick, his back to the mage. It was dying with the night; dawn was beginning to claw its way to the top of the horizon. How long had he slept?
Farden stumbled his way down to the fire. His stomach announced his arrival with a gurgling rumble. Loki and Ilios looked up.
‘Have you even moved since I left?’ he muttered hoarsely to Loki. The god shrugged. Farden took the stick from him and poked around in the fire, where a pot of fish stew had been left to keep warm in the coals. He knelt to pick out some nondescript vegetables and a morsel of oily fish with his fingers. They were lukewarm, but he gobbled them down hungrily while he eyed the god. Loki looked as fresh-faced as ever. Only a slight dusting of sand clung to his youthful skin. His eyes glistened in the fading light of the stars and the fire. ‘Do you even sleep?’ he asked.
