Dead Stars - Part Two (The Emaneska Series)

by Ben Galley

  For half an hour they walked with the cliff at their right shoulders. The wet rock undulated between sheer and intrusively angled, but at no point did it show any sign of a doorway or stairwell. Nor did the beach show any sign of transforming into a road or path. At some points, the mages had to crouch and shuffle along like ducks to avoid banging their heads on overhangs. The worst element of it was that the fog refused them any sense of distance or time; they wandered on in a bubble of featureless grey, the cliff-face their only hint of actual progress.

  Farden’s thoughts had been stewing while they walked, and now they were coming to the boil. As they emerged from under yet another section of overhanging granite, slick with moisture and bedecked with rotten moss, Farden turned on his uncle.

  ‘Do you know what the problem is?’

  Tyrfing looked a little startled to say the least. ‘Are you saying there’s only one?’

  Farden ignored the retort and stuck to the scripted tirade he had been working on for the past ten minutes. ‘Nobody is giving me a chance. Nobody trusts me to make a right decision for once. The ideas I have are always the foolhardy ones, the impetuous ones. Whatever Farden suggests must be wrong. Same old Farden.’

  ‘That’s not true. If it were, Farden, we wouldn’t be in Nelska this very moment. This was your plan, to come to the Sirens for a cure. Not ours.’

  ‘And I would place good coin that you’re already regretting listening to me.’

  ‘That’s not true…’

  Farden cut him off. ‘I came back because Albion was killing me. In fact, the more I think about it, it actually did kill me. I came back to make amends and yet all I seem to be making is trouble again. Have you seen the way the younger mages look at me? Most of them don’t see a legend, they see a legendary failure wandering the decks. A Written who gave up his Book. Who made mistake after mistake and now expects the world to pay for it. I bet they’ve all figured out my connection with Samara too,’ he hesitated as he spoke her name. He still couldn’t get used to it. ‘They judge me before I’ve had a chance to open my mouth. And you’re no different uncle. If you had been the one to jump from the ship first, you would have been leading the way, being the heroic one. But me? I’m stubborn and impetuous. I’m condemned before I even act.’

  ‘Do you blame us? A sabre-cat can’t file off its teeth and go gallop with the deer, Farden.’

  ‘I thought you said I’d come back from Albion a different man.’

  ‘Some of you has, some of you hasn’t. Most of you, Albion has stolen. Changed you into gods know what, I don’t want to know. Thankfully, that Farden seems to be fading away each day that passes, and I can see more of the Farden that exiled himself. But you left a rash, stubborn, angry man. A great mage, but a broken man. Now the mage part is broken too, and the rest of you with it. My apologies if that sounds harsh. I thought you might appreciate the truth.’

  Farden didn’t. ‘Broken things need fixing, uncle,’ he said.

  ‘And when have you ever seen something broken fix itself?’

  Farden clenched his fist. ‘I guess we’ll have to see, won’t we?’ he said, and as he spoke those words, something hardened inside him, wrapping his new-found clarity in a shell of ice and steel. It could have been called resolve, even ambition. It was harder than both.

  Tyrfing watched his nephew stride off. ‘I hope we will,’ he said. He flicked a droplet of sea-water from his nose and turned towards where he imagined the sea to be. ‘Farden?’ he said, tentatively. No response. ‘Farden!’ Tyrfing hissed.

  Farden was already turning around, wagging angry fists. ‘And another thi…

  ‘Shh!’

  ‘What?!’

  Tyrfing jabbed his finger in the direction of the sea, where, nestled in the fog barely a pebble’s toss away, the forked end of scaly yellow tail lay coiled in the shingle. It wasn’t moving. A simple streak of colour on a dead canvas.

  The mages instantly began to creep towards it. Bent double, they shuffled across the stones. Tyrfing kept his hands low and at the ready. Farden could do nothing but boldly reach for a nearby rock.

  They came to a halt a few paces from the tail. They could now see a dark, still shadow at the end of it. Not a sound came from the beast. Not even a snore. Farden gingerly reached forward and placed his hand on the tail’s yellow fork. It was as large as a shield, but limp as a rotten fish. Now they were closer, they could taste the musty smell in the air. Far from pleasant.

  Farden shook his head. ‘Cold,’ he mumbled. Tyrfing sighed, and stood up. He went to examine the rest of the beast. The poor dragon lay sprawled on its side in a crater in the shingle. One of its legs was broken, snapped and baring bloody bone, and groping awkwardly for the sky, wherever that may be. Its mouth was open, its ochre tongue hanging limp and useless. A pair of legs lay trapped under its bloody neck, where a ring of telltale holes punctured its thick scales like an ugly necklace. Tyrfing respectfully shut the dragon’s great eyes as he walked around the beast’s head. On the other side, only the rider’s head remained visible. A Siren of course, a young male at first glance. He too was bruised and bloodied, the face twisted in great pain. Golden scales decorated his purple lips. A stub of a whitewood arrow stuck from his neck.

  ‘Cold indeed.’

  Farden cast a wary eye upwards. ‘I think I know what is going on here.’

  Tyrfing caught sight of something metallic and reached for it. He tugged a sword from underneath the Siren’s body and tossed it to Farden. The mage caught it awkwardly in his numb fingers. ‘You’ll need this, then, if I get your meaning, nephew.’

  Farden thumbed the blade’s edge. ‘It looks as though Elessi may have to wait a little longer,’ he said, trying to ignore the worry that sentence caused him.

  The dead dragon may have been the first, but it was not the last. Stone-faced and silent, the mages followed a trail of murder along the beach. There isn’t much that can tug at a heart like a dead dragon. The extinguishing of creatures so majestic made their chests ache. It made them feel guilty for it, but every time they came across a carcass, they prayed it wouldn’t be a dragon or a rider they knew. They were spared that, at least. Every dragon, six, no more, no less, were strangers to them. Guilty, but no less angry. Tyrfing and Farden closed eyes and patted scales as they passed.

  There was also nothing like a dead dragon to stir something bloodthirsty inside a man. The mages stalked the mist like ravenous beasts, begging for something culpable to come stumbling out of the mists and meet their swords. They didn’t have to wait long.

  ‘There,’ Tyrfing pointed, as they crouched behind a large boulder. Farden followed his uncle’s finger to a gash in the cliff up ahead. Stairs had been hewn from the granite. The higher they went, the deeper they had been cut. Whatever lay at the top of them was a secret that belonged to the fog.

  Without so much as a word, Farden got up and marched forwards, sword dangling by his side, dripping cold dew. Tyrfing mumbled something that could have burnt the ears from a grizzled soldier, but he followed nonetheless. Choices were not high on their list of possessions.

  At the foot of the stairs, somebody had stacked a trio of torches, bound and wrapped to keep off the cold air and the wet. Farden removed one of his gauntlets and felt their wrappings. They were barely damp; the fog had scarcely touched them. Fresh, very fresh indeed, almost as though somebody had stacked them there within the last hour. Farden slid his gauntlet back on and began to take the rough steps two at a time. Tyrfing followed once more.

  Two steps at a time might have been a little ambitious, even despite Farden’s anger. The steps were tall, and the going steep. It didn’t take long for his body to start complaining. A tired body doesn’t like steps at the best of times, but when the aforementioned steps are endless, irregular, and more slippery than a pile of eels, the body complains a little louder. Farden was soon panting. His legs were aflame in minutes.

  ‘Rest, you ignoramus,’ Tyrfing chided. He would have taken the lead
, but the rock had grown narrower. He looked back to find that the ground had somewhat disappeared. For all he could tell they were a thousand feet in the air.

  Farden shook his head. ‘Don’t have time.’

  ‘Elessi isn’t going to…’

  A cough rang out from somewhere above them. A cough thick with phlegm and a lifetime of pipe-smoke. Farden and Tyrfing froze. Silence. Had they been heard? There were no voices, no shouts, no bells nor alarms. Just the aching knowledge that somebody was nearby, hidden in the grey. Farden held his sword tight.

  Suddenly the somebody began to walk. Up or down, they couldn’t tell. Armoured feet clanged rhythmically on the black granite steps. ‘Coming or going?’ mouthed Farden. Tyrfing closed his eyes and strained to listen. Farden bit his lip. He looked up, where the stairs faded into the fog, grey teeth, chewing on wool. Steep and slippery… There was only one thing for it. Farden held his sword with both hands and then began to climb as fast as his sore legs could manage. It would only be seconds before he was heard, with his boots stamping so loudly on the wet stone, but seconds was all he wanted. All he needed.

  Tyrfing went to shout but quickly caught himself. He could do nothing but watch as his nephew sprinted up the steps and flung himself into the fog. There was a second of silence, then a clang of metal and a muffled yelp. ‘Farden!’ Tyrfing called as loud as he dared. The second dragged into two, then three, then ten. Ten seconds is an age to those that count it.

  Tyrfing was just about to charge forward when he heard a scuffle. He caught sight of a body flying down the steps towards him. The Arkmage barely had time to duck as the corpse sailed over his head and down to the rocks below. A couple of seconds passed before there was a wet crunch.

  Farden came sauntering down the steps a moment later, a splash of blood on his left shoulder. The blood was so bright it was one step from orange. ‘Lost Clans indeed,’ he said, looking around for something to wipe his sword on. There was nothing but rock.

  ‘I hope you’re thinking what I’m thinking?’

  Farden nodded, eyes glazed. ‘A coup.’

  ‘It looks very much like one.’

  ‘Well, it looks as though finding a healer is not going to be as easy as we first assumed.’ Farden grit his teeth, making his jaw creak.

  Tyrfing looked back towards the sea. ‘What’s your plan?’ he asked, quietly.

  Farden raised an eyebrow. ‘I say we sneak into this mountain, find out what has happened to the dragons and what these Lost Clan bastards are up to. We help if we can. If not, we find ourselves a healer somehow, some medicine, and we get out again. We come back with reinforcements later. Once all of this…’ he waved his hand in a circular motion, so casual, to encompass their state of affairs, ‘…is finished.’

  ‘Fine,’ Tyrfing agreed. Farden couldn’t help but relish that sign of confidence. ‘Nuka will keep the ship out of sight so long as the fog lasts. If it lifts, he’ll have no choice but to leave. We’ll be on our own.’

  Farden put his legs to the steps once again and put his sword through his belt. As they stared silently at each other, they wondered at the glaring gaps in his simple plan. How would they find a healer? How would they make it up to the peak without being noticed? Was there even a healer left alive in Hjaussfen? How would they escape? They were questions asked in each man’s silence. And yet, both knew that only walking forward would actually find the answers. ‘Then we will have to be quick about it after all, won’t we, uncle?’ Farden finally said, daring a wry grin.

  Tyrfing nodded. There was a glint in his eyes too. A hint of something only an Arkmage that has been forced to languish in a marble throne for a decade and a half could feel, when abruptly faced with danger. Tyrfing cleared his throat with a wince and a wet cough and then nodded. ‘That we will, nephew,’ he said.

  Chapter 7

  “Do I resent being blind? Does a prisoner resent his bars, his chains, his punishment? Perhaps. It depends on whether the prisoner is guilty or innocent. I was guilty of inaction and fear. My blindness is my punishment. But, as any prisoner will tell you, some punishments are easier than others. Some days I hardly feel blind at all.”

  From the diary of Arkmage Durnus, written in the year 901

  Jeasin awoke suddenly, as if she had forgotten she had fallen asleep. She tensed, blind eyes blinking, feeling the soft cotton of the sheets, the smell of the room, of dead candles, velvet, leather. A man. Jeasin licked her dry lips. The warm sensation on the back of her arm told her it was morning, but only barely. Early sunlight. She could hear footsteps clacking on the marble in the hallway. She put out a hand and found the other side of the bed empty and cold.

  Perfect.

  Jeasin sat bolt upright and tucked the blanket around her as a makeshift dress. She listened, as hard as her sharp ears could, for any hint of breathing, or watching, or waiting… company of any sort. She couldn’t feel the prickle of eyes upon her; she had become very adept at sensing that in her time in Tayn. It had helped in ways she couldn’t begin to list.

  Sweeping her legs from the side of the bed, she placed them on the warm floor. The sunlight had been there too. She stood up, blanket-dress trailing behind her like a cape, and went to the door. She put her back to it and held one bare foot out, as if testing the edge of a precipice.

  Eight forward, said a voice in her head. Durnus’ words from the night before. Jeasin tread a deliberate line, toe to heel, across the floor until she counted eight.

  A dozen to the right, came the next order. Jeasin turned and mouthed the numbers.

  Twenty-one to the left. Stop. She stopped.

  Turn right. She turned.

  Hands out. Jeasin’s knuckles nudged something solid, wooden, and ornate. Her fingers traced the notches where the carpenter’s chisel had bitten. Her nails caught on the nodules where the varnish had dried in the gaps. The cold of the hinges and edges. Take what you can find.

  Jeasin found the empty lock where the key should have been and stamped her foot. Malvus had been careful. She should have expected that. Not one to waste time dithering, she began to feel across the desk, pawing for a quill, a pin, or a… Jeasin grabbed the sliver of a parchment knife and jabbed it into the lock, as deep as she could. She jiggled it left, then right, then up. Something clicked, and she wiggled it some more. All those childhood nights spent picking the precious lockets of the other girls had finally paid off.

  Paid off they had, but it still took no less than ten minutes of nail-biting, frantic, blind jabbing to get the lock open. It crunched as it gave up on its secrets. Jeasin stumbled forward as it gave way. She heard a sharp ping as the parchment knife lost its tip. She heard something tiny fall to the marble and skitter into a corner. She winced; she didn’t have time to go looking for it. Malvus could come back at any moment.

  Delving into the drawer like a mole into dirt, Jeasin used both hands to explore. It was all parchment: letters maybe, notes, she had no idea. Her eyes failed her spying. Take what you can find! she told herself, and with a shrug she began to fish out ream after ream of dry and wrinkled parchment. Her finger grazed a thick, waxy seal and she quickly traced it, intrigued. Its contours brought a very strange look to her face. She felt it again to make sure. It had to be…

  There came a shout from the hallway and Jeasin flinched. She gathered together her pile of papers and frantically tapped them on the desk to keep them from flying out of her hands. Tossing the parchment knife back onto the desk, she quickly felt her way back to the bed and found her dress with her toes, crumpled and abandoned on the floor. Jeasin shuffled into it as quickly as she could, muttering to herself as she hopped and wriggled. ‘Bloody… Arkmage’s… Problems. Not mine,’ she hissed to the empty room. Seconds later she was at the door and combing her hair into some sort of semblance with her spare fingers. More shouts echoed down the corridor outside, muffled orders and yells. Jeasin’s heart was fluttering. There was nothing else she could do but wrench the door open and hope for the best. She had tried
at least.

  It was then that a strange thought came wandering through her mind. It was simple, treacherous in its timing. What was she doing? Why was she even helping this old Arkmage? Some relative of Farden’s, a strange old man she didn’t know, whose room she had wandered into the night before, on some notion of company? A lonely impulse to share a space with the only person within a hundred miles she had something in common with: blindness. Now she was spying for him, potentially risking her life, all for a simple promise. Jeasin couldn’t remember the last time she helped somebody without some smidgeon of payment. It wasn’t in her blood to do so. Not in her habit.

  Malvus had even said it. She had even said it, for gods’ sakes, ruse or no. Something was about to envelop this Arkathedral, and the side she had stumbled onto had already been marked as the losers. Durnus had called it a coup. She didn’t know what that meant, but it had the smell of bloodshed about it. It sounded like something a Duke would do.

  Ruse or not, Jeasin’s night with Council Barkhart had just bought herself a rather shiny ticket to safety. She felt the weight of the papers in her hand and pulled a face. They might as well have been a fire to throw that ticket into. What was she doing?!

  She didn’t owe these people her safety. That was it. The treacherous thought had swallowed her mind in its full gelatinous glory. Jeasin gripped the doorhandle as if her fingers were fused to it. She half-turned back to the desk, and bit her lip.

  ‘Fuck it,’ she hissed. She didn’t owe them anything, so why couldn’t she shake the sudden feeling of guilt?

  They were polite enough to knock, at least.

  When the guards came for him, Durnus was standing in the very centre of his room. His hands were folded behind his back. His face was calm. He had his best robe on. He had smelled them coming for him. All eagerness and sweat and shiny silver coin in their pockets.

  Part of him wanted to send them all flying from the windows, trailing fire and screams. That would show Barkhart the true power of an Arkmage, he thought, the true reason they held the thrones. But such an act would also seal his own political fate. The Arka had tasted dictatorship before, under Vice, and they would not suffer it again. Malvus would have all the proof and cause he needed to legitimately dethrone him and Tyrfing. Dead guards on city streets tend to do that. Going calmly at least came with a sliver of something he might have called a chance.