by Ben Galley
A mighty cheer went up from the crowd of council members. Malvus played the victorious general. All he lacked was a bloody sword to wave.
Farden had never seen Durnus’ parchment face so crimson with indignation, anger, and a swirl of other emotions that didn’t have names. ‘We have done nothing but seek to protect this city and its people since the moment we were appointed. You have no idea what you are dealing with, Malvus,’ the old Arkmage yelled over the noise.
‘That is right, Durnus Durnus, I do not.’ He turned to face his magick council. ‘I have dug deep into the archives with the men of Arfell. For such a powerful mage as he,’ here he pointed casually at the thrones, ‘you would think that he attended our proud School? Would have thought a record of him exists. But, most strangely, there is no record of him there whatsoever. It seems we have a rogue mage here, ladies and gentlemen. The only mention of any sort of Durnus I can find is a quiet mention of a vampyre in charge of an Arkabbey in northern Albion. In the Leath duchy. An Arkabbey that was abandoned the very same month that Vice came to power, and low and behold, almost a year later, you wander into our lives.’
‘Lives that he saved, you ungrateful bastard!’ Modren countered. Behind him, Durnus made to descend the steps of his throne, ready to show the man his lack of fangs, but stumbled slightly as he misplaced his footing. The magick council rustled with laughter. Malvus sneered. Farden wanted to silence every single one of them with a dozen well-placed fists. His anger pounded in unison with his headache.
Malvus, it seemed, had a few more cards to play. ‘Suspicious, no? And let us not get started on our good Arkmage Tyrfing’s history. We’ve all seen the scars beneath the sleeves of his robe. They are both unfit to rule!’
In reply, Tyrfing slammed his hands together and a thunderclap deafened the council. He bellowed over its dying, booming echoes. ‘That’s enough, Malvus! I want your traitorous backside hauled out of this council. Guards!’
By the door, the guards looked downright bewildered. Instead of running to the Arkmages’ aid they clumped together, as though stuck in treacle. Coin, clashing with loyalty. Malvus produced another scroll, a fresher one this time, the ink barely dry and the paper a bleached yellow. He shook that out and let it fall with the other onto the marble.
‘What I have here are the signatures of a shocking majority of this council, every single one of which proclaim that you are unfit to rule us any longer.’
Durnus glared with his blind eyes. ‘Malvus, you are deluded. Not in the history of this council has anybody dared to attempt what you are attempting now. There are measures in place to stop poisonous ambitions like yours from seizing these thrones. Yes, I too know the old scrolls. The city itself must agree with the council. The people, those you are supposed to be representing, must mirror whatever foolish and decidedly treacherous sentiments you are hawking. They must be actively crying out for a change in rule. Correct me if I am wrong, Malvus, but I do not hear such an outcry.’
Farden smiled. Durnus had shut the upstart down. He flicked his eyes aside to watch the disappointment fall like dusk on the council member’s face, but instead it was the mage who felt the disappointment. Malvus was smiling calmly. He slowly lifted a hand and cupped it around his ear.
‘Do you not?’ he said.
Durnus cocked his head, face falling. There was a faint whisper on the breeze. A murmur in the air. The great hall was silent save for furtive breaths as every ear strained to listen. Malvus had paid good coin for this moment. His tongue had been worked raw for it. He waited, a little anxiously, for his final card to fall to the table.
A chant. Drifting up from the city below. Audible even from that height. Tyrfing led Durnus quickly around the back of their thrones. Modren followed. Farden told Jeasin to stay where she was and followed too. He pushed through a small ornate door in the wall and darted up the steps, through the tower, and out onto the Nest. Ilios was there, wide awake, surrounded by three figures; two men and that thin woman with greenish hair. One of them was Loki. They were listening to the words wafting up on the crisp morning breezes. Words of misinformed, misplaced, and misunderstood discontent.
Tyrfing marched to the edge of the Nest so he could look down onto the granite patchwork of streets far below. Crowds were clumped together in the streets, marching and shouting in unison. Tyrfing pinched his eyes and read the disgruntled words from their hand-painted signs. There were preachers on every corner, doing their best to rouse the mobs even further. Soldiers and mages were gathering in the main thoroughfares, unsure as of yet what to do. The protests were loud but peaceful, for the moment. Tyrfing set his jaw and closed his eyes. Beside him, Durnus’ keen ears listened to their shouts and songs.
Farden stood behind them, between the railing and the gathered gods and wondered what he had just witnessed. ‘What in the name of Emaneska is going on?’ he asked.
‘Treachery,’ said the tall, muscular man behind him, the one with golden eyes. Heimdall, he guessed. ‘That is what it sounds like.’
‘Now! Of all times!’ Durnus let out a grunt and sent his fist flying through the railing. Stone crunched under his fingers. White light shivered around his knuckles, matching the pale marble dust that now clung to them. ‘All this work, only to be undermined by that bastard. Do they not understand?!’
‘It’s not over yet,’ said Farden, not entirely sure if it actually was not.
‘Damn right it isn’t,’ hissed Modren. He turned to Heimdall. ‘What are my men saying? Can you tell me that?’
Heimdall held his hand up for silence. He was given it. ‘I cannot hear all of them, but for the most part they are loyal. I hear them speaking of crazy people in the streets. They are still yours. Not this Malvus’.’
‘You should have seen this coming,’ commented Verix, receiving a number of dark glances. Heimdall shook his head at her. Now was not the time for her truths.
‘Ironically, we were too busy trying to protect their sorry hides,’ spat Modren.
‘You gullible little ingrates!’ Tyrfing shouted to the crowds far below. They couldn’t hear him. He doubted if it would have made a difference anyway. Their minds seemed to be made up. The hammer had finally fallen on their careers. ‘This is the Marble Copse’s work. Bunch of power-hungry purists. We’ve always suspected Malvus was at their head, well here’s your proof.’
‘It will not take much for this to turn ugly, if we are not careful,’ said Durnus, breathing hard, trying to calm himself.
Loki shrugged. ‘Seems to me that’s exactly what this man wants.’
‘Can’t we just kill him?’ Farden shrugged.
Durnus shook his head. ‘There are plenty waiting to take his place. The Copse’s influence runs deep. The city would be incited to riot, tear itself apart until we were either dead or locked away. They would be defenceless.’
‘What a shame.’
‘What do we do?’
‘We bide our time. Malvus has played his hand. We hold ours back. We bargain for time, say that we need to discuss our abdication.’
‘What about the wedding?’ asked Modren, fuming.
Durnus looked up at the sky, searching for the faint glow of the sun in his darkness. ‘It goes ahead. Who knows, if she comes tomorrow, these people won’t be crying out for our abdication; they will be crying out for us to save them. Malvus’ plan will ultimately fail. He may be dastardly clever, but his ploy is ill-timed.’
‘Be careful,’ warned Verix, in a quiet voice. She half turned away, as if making to leave. ‘The seeds have been sown. There is nothing like a storm to make seeds sprout.’
The others digested her words like sour fruit. Muddle-headed, Farden took a moment to make sense of them. While the others stayed silent, he scratched his chin. ‘Not two days back, and already things are falling apart,’ he said. And for once it’s nothing to do with me. That last thought was a guilty one, but he was glad for it.
Chapter 21
“A dragon may forge two bonds in its
life. The first, an essential, is the tearbook. A dragon’s mind is a complex thing. Without the bond of a tearbook, a dragon’s vast memories unravel like fraying thread. Fall away like sand in an hourglass. The tearbook holds these memories, transferred in the tears of the dragon during the initial bonding. Incidentally, this marks the transition from juvenile wyrm to adult dragon.”
From ‘Secrets of a Siren World’ - written by the exiled rider Doorna in 651
‘Another,’ grunted a voice, a tired voice.
‘Make that two,’ said another.
‘I thought you said you had a headache?’
‘I do.’
A pause.
‘Fair enough. Another two, Fash.’
Fash, the ample-bellied barkeep, nodded, and immediately went about pouring another two foaming ales from a spout set into the bar. Ingenious contraption.
As two overflowing glasses clanked onto the brass bar-top and Modren flicked a few coins into a nearby wooden bowl. Fash didn’t like to touch coin. Coin was the dirtiest thing a man had in his pockets, he always said. Perhaps he was right, and in more ways than one. The barkeep thanked the two men and went to serve the others scattered around the long winding bar.
Farden sipped his ale, letting it cool his tongue. The tavern, the Insatiable Madam as it was branded, was quiet for so late at night and for a day as busy as it had been. It had a sober air, for a tavern. Never a good thing, especially when it was an Undermage’s last night as an unmarried man. The soldiers and mages had come as invited, but the day’s work of quashing would-be riots had numbed the mood. The plan had originally been one of celebration, but after their original venue had turned a little hostile, they had switched taverns in an effort to keep the peace, and the idea of high spirits was now a little bruised. The men sat around on brass-topped tables in groups of twos and threes and talked in low tones. Every now and again they would raise their empty glasses to the Undermage sat hunched at the bar and rouse a cheer. It was the best they could do. It had been a day of questions, and the answers bothered them like black flies around a dying goat.
Krauslung had found its own knife-edge to balance on.
‘You’re telling me you can’t feel anything?’ Modren asked again, resting his chin on the rim of his glass.
Farden looked over his shoulder and counted the mages in the room. Then he counted the Written. A trio of them sat near the fireplace. One, a woman he couldn’t remember, caught his eye and he turned away. ‘Not a thing,’ he replied.
‘Not even a shiver?’
‘No.’
‘Well, you’re missing out,’ sighed Modren.
Farden looked confused. ‘Tyrfing said that.’
‘Well he’s right,’ Modren sipped his ale. It was a pale colour, wonderfully cool and suitably strong. Perfect for numbing the day. Glancing sideways at his comrade, Farden could see there was something bothering him. It could have been a myriad of things, and Farden had never been known for his empathy, but the crux of it was that his friend should have been happier on the eve of his wedding. Modren wore an informal suit of mail and dark leather. He had a frown to match. Every wisp of a half-dead memory he had of Modren had been him with a grin on his face and a glint in his eye. A different Modren sat in front of him tonight. Perhaps it was the weight of Malvus’ little plot and the day rounding up trouble-makers. Perhaps he was nervous about the wedding. Perhaps he was just upset that Farden had come back only half the man he had been. Farden was clueless. He decided to get him talking.
‘Nevermar’s made me numb to it,’ he admitted.
Modren turned slightly on his stool. ‘When did you start taking that red poison? After the Battle, I mean, not the years before.’
‘Elessi’s been telling stories, I see,’ said Farden. He rubbed his bearded chin as he tried to drag the memories from the fog. ‘Maybe a year after Krauslung.’
‘By Evernia, that’s a long time.’
‘Hence why I can’t feel whatever it is you want me to feel.’
‘Haven’t you heard the stories? The rumours? Seen the markets?’
‘I’ve seen the markets…’ Farden shrugged.
‘Something has happened to the magick in this world. As if it’s sprung a leak somewhere. It’s why the magick markets have exploded, and why we’re hearing more and more rumours of strange goings-on. Strange creatures appearing in the mountains and in the forests. Beasts talking, more than usual that is. People waking up and speaking spells they’ve never heard before, burning houses to the ground with a song. In the meantime, every single mage and Written has felt themselves grow stronger, almost like their abilities and their Books are just waking up. Do you know how many School recruits we’ve had to initiate over the last year?’
Farden shook his head.
‘Ten thousand. Peasants and foreigners are turning up at the gates in droves, showing magickal skills that they shouldn’t possess. We’ve had no choice but to take them in.’
‘So that’s what Malvus meant.’
‘But Malvus doesn’t know the half of it. We need them Farden, every single useless one of them.’
‘Why?’
Modren gave him a strange look. ‘To fight her.’
Farden sipped his ale.
The Undermage sipped too. A full minute went by as the two men stared at the rows of painted bottles standing like soldiers behind the bar. Amber liquids showed their faces where the paint and script had flaked. Some were as dark as varnish, and probably as strong. ‘You going to help us?’
Farden laughed. ‘And how exactly am I supposed to help?’ he asked. He didn’t mean to sound so callous, but it was the truth. He was about as much use as a paper sail. ‘Even if my magick still lives, I don’t know if I want it back.’
Modren pointed at Farden with the lip of his mug. He looked crestfallen. ‘It hurts to hear you, of all mages, say that.’
There was a clatter of feet outside a nearby window, and a trail of fire flew across the mottled pea-green glass. Torches, followed by the clank of mail and steel. A distant shout rang out. Something about Arkmage swine. Farden sighed and gulped half of his tankard down. The ale was disloyally exacerbating his headache and his aches, but he was nothing if not stubborn. It would numb him eventually. ‘You would say the same if your Book was to blame for her, for Vice, for all of that,’ Farden waved his hand at the window.
Modren rapped his knuckle on the brass bar-top and signalled Fash for another brace of ales. ‘Maybe I would. Maybe I wouldn’t. You’re you, I’m me,’ he said, stamping an end on that trail of conversation. He could remember how his old friend worked.
Farden grunted. ‘Well said.’
‘As long as you can still wield a sword, I’ll be happy.’
Farden didn’t feel like he could wield a quill, never mind a blade, but he nodded nonetheless. He had to give his friend something. ‘What do these scars say?’ he said, jabbing a finger at his cheeks.
‘That you need to duck more?’
Farden grinned at that.
‘Durnus and Tyrfing told me you don’t want to talk about Albion, and whatever it is you did these last years. Though, knowing you and your tendencies, I can imagine.’
‘I bet you can. There’s only one thing we Written were bred for. And there’s plenty of that work in the Duchies.’
‘Well, all I can say is it made you even uglier. I didn’t think that possible,’ chuckled Modren, finding solace in a little humour. Farden was glad of it.
‘It’s like looking into a polished helmet, isn’t it?’ he countered, and the two banged their mugs together. ‘So,’ Farden said. ‘Marriage.’
‘That’s right,’ coughed Modren.
‘Never took you for the type. I never thought the Arkmages would let such a thing happen, if I’m honest.’ Farden sipped his ale.
‘The laws say not to breed. Don’t say anything about marriage.’
‘And Elessi is happy with that?’
Modren nodded matter-of-factly. ‘She
is.’ There was a moment. Modren posed a question. ‘You know she had feelings for you, once?’ He had to add the “once.”
Farden let his lips hover in the foam of his beer for a while before shaking his head.
‘Well, she did.’
Farden cleared his throat. ‘If it bothers…’
Modren interrupted him with a hand. ‘It doesn’t. Never has. She’s got nothing but anger for you now, old friend.’
‘Hatred would probably be more accurate. And that explains a lot,’ Farden sighed. ‘Rather a lot, actually…’
‘Looks like she got what she wanted in the end, though.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A mage.’ Modren grinned. Farden chuckled. He could see a little of the unease sliding off his friend. He decided to change the subject, to keep the words flowing. ‘So where are the dragonriders? Or Eyrum? And where’s Lerel for that matter? Are they not invited?’
Modren tapped the side of his nose. ‘Lerel is, well, Lerel is just late. I’ll explain later. You won’t know what to make of it. As for the Sirens, we haven’t heard a peep from them in months. We send hawk after hawk and not a single reply in return. They must be busy battling with the ice. Last we heard it’d swallowed up another breeding ground. Let’s hope this spring helps.’
‘Undermage?’ ventured a voice standing behind them, a young voice by its tone.
Modren turned and saw a young mage standing at attention. He had a face spattered with orange freckles, a mop of curly hair, and eyes so bright they had probably never seen the darkness of a battle. He quickly threw up a salute. ‘I’m off duty, lad,’ said Modren.
‘ ‘pologies, Modren, sir, I just wanted to wish you the best of luck for tomorrow,’ he said. His eyes kept flicking to Farden.
Modren raised his tankard to the young man. ‘Why thank you, lad. What’s your name?’
‘It’s Bringlin, sir.’ His eyes were still stuck on Farden. Modren nudged his friend, and Farden turned to look the young man up and down. He was a keen-looking mage. Fresh out of the School. The young man stuck out a hand. ‘And may I say, sir, it’s an honour to meet you. We’ve heard a great many stories.’
