by Ben Galley
‘Her?’ Farden asked. Durnus nodded.
‘I was wondering how long it would take to broach that particular subject.’ Farden looked out at the dark sky behind the windows. ‘Six hours. I should have placed a wager.’
‘We cannot ignore her.’
‘No, but she can wait until the morning.’
‘And I’ve prayed that every night since you disappeared,’ said Durnus, then he shuffled around in his seat, uncomfortable because of more than just the chair. The carved and inlaid wood of his chair creaked as he fidgeted, like a musical accompaniment. ‘The subject is a wound with you,’ he said. ‘Better to let it breathe, than to let it fester.’
Farden snorted. ‘It’s been festering for fifteen years. If this subject was a wounded leg, then a healer would cut it off and be done with it.’
‘Well you tried that, and quite obviously it did not work, otherwise you would not be sitting here with me,’ Durnus countered with a snort of his own.
Farden went to stand. ‘Oh, it works alright. Let me show you.’
‘Sit down, Farden! I thought your exile might have changed you, like it did your uncle, but that stubborn streak of yours still burns brightly, doesn’t it?’
‘I came back because of Elessi,’ Farden replied, a half-lie, but a half-truth too.
‘Well, that hurts,’ said a voice. Another pair of feet had crept into the room, unnoticed in the heat of the conversation. The figure took a step out of the gloom. It was Tyrfing, arms crossed and stony-faced. He was wearing a blacksmith’s apron over a thin shirt and starched trousers, military-style. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, trekking down from his tangled hairline to his overgrown beard. He did not look happy. Farden didn’t blame him, but all he could do was shrug.
Tyrfing strode forward and found his own chair by the fire. He swivelled it around and sat backwards on it so that his elbows rested on its back. He stared straight at Farden, as if waiting for an answer. It was a while before anyone said anything.
Tyrfing finally broke the silence. The pained look hadn’t left his face, but Farden could tell he would leave the subject alone. ‘You look like hell, nephew.’
Farden had to smirk at that. ‘I probably do.’
‘And it smells like that bath never found you.’
‘No, I don’t think it did.’
‘And your finger…?’ Tyrfing’s voice trailed off.
Farden looked down and waggled the fingers of his left hand, all except one. ‘Vice’s goodbye.’
Tyrfing sighed. ‘What happened to you, nephew?’
Farden shook his head and let his eyes glaze over. A hundred scenes shuffled past his vision, dripping with blood and oily shadow. Scenes of gristle and bone and his knife tickling both. Scenes of guts and little glory, of all the different colours of flesh a blade could bare to him, red, pink, white and fatty yellow… of his knuckles embedded in crushed faces, of knife-points idly carving shapes in innocent stomachs, foreheads, cheeks… of teeth lying in puddles… He slowly moved his head from side to side, counting them all. He soon lost count. ‘Let’s leave that conversation for another night, shall we?’
Tyrfing looked to Durnus and the blind Arkmage nodded, somehow sensing Tyrfing’s questioning look. He sighed and threw his hands up in the air. ‘Fine.’
Farden quickly found another subject. ‘What’s with the apron?’ he asked.
Tyrfing pulled a confused face. ‘Don’t you remember?’
Farden scratched his nose. ‘There’re a lot of things…’ he trailed off. ‘It’s been a long time…’
Durnus interjected. ‘That it has.’ He reached out and grasped Farden by the shoulder. As did Tyrfing. Farden looked rather uncomfortable for a moment, sat there, being clasped by the shoulders by two men. But they were his oldest friends. Family. By every right they should be fuming, reading from the same script as Elessi, and yet here they were, simply happy to be in the same room as him for once. Farden let the weight lift slightly. He knew it would reappear by morning, but for now, he could let it go. He sighed.
‘We’re so glad you’re back, nephew,’ Tyrfing whispered hoarsely. He sounded tired. He coughed then and quickly turned away, covering his hand with his mouth. Durnus patted Farden on the shoulder.
‘Let us call it a night, shall we? We shall wait until tomorrow to wag our tongues.’
Farden nodded. He suddenly realised how tired he was. He got to his feet and felt the weakness in them. His body felt borrowed again, beaten.
Tyrfing also got to his feet. He put his hands in his pockets. ‘Ilios should have returned by then, with that friend of yours. Loki mentioned her.’
Farden had completely forgotten about Jeasin. He wondered how Ilios must have been faring. The poor gryphon would be exhausted by the time he returned. ‘Oh, she’s just a lump of baggage that I can’t get rid of,’ Farden had to chuckle to make it sound light-hearted.
‘How charming,’ smirked Durnus. As Tyrfing and Farden turned to go, Durnus raised a hand. Enclosed within a cage of bony fingers was a candle. ‘Farden?’ he asked. The mage turned. Tyrfing too. He looked at the candle and ran his teeth over his bottom lip. ‘Before you go,’ Durnus began, ‘could you light a few candles? For the maids, should they decide to disturb me.’
Farden looked at the candle as if it were a knife plunging into his side, wiggling its way through his ribs to nick his heart. ‘Er…’ he said. Durnus held the candle out so he could take it. Farden grudgingly did so. It felt like a bar of lead. He looked to Tyrfing, who was trying hard not to look utterly crestfallen. They already knew.
Farden grit his teeth. He pinched the greasy wick of the candle between his finger and thumb. For a moment, Tyrfing looked as though he were about to blow a great sigh of relief, but then Farden dashed his hopes by dropping to his knee and touching the wick to the dancing embers of the fire. Tyrfing could only stare dumbly into the flames. Durnus folded his hands on his lap and pursed his lips.
Farden wished the candle was a knife. He might have been able to cut the tension. He placed the candle in a nearby holder, jabbing it downwards onto the little spike, as if it was all its fault. The weight that had lifted so graciously began to pile back on with a vengeance. Without a word, Farden shuffled past his uncle and went straight for the door.
‘Goodnight,’ called Durnus. His voice was small, strained.
‘Night,’ replied Farden, an inch before the door clicked shut.
For an age, Durnus and Tyrfing did not move nor bring themselves to speak. Then Durnus, raising his head ever so slightly, forced himself to take a breath, and slowly released it, like a shameful prisoner. Words came with it. ‘That man has about as much magick in him as a lump of coal.’
Tyrfing glared at the floor, sadness and anger both jostling in his eyes. ‘No, Durnus. Coal would at least have the decency to give us some warmth.’
Chapter 20
“You may be favoured by the Arkmages, Chasferist, but you’re still just a council member. You, like the rest of us, have backs. Backs are for knives to hide in. This is my final offer. Join us, or suffer the consequences.
Signed, The Copse.”
From a letter found in the rooms of Council Chasferist, shortly before he gave up his position as Council in the year 901
Farden awoke with a pounding headache. His dreams had been full of ice and colossal shadows, mountains hurling themselves from their own cliffs, and cold, enveloping water. Gryphon-borne, Farden whispered inside his own head, barely audible over the pain. It drowned out every sensible thought he could muster, almost as if he were shouting in the mist and waiting for an echo.
‘Bastard bird,’ Farden whispered through dry lips.
Farden manoeuvred his legs out of bed and his body reluctantly dragged behind it. His body creaked like his old shack in a gale. Nevermar would do that to a man, if it was trifled with, flirted with and then ignored. It was a jealous mistress.
The mage ignored the mirror by the bed and went to the window to assess the d
ay. It was bright, for a start, too much so for his sleepy eyes. There was a hot sun on the mountaintops, and the daylight was beginning to pour into the city’s valley. One of his windows could be tilted outwards to let in the air. Farden had cracked it open in the night to save him from drowning in his own hot sweat. Now the smell of fresh bread and last-night’s perfumes wafted through the gap. It was strange. It didn’t smell of seagulls and smoke-stains. It didn’t smell of loneliness and filth, of cracked mud and week-old blood. It didn’t smell like the mildew of a castle, nor the salt-tang of a quiet shore. It actually smelled like home.
This was the feeling he had been waiting for. It rolled in the wake of Krauslung’s fragrances, distracting him momentarily from the headache and the night’s clutches. Farden nodded at the window’s view. A simple waft of air had made his mind up. He had made the right choice. It was now Albion’s turn to be buried.
Farden dragged himself from the window and into some clothes that smelled moderately acceptable. As he dressed himself, he caught sight of a scrap of parchment that had been wedged in between the door and the frame. Trousers half-belted, he shuffled over to read it, muttering the note’s words under his breath:
Nephew,
Come to my forge. No arguments.
Uncle.
‘Hmph,’ Farden exhaled. That much he had expected, given the display of kindness, or rather, the lack of which, he had displayed in Durnus’ rooms last night. His aching body suggested he go back to bed, but he knew if he did he wouldn’t rise until sunset. The nevermar was leaving his body, a whole, stinking decade of it, and it wasn’t about to leave quietly. The jealous mistress had a poisonous tail. Farden knew exactly what was coming, and he would make his exhausted body fight it out until the very last moment. He had already promised himself he would see Elessi married whether she liked it or not.
Just as his uncle’s note had demanded, Farden ordered his legs to take him up the many stairs to the upper echelons of the Arkathedral. Old habits kept his hood low and over his face. He caught the eye of many a guard, but they had been given their orders, and they let him roam.
Farden caught other eyes too, and the higher he climbed in the Arkathedral, the more suspicious and narrowed they became. Eyes beneath perfectly trimmed eyebrows and balancing between combed lashes and painted lids. Farden peeked out from beneath his hood and stared at their owners. Magick council members mostly, on their way to the morning’s gathering. Others were nobles and rich influencers who had bought rooms in the Arkathedral fortress, off to the breakfast table perhaps.
Farden didn’t blame them for their staring and their whispers, but he didn’t have to like it. If they forgave his rumpled clothing and hooded appearance, then they soon changed their minds as he brushed past them, and caught a whiff of his most intriguing odour. One woman looked as though she were close to vomiting. Farden hid a smile. He might have even slowed his pace a little to allow them to truly savour his passing.
Legs burning, head pummelling, Farden made it up to the second-highest level of the Arkathedral, where the windows stretched from white floor to white ceiling. Farden headed towards the muted clang of metal on metal. As he turned every corner, he hesitated slightly, expecting at any moment to spy the black scar of an old fire on the pure marble ceiling.
But there was no such scar. It had been covered up by chisel and dust and fresh-cut stone a long time ago, just like the others in the hallways. Farden shrugged. After all, what was home if not a harbour for a few scars? So long as their depth and length could be tolerated.
Farden turned a milk-white marble corner and found the source of the clanging. A cloth-padded door filled an ornate doorway. It was slightly ajar, and somebody behind it was clobbering some hot metal. Farden put his hand to the doorknob, and the clanging paused. Pushing forward, he stepped into a dark and smoky room, thick with the smell of scorched metal, sweat, and charcoal. There was cloth and straw cladding fastened to the walls to hamper the forge-noise. The shadows at his feet were hemmed with the orange threads of a fiery glow.
‘Tyrfing?’ Farden called for his uncle. There was no reply. Farden stepped deeper, following a curving corridor that led towards the light and warmth.
In the forge room, the daylight was muted and tanned grey by the soot hugging the window panes. Only the crackling fire and a smattering of whale-oil lanterns about the room gave it light. But it wasn’t the light that mesmerised the mage, but the colours that it eked from the wall behind him, and tossed on the floor like handfuls of discarded gems.
Farden turned as quickly as his tired body would let him. The wall was long and curved again, and it stretched around the forge hearth like a guiding arm. It positively bristled with metal, as if it had grown scales and barbs to defend itself against the heat. Had the myriad pieces not been deathly still, Farden could imagine the wall as the advancing ranks of some glittering, insectile army.
Every colour swam on that wall, and every shade of light with it. Razor edges mingled with burnished scales, miniscule mail links, and stout blades. Farden stepped forward, hand already outstretched, as if his vambrace and gauntlet longed to be with its own kind. Scalussen. Almost an entire section of the wall devoted to it.
Licking his lips, the mage stumbled to the wall and ran his fingers across a chestplate fringed with gold mail. It had the unmistakable glint of Scalussen about it. A trail of old runes surrounded its flared collar. Farden ran his calloused fingertip across them, but felt nothing. He wondered what magick this armour hid.
A glint of red and gold caught his eye, hanging from a higher hook, and Farden held back an eager gasp. It was a lone sabaton. Forged in autumn gold and apple-red, it was a near match to the metal around his own skin. Farden clutched it with both hands, but still nothing. No familiar tingle shivered up his fingers and made his skin shiver. He grimaced, disappointed, and moved on.
With every step, the disappointment began to grow. Colours paraded past him, frozen in metal and paint. Blue, sea-green, emerald, red, cinder-orange, gold, white, black, and silvery steel. Even after all his years of research, Farden had never imagined the smiths of Scalussen could have forged armour in so many hues. Farden shuffled on, touching and caressing and clutching every single piece of metal he could see, dying to feel a familiar whisper.
It was only when he came to a dull-looking suit of mail that he stopped and let himself breathe. Nothing. The Scalussen section faded into lacklustre normality. The jagged border on the wall was stark. The dull, unpolished neighbours paled in comparison. Scalussen armour glowed in ways that other armour could only long for.
‘How do you know?’ said a cracked voice. Fissures of tiredness made it hoarse. Farden didn’t have to turn to know it was his uncle, lingering in the shadows, hammer in hand. He had wanted to watch Farden and the wall.
Farden moved back across the armour, hoping that he had missed something. ‘I just do,’ he said. ‘Not everyone can.’
‘Almost like a selection process,’ mused his uncle. He was watching intently.
‘Perhaps,’ Farden distractedly replied. ‘Or protection.’
After a few moments, Tyrfing voiced his burning question. ‘And is any of it… is any of that, them?’
Farden had to force the answer out. Fruitless as a desert. ‘No.’
Tyrfing sighed. ‘Good coin well spent then,’ he said. He had never really believed that any of his collection was of the fabled Nine. Hoped, perhaps, trifled with optimism. But the wall had been gathered for other reasons than just simple myth, and so in truth, he was not disappointed.
Farden tore himself away from the Scalussen armour and wandered further along the wall, past the strip of dun-coloured scraps and spares, the practice pieces, the half-finished, and the rusty repaired, to where a wide band of new armour hung glittering. His uncle had been busy indeed. Some he recognised from wispy recollections of a store-room in Tyrfing’s old sandstone cave, while others were new, polished, and very impressive. Mimics and copycats they were
, built in the style of Scalussen with Tyrfing’s own twists worked in. Farden looked closer at a few of the cuirasses. Cogs and springs hid beneath their plates, poised and ready to release blades or darts or whatever cunning viciousness he had managed to dream up. Others were simpler, with strings of runes following their curves, like the Evernia and Arkathedral guard armour. These however, looked twice as intricate. Quite advanced. Busy indeed.
‘You did all this?’
Tyrfing chuckled. ‘I’ve had the time.’
Farden waved his hand at the Scalussen collection. ‘And you bought all of that?’
‘Much to the displeasure of the council and the coincounters, yes.’ Tyrfing pinched the sides of his dirty Arkmage’s robe with his hands and lifted it off the floor. ‘This comes with a few benefits.’
Farden rubbed his eyes and looked for a seat. His legs moaned when he couldn’t see one, so he perched on the edge of a chisel-bitten bench, arms crossed once again. ‘So then, Arkmage Tyrfing, what is it you wanted to talk to me about?’ he asked.
Tyrfing put his hammer down and went to mirror his nephew’s stance at the windowsill. ‘I think you can guess, after last night.’
‘So my magick is dead. Good riddance. It’s like mourning a murderer.’
‘And how many times have you repeated that to yourself on the dark nights?’
‘You know nothing of my dark nights, uncle, and I’m not about to enlighten you.’
He could see that hurt his uncle. Tyrfing set his jaw. ‘Really, Farden? Have you forgotten where you found me? I know a lost man when I see him. I know the weight of loneliness. I saw plenty of that in the desert, and most of it in the mirror. Of all of the people in this world, I was hoping that you might trust me to understand what you’ve been through, and trust me enough to let me help.’ He took a breath. ‘You’re a different man than the one that left, and in truth, it scares me to meet you.’
Farden shook his head, still adamant. Why couldn’t they just leave well enough alone, rather than bother him with these awkward, festering topics? He had returned. He was staying. That should have been enough for them. ‘Durnus seems to think I haven’t changed. Maybe you’re just meeting the real me,’ he said.
