Dead Stars - Part Two (The Emaneska Series)

by Ben Galley

  ‘Barely a day,’ she answered. She leant closer to wipe a patch of sweat away with a cold towel. Farden couldn’t help but flinch. His skin was hot. ‘Tyrfing told me. It’s the nevermar again. Not just seasickness.’

  ‘Mmhm,’ hummed Farden, avoiding the answer.

  ‘Well, looks like you sweated most of it out for now,’ she said, wiping her hand on a nearby towel.

  ‘I just need to rest.’

  ‘No, you need a bath. And a shave. And some food. And some good sea air.’

  ‘I’m allergic.’

  ‘To which one?’

  ‘To all but the food.’

  ‘You’re a liar. Get up.’ Lerel slapped his chest lightly with her hand. Farden tried not to show that it hurt. His skin was so thin and sensitive. It felt as though she was made of thorns.

  ‘Fine,’ he winced. He made a little circular motion with his finger, and she nodded.

  ‘I know, I know.’ She went to stare at the opposite wall, impatient hands resting on her hips. Farden took his time getting up. He had no choice. Dizziness pounced as soon as he raised his head. He squinted at the bucket and told himself no.

  With a throaty groan and a lot of effort, Farden arranged himself into a sitting position and put his bare feet on the soft floor. It took a moment to realise that it wasn’t wood that his toes were kneading, but thick carpet. ‘Gods,’ he muttered. ‘Carpet. This ship must be special.’

  ‘Done yet?’ Lerel moved to turn around but Farden grunted for her to stay still. A shirt had been left on the end of the bed. Red, like Lerel’s. Like the ship’s uniform. He stiffly put it on.

  ‘Finally,’ she said, as she heard the mage get to his feet. His head nearly brushed the ceiling. ‘This way, come on.’

  Farden had no choice but to follow. She opened the door and pushed him out into the corridor. ‘My boots?’ he asked, tossing his little cabin and bed a forlorn look, as they were dragged away from him.

  ‘You don’t need boots in a bath.’

  ‘Oh for f…’

  ‘No arguments, mage. You smell like we just caught you with a hook and line.’

  ‘He smells worse than that,’ called Nuka, from the end of the long corridor. The barrel-shaped man filled its whole width. He wore a wide grin. ‘I’ve had to batten down the hatches. Keep the men from mutiny.’ He leant casually against the wall, with one foot tucked behind the other. ‘When you’ve shown that stench to his bathing, I need you at the charts, m’dear. You know these waters better than the rest of us.’

  ‘Aye, Cap’n,’ replied Lerel as she shoved Farden down another corridor.

  ‘Aye, Cap’n?’ echoed Farden with a smile, as he was nudged and prodded towards his soapy doom. ‘Charts? You’ve really taken to this sailing thing, haven’t you?’

  ‘As I said, fifteen years is a long time. There’s a lot you’ve missed,’ she replied. Farden might have been mistaken, but there could have been a tinge of regret, or perhaps the tiniest hint of resentment in that reply. He stayed quiet until they reached the bathroom.

  It was a square affair, no bigger than his cabin, and no different either, save for a wide copper tub sitting right in its centre. Steam choked the air. The smell of soap and cleanliness made his nose itch.

  ‘The door locks from the inside, so nobody will disturb you. Take as long or as little time as you want, but if you come out smelling the same as you went in, I’ll have your uncle come below-decks to show you how it’s done,’ she said, hands on hips yet again, stern, yet subtly playful. Farden shook his head.

  ‘Yes ma’am,’ he said, and began to close the door.

  Lerel leant forward. ‘And Farden?’

  ‘Yes?’ he poked his head out of the door. Lerel gave him a quick kiss on his cheek and then grimaced as she was stung by his matted beard. She rolled her eyes and began to walk away.

  ‘I’m glad you’re back,’ she called over her shoulder.

  Farden watched her until she disappeared around the corner, a bemused smile on his grizzled face. He locked the door as she’d instructed and turned to confront the dreaded bath. He shrugged off his shirt and dipped a finger in the steaming, soap-slick water. Vials of perfumed oils and scrubbing brushes had been left on the side. The mage shook his head.

  ‘Fine,’ he sighed, and hoisted himself into the near-scalding water. As he melted into it, he could almost feel the dead skin and dirt flaking away. He let his eyes droop and his body sink. It had taken a decade to get him into a bath. Oh, how he had missed it.

  In the end, it was a probably a miracle he didn’t drown. When Farden awoke nearly two hours later, the water was almost ice cold and his skin had shrivelled to a prune-like texture. He quickly hoisted himself out of the tub, muscles shaky and unsure of themselves.

  Farden wobbled his way to the door, threw on a robe, and shuffled down the corridor. The ship was alive with noise. All around him the creaking of a ship at full speed sang in harmony with the roaring and hissing of waves sliding over wood and iron, the orders of the officers, and the occasional whump of something going on above decks. Farden pulled his robe about him and found his way to his door. It was unlocked, and the room empty.

  Somebody had put a pile of fresh clothes on his pillow. Not his usual sort of wear, but all he had. His old clothes were nowhere to be found. In all likelihood, they had been tossed overboard. The folded pile shivered and twitched as Farden reach for it. Farden caught sight of a tail and seized it, hauling a large rat out from a trouser leg. The mage peered at its furry features. ‘Whiskers,’ he muttered, once he was satisfied it was indeed his rat. He was on a ship after all. Nothing goes together like a rats and ships. How glad he was that he had remembered to bring him, hidden in his cloak pocket.

  Farden placed Whiskers back on the bed and got changed into the crisp, scratchy clothes. Ship’s trousers, the thick cotton sort, dyed a dark red. A cold white shirt with too many buttons. Thick socks that hugged his damp feet. A pair of black leather boots with waxy laces. A cloak, the sort he liked, with a low black hood and pockets upon pockets. Farden put it all on.

  He discovered a razor underneath the pile of clothes. It was the cut-throat kind, with an ivory handle. It had a curly T carved into its handle. Tyrfing’s. Farden twiddled it around in his fingers while his other hand ran around his face and neck, pulling at the wiry strands and long locks. Farden pulled a face. A clean start needed a clean shave. It was a small decision, but, like ants, they often carried the most weight.

  Farden cast about for a mirror, grimacing at the thought of facing his reflection again, but thankfully he found himself without. He used his towel to dry his face and then began to carve away the thick black hair that had infested his jaw and cheeks. Whiskers teetered on his back-legs, watching the wisps of black hair fall to the wood. Farden winced with every tug of the blade. He’d imagined a blacksmith, of all people, would have kept his razor sharp.

  It took half an hour of scraping and grunting, but in the end he got every last hair his calloused fingers could find. He ran his hands around his sore, reddened face and pulled a strange smile. He didn’t need a mirror to know it looked better.

  After strapping his Scalussen greaves over his trousers, leaving the gauntlets for Whiskers to curl up in, Farden left his room and headed for the top deck.

  Farden poked his head out of the hatch and was rewarded with a faceful of wind, sharp as glass, fresh as ice, and salt on the lips. He felt it swirl around his shaven skin and freed ears, rolling across his bare hands and between his fingers. It was glorious, as though it was the first wind he had ever tasted on his skin. Farden stepped higher on the step and felt it tug at his clothes.

  It was then that he heard the clapping of a crowd somewhere behind him, no doubt on the aftcastle. A few cheers went up. Farden slowly picked a path through the ropes and hatches and bustling sailors, intent on seeing what all the fuss was about.

  Nuka was there, leaning gently on the wheel. He was staring up into the pure blue sky, watching
the flaming mess of a bottle tumble out of it and land with a hiss in the frothing wake of his ship. A group of mages stood at the balcony. A gaggle of officers clustered behind them, surreptitiously swapping bets of tack biscuits and dribbles of coin. At the back a row of soldiers, dressed in their sea-blue armour, looked on.

  Farden wove his way through their lines and found Tyrfing standing at the railing with the mages. He was brandishing a brown glass bottle swathed in sailcloth.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked the Written to his left, a skinny woman with a shock of white hair and pink eyes. Farden couldn’t help but recognise her from somewhere. The Written nodded, and held her hands out flat, as if spreading them across an invisible tabletop.

  ‘Go,’ she muttered, deep in concentration.

  Tyrfing let the bottle lie loosely in his palm. The wind twirled between his fingers, growing stronger and stronger until it was snatched up and away, flying high and far above them.

  ‘Njord, it’s too high,’ one of the officers tutted, flicking a coin to his mate.

  ‘Stay those greedy fingers, lads and ladies. I’ve seen this trick before,’ muttered Nuka, but still loud enough for them all to hear. There was something in his tone that reverberated certainty. The coin and biscuits froze in mid-air.

  Nuka was right of course. He had seen this mage in action before. The snow-haired woman jabbed her hand at the sea, like a spear, and twisted it. Fifty yards from the wake of the ship, a wave broke in two, right down its centre. One half foamed and spat and bubbled as it curled upwards. The Written clenched her fingers and the column of water swiped the bottle from the sky. It fell to the sea in pieces, puckering the rolling waves with glass and spray. A lonely scrap of sailcloth drifted away on the wind.

  ‘Water beats fire, six to five!’ called a sailor, and the biscuits and coins were swapped with an equal measure of grins and grimaces.

  ‘Another round!’ somebody cried, but Tyrfing held up his hands.

  ‘We’re all out of bottles, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What a shame,’ mumbled a familiar voice, as the crowd began to dribble away, back to their chores.

  Tyrfing turned to face his nephew. ‘You’re alive. What happened to your face?’

  Farden rubbed his cheeks, wincing. ‘Somebody left me a dull razor.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Tyrfing grunted. ‘You’ll sully a good blacksmith’s name.’ While Farden picked at a spot of dry skin, Tyrfing cast a glance over his shoulder. He drew a little bottle from the inside of his coat and raised an eyebrow at his nephew. ‘Fancy raising the score to six apiece, Farden?’ he quietly offered. A few of the nearby officers heard his words, and slowly the crowd began to knit itself back together.

  Farden looked at the bottle as if it had fangs, sharp gnashing fangs. ‘Er…’ was all he could say, as his uncle stared down at him, wind tossing his hair to and fro. Farden looked around and caught the stares of some of the Written. He sucked his teeth. His skin itched uncomfortably.

  Tyrfing smiled and tapped the bottle, waggling it in front of Farden’s face. ‘Dust off that Book of yours. Cast a spell or two. The reputation of fire is at stake here.’

  Farden shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, uncle.’

  ‘Come on. Modren told me about the lock spell you broke.’

  Farden cleared his throat sharply. He dusted off his cloak, even though not a single mote of dust could be seen on it. ‘A fluke. I gave my magick up a long time ago,’ he quietly confessed, but the wind carried his voice further than he would have liked. There was a muttering between the nearby mages, part disbelief, part told-you-so whispers. Farden bowed his head. He had half-expected this. Alienation from the other Written. The lone wolf, once again.

  Tyrfing looked down at the deck. His hands fell to his side. His brow was furrowed like the cracks of dried mud. The ship rocked under them for a wave or two, and then the Arkmage shook his head. He asked the question on everybody’s bitten lips. ‘Why would you give something like that up?’ he asked, simple as a river stone dropped in a millpond.

  Farden knew it was a question without an answer. At least, without an answer that had the sting of a long and guilty explanation. An answer for the privacy of a cabin, not for the ears of the onlookers, the eavesdroppers, the ones looking down their noses at him now. Farden turned to the sea, hunching his shoulders.

  Tyrfing clapped his hands. ‘Back to your training!’ he ordered, ‘or back to your bunks. Some of you are on watch later. Get to it, or…!’ A cough cut him short, and Tyrfing put his hands to his mouth. He turned away, leaving Farden to stare at the sea.

  It was an age before anyone bothered to speak to him. It was probably for the best. The mage had his thoughts. The two kept each other company. Three would have been a crowd.

  It was Nuka that finally ventured over. Farden felt a heavy hand on his hunched shoulder. He found the captain brandishing a mug of hot beer at him, like a club. ‘Drink?’ he grunted.

  Farden sniffed the proffered mug. It smelled of spices and barley, of the tang of alcohol. It was early afternoon but the wind and his stillness had made him cold. He took the steaming drink in both hands and thanked the captain.

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ Nuka said, and moved back to his wheel. He tested the wind with a wet finger and hummed to himself before jerking the wheel starboard. The mage, boots now somewhat attuned to the movements of the deck, felt the ship respond beneath him. The distant, rocky headland came in line with the needle-like bowsprit. Sea-Water, rainbows in its spinning droplets, sprayed over the bow as the ship clove a wave in two. The clouds frothed overhead, slow and steady, greys and blues.

  Farden frowned as the order was given to take in a little sail. It felt as if they were slowing. In fact, now that he thought about it, they hadn’t been going very fast for the last hour. ‘Heading inland?’ he asked.

  Nuka nodded. ‘Avoiding the squall.’

  ‘What squall?’

  ‘That squall,’ Nuka flicked a finger at a patch of ugly cloud loitering in the southwest, a bruise of granite and indigo against the rest of the sky. It was nowhere near them, and Farden said as much.

  Nuka smiled at him. ‘How many ships you sailed on, Farden?’

  Farden thought about that. ‘Three, I think, and the last one sank.’

  ‘Then I’m guessing you wouldn’t want to make a repeat of the last time, eh?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Then west nor’ west it is.’ Nuka slapped the wheel with a hand that resembled a side of ham. He turned to one of his officers, the first mate by the looks of him, a narrow fellow with a chin like a spade, and smiled. ‘As if a squall could sink this lady, though eh? Just slow us down a mite.’

  The first mate shook his head and returned the smile.

  Farden sipped his beer and found it sweet with a bitter, malty tang of an aftertaste. He washed his tongue around his mouth. ‘Won’t heading into the coast slow us down anyway?’

  ‘I’m aware of the shortness of time, good sir. The Arkmages have explained the situation to me at great length. This ship is faster than any that the Arka, or anyone else for that matter, have ever built. No doubt it took you three days’ sailing, last time you saw the Midgrir beaches, am I right?’

  Farden nodded. That it had.

  ‘Well, it’s taken us barely two.’

  ‘But aren’t there rocks that we’ll have to avoid? Islands to go around?’

  Captain Nuka threw him a warning look. ‘Farden, friend, don’t be mistaking my kindness and calmness for an invitation to keep rambling on and telling me how to sail my ship. I know you’re anxious. We all are. Elessi is a good friend of mine and Lerel’s too, so hold your tongue and be patient.’ Here Nuka left his wheel and came close to Farden. ‘Or, you can go belowdecks and sleep yourself into a better mood. It’ll be three days yet ‘til we make anchor in Hjaussfen,’ he said, one bushy eyebrow raised, awaiting a response. Farden said nothing. Instead he went back to the railing, taking his mug of beer with him. He
sipped at it, shivering as the warmness slid down into his belly and reminded his skin how cold it was. ‘Patience,’ he whispered to the wind, as a gust of it slapped him in the face. Seaspray followed in its wake. Farden winced. Patience, he repeated the word in his head, clutching at it, pushing it deep into his mind and hoping it would stick.

  ‘Steady as she goes!’ Nuka bellowed over the sound of rattling pulleys and the thundering of a hundred shoes pounding up and down the long deck. The sails were being hauled down and rolled away. Sailors swung through the rigging, caring little for the fall or the choppy sea. The ship squirmed with activity.

  And rightly so, for in their path an orange cliff stood boldly against the crashing waves, still a mile or two away yet, but tall enough to seem very, very close indeed. So close in fact, that for every two glances that the sailors gave their work, they gave a third to the cliff-face and its pounding, thundering roots.

  The waters at the southern tip of Midgrir were a strange and vibrant green, a mixture of the sandstone seabed and the deep blue of the water that had drowned it. It made the danger a very colourful one, as if they were already stuck fast in the oily paints of some artistic rendering of a disaster to come.

  Farden had put himself at the very back of the ship, where an enormous lantern hung out over the iron stern and its foaming wake. He looked back at the open sea behind them, and saw the squall was hot on their tail. He could already see the lightning flashing at its heart.

  Lerel was beside him, bent over a table with a compass and a dagger. She stared at the maps closely, prodding their script and symbols, fingers twitching with her lips. Occasionally she would call out directions and warnings to Nuka, who was glued to the wheel. He had plied this channel many a time before, in many other ships, but this time was the first the Waveblade had tasted its emerald fury.

  Wave by wave, they drew closer to the cliffs. All the sails but a skinny few had been left to catch the wind. The closer they got to the cliffs, the faster the water around them seemed to flow, as if they were stuck in a river, rather than a sea.