Dead Stars - Part Two (The Emaneska Series)

by Ben Galley

  Eyrum smiled as widely as his freshly-bruised face would allow. The Siren looked a distinct and painful mess. His one good eye was bloodshot, the scar across his bad one knotted and taut with age. There was a blue-green pattern of ugly bruises running down his cheek and neck, the signatures of fists, or boots, or both. A tooth at the corner of his mouth looked decidedly loose. The Lost Clans had clearly had their way with him. Farden wondered absently how many of them it had taken to subdue this giant.

  Eyrum gripped the mage’s shoulders. ‘Gods be blessed. You’re alive. And well, by the looks of you. By what Arka magick have you managed to stay so young, mage? Or are you a ghost of a dead man?’ he asked.

  Farden managed to gather enough of his wits together to form a reply. ‘No, I’m perfectly alive, despite the rumours and the best attempts of many,’ Farden replied. He tapped his vambraces. ‘And no magick the Arka know of.’

  Eyrum looked pleased. ‘We thought you dead,’ he muttered, leaning closer, as if it were an admission he didn’t feel happy making.

  Farden patted his thick arm. ‘Apparently it’s not that easy,’ he said, and cracked a smile to ward off any more questions. ‘Where’s my uncle?’

  There was a sudden and familiar scraping noise, and Eyrum pointed to something behind him. The mage looked around just in time to see the rockfall spit his uncle out onto the floor. The Arkmage landed hard on his chest, air driven out of him, face scrunched up into the very picture of confoundedness.

  Farden watched as the strange pile of boulders revealed its true form: a long, lithe dragon that had coiled itself into an impossible shape, and wedged itself in the door. He watched the beast unfurl and stretch, its colouring changing from the stony-grey to a deep, charcoal black. It blinked its orange eyes and raised a claw to the visitors. ‘Well met, and good wishes,’ hissed the dragon, from behind needle-like teeth. ‘Shivertread, at your service.’ He looked between the two mages. ‘I believe you knew my mother, Havenhigh?’

  ‘We did,’ answered Farden, nodding slowly. He could see the family resemblance now, especially in the barbels hanging from the dragon’s jawline, as though he were part-carp. He was lithe too, like his mother, and he had her colouring. He was young though, little more than a wyrm.

  Behind them. Eyrum let out a long sigh. ‘Too young,’ he rumbled. There was a muttering of sadness through the crowd of soldiers behind them. ‘Killed by the Clan.’

  ‘And they are paying for it, pint by pint,’ Shivertread eyed the floor at Farden’s feet, which was a dubious shade of reddish-brown.

  ‘Not fast enough for my liking.’

  The black dragon turned his head, tasting the air with his long grey tongue. They could hear distant voices shouting. ‘More are coming.’

  Eyrum curled his bloodied lip. ‘Keep them at their guessing, Shiver, while we have guests. Blood can be spilt later.’

  The dragon tapped his fangs together. His breath rattled in his throat, but he knew Eyrum was right. ‘Fine,’ he said, before quickly resuming his position. The dragon slipped in between the archway of the door and curled his tail and limbs about him. As he rolled himself into a tight, and dangerous, little ball, scales scraping on the stone, his wings pressed outwards to wedge him against the walls. Once he was in place, his scales began to fade through the spectrum of blacks into a dirty, dusty grey that perfectly matched the stone around him.

  ‘Why have I never seen a dragon do that before?’ asked Tyrfing. He stared hard at the pile of rocks in the doorway, trying to identify the component parts of a dragon. He was having a tough time doing so.

  Eyrum shrugged. ‘Shivertread seems to be the first. Do not even ask me how he does it. Not even his mother knew,’ he said.

  ‘They say his egg used to change colour too,’ mumbled one of the nearby soldiers.

  ‘That it did,’ Eyrum hummed. ‘But that’s a story for another day. Come, mages, let me introduce you to our new abode.’

  The old library had been transformed into a fortress. A fortress of books and dusty shelves but a fortress nonetheless. With Shivertread acting as guard and gate, the countless books and tomes of the library had been piled into extensive barricades and makeshift walls. There were even arrow slits in the thicker ones. The stout oak bookshelves had been gently toppled over to make secondary defences and rough barracks for the soldiers and riders. Farden counted them in his head. A paltry three dozen of them at most, with possibly more under the bookshelves or hidden deeper in the dark, cavernous room. It was hard to see in the gloom.

  There were others there too, in the dusty shadows, shuffling to and fro, or standing stoic and sombre. Farden could hear the crying of little children being hushed and soothed. A few elderly women were absently flicking through a pile of works, sharing words with wizards. One man standing close by looked like a farmer. He was still holding a pitchfork. Sirens of all sorts, not just riders or soldiers. The lucky and the leftovers.

  ‘Is this all that’s left?’ asked Tyrfing.

  ‘All that we could gather. We haven’t left this room in three weeks,’ Eyrum sighed, and began to lead them a rather un-merry path through the twists and turns of the barricades.

  ‘What about food?’

  ‘Dwindling.’

  ‘Arms?’ This from Farden, as he sniffed the air. It felt close, still, and stale.

  ‘What we carry. A few spare staves made from bookshelves. We’ve been trying to make arrows but it’s slow going. Square wood does not fly straight, as our resident fletcher says.’

  Farden stopped to stare at a group of wizards. There were four of them sitting in a square, tucked away behind a toppled desk, illuminated by sagging candles. Two had their eyes open, though just barely, while the other two had theirs closed, scrunched up in deep concentration. Even at that short distance, Farden could see the veins standing like cords on their necks and foreheads. Tyrfing came to stand at his side. ‘Feel it?’ he asked his nephew. ‘Their magick?’

  Farden shook his head. All he felt was tired. He took a few steps towards them.

  ‘I would not interrupt them, Farden,’ Eyrum warned. Farden waved a hand, but kept on walking, drawing wary stares from the two resting wizards and the nearby soldiers.

  There were open books lying in the wizards’ laps. Their pages glistened with sweat in the candlelight, their edges thumbed with grime. Farden bowed to them, and the two wizards politely returned his gesture with a pair of nods. Farden moved to the large window behind them. The glass had been blackened with soot and covered with rags to keep up the ruse of a cave-in. Farden knelt down to rub a miniscule section of the soot away with his little finger, making a little window for himself. All he could see was swirling grey.

  Tyrfing broke the silence ‘So these are the fog-brewers Saker was talking about,’ he muttered.

  ‘A week solid, they have been casting. Keeps the Clan confused and got our ships away safe to Talen. There are eight wizards in total. They take it in turns.’

  Farden couldn’t help but whistle. ‘I imagine they do,’ he said.

  ‘Farden?’ Tyrfing cleared his throat. Farden turned and saw his uncle pointing to a sorry-looking group of people further into the library. They were huddled around a single whale-oil lantern. Each one of them sported a bloody bandage of some kind. Heads, fingers, arms, legs, ribs, ears… each had something. A single wizened old man was edging around their circle, doing the best he could.

  ‘A healer,’ Farden said, quickly getting to his feet.

  Eyrum frowned. ‘Are you hurt, mage?’

  ‘Not me,’ Farden shook his head. ‘Elessi.’

  Eyrum followed them with a quizzical look on his face.

  Farden marched up to the old healer and put his hand on his arm as gently as his urgency would allow. The old Siren was still startled nonetheless. ‘Old man,’ Farden leant close. ‘I need your help.’

  The Siren looked him up and down. There was dust in his wiry black beard. Flecks of blood sat on the shoulder of his robe. ‘I
am sure you do, son, but so do these others. I am afraid you will have to get in line,’ he said, his voice a cracked rattle of parchment. He went to move on but the mage held him back, shaking his head.

  ‘No, no, I don’t need your bandages, I need your advice. Your knowledge. My friend in Krauslung has been attacked…’ he paused here, suddenly very aware of the number of ears around him, ‘…by a daemon. Now she refuses to wake up and our Arka healers are clueless. They’ve never seen such a wound before. I need to know how to help her and I am hoping that you Sirens have the answers.’

  A few of those in earshot began to snigger and nudge each other. Daemons, how preposterous! Even Eyrum had to grimace at their mention. Tyrfing glared at each of them in turn.

  The old healer’s lips quivered as he fought not to smile. He looked around. ‘It is kind of you to try to stir up some humour in such a dark situation, Arka, but unfortunately you’re wasting my time,’ he said.

  ‘And you’re wasting mine, old man. I am deadly serious.’ Farden held him a little tighter. He stared deep into his scale-rimmed eyes, as though trying to physically push the truth into the healer’s face. The healer’s smile gradually faded into a grimace.

  Tyrfing piped up. ‘He is indeed,’ he said, turning to Eyrum. ‘Vice’s legacy. Her.’

  ‘So it’s true?’ Eyrum asked, still unconvinced. The Arkmage nodded soberly. ‘Well, she picked a fine time to rear her head.’

  ‘She has her father’s timing,’ Farden muttered over his shoulder. He turned back to the healer. ‘The Old Dragon told me that to be daemontouched is to know death. I want you to tell me he’s wrong.’

  The healer squinted. ‘Are you sure it was a daemon, son?’

  Farden was growing very tired very quickly. ‘Trust me, old man, an entire city watched three of them fall from the sky,’ he urged. He turned around to look at Eyrum and his men. ‘Why is this so hard to believe? You’re Sirens. Some of you must have been with us when we fought the hydra.’

  A rider by Eyrum’s side spoke up. ‘I was. But that was different. That came from the other side. Daemons, they’re…’ he made a jab towards the ceiling with his finger.

  Farden blew an exasperated sigh. He turned back to the healer. ‘Can you help my friend or not?’

  The healer’s face twitched as he thought. He was very aware of the iron look in this mage’s eyes, and of the tight grip he had on his thin arm. It took him several moments before he was able to shake his head. ‘There is no cure for those who are daemontouched. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Then where are your colleagues?’ he demanded. The old man made a limp gesture to the back of the room.

  ‘They will say the same.’

  Farden was already striding across the library. ‘We’ll see!’

  ‘Farden!’ Eyrum and Tyrfing called after the mage, but he was already interrogating another healer, this time a sharp-nosed, middle-aged woman in a smart, but blood-smeared, tunic. She was already shaking her head by the time the others caught up. Farden’s hands were slowly curling into fists.

  ‘I heard you with Insillir and I will tell you the same. There is no cure, mage,’ the healer was saying.

  ‘You Sirens are supposed to be the finest healers in Emaneska,’ Farden snapped. He kicked a nearby wall of books. ‘You have more history at your scaly fingertips than Arfell can dream of, more knowledge, more experience, and you’re telling me there’s no cure?’

  The healer crossed her arms. Her face was stony. ‘That is exactly what I am saying. No amount of shouting or kicking will change that. I have sick people here, give them some peace and quiet, man.’

  ‘Ridiculous!’ Farden began to tear the books from the top of the makeshift wall. Book by book he ripped through it, glancing at titles as he dug. ‘You’re telling me that all this is useless?’

  ‘Farden!’ Tyrfing barked. Farden ignored him. He wheeled on Eyrum instead. ‘Do the wizards know anything about daemons? Anything? What about the dragons?’

  ‘FARDEN!’ yelled Tyrfing. The library went deathly quiet save for the muttering of the wizards in the corner. Farden looked as if he would explode into flame at any moment. He quivered with anger. Everybody was staring at him. They were slowly shaking their heads.

  ‘I refuse to believe that there’s no hope,’ Farden growled. ‘There has to be something…’ His boots squeaked as he turned on his heels and made for the very depths of the cavernous library. A few soldiers made half-hearted attempts to stop him but he shrugged them aside. Tyrfing rubbed his forehead.

  ‘You know where he’s going, don’t you?’ asked the big Siren.

  ‘Mhm,’ hummed Tyrfing.

  ‘And can he read dragonscript?’

  ‘Not unless he learnt it in Albion.’

  ‘Albion? So that was where he was?’

  The Arkmage sighed. ‘It’s a long story, my friend.’

  ‘We have to go after him.’

  ‘Mhm.’

  They found Farden exactly where they knew he’d be: in a dark and dusty corridor at the back of the library, hidden by a narrow arch and some equally dusty steps. Farden had snatched a lantern from somewhere. He was busy scouring the hallway’s thick oak shelves, staring at the gnarled spines of the countless tearbooks that lined them. They filled the shelves like forgotten jewels, stacked side by side. Every one of them sparkled in the light. Sapphire blues rubbed shoulders with dun coppers and flame-reds. Dusty emerald tones squeezed in between jet, quartz, and rare pyrite. Farden glared at each and every one of them, as if they holding secrets and refusing to divulge them. Farden reached up to grab a particularly thick one, but Eyrum stamped his boot loudly.

  ‘Keep your hands to yourself, mage. This hallway is a graveyard to us. Only our scholars can touch the books.’

  Farden’s fingers stopped dead in their tracks. They clawed at the dusty air, frustrated. ‘What of Farfallen’s? Surely that…’

  Eyrum held up a hand to interrupt him. ‘They gleaned whatever they could from that tome long ago, Farden. If there was a cure, they would know. Stop torturing yourself with hope.’

  Farden slammed his hand against the butt end of a shelf. The solid bookcase didn’t even rattle. ‘I promised him,’ he hissed. ‘I looked right into his eyes and promised him.’ He winced as a dull pain spread across his chest.

  ‘Modren will forgive you,’ Tyrfing offered. It was all he could say. His eyes wandered over the tearbooks, wondering, like his nephew, whether there was a secret hidden in their pages. He didn’t show it, but he too had a pain in his chest.

  ‘How can you be so calm about this? So accepting? It’s Elessi we’re talking about,’ Farden scowled.

  ‘Futility, nephew. I don’t like this any more than you do.’

  ‘You don’t sound too concerned.’

  ‘You heard Towerdawn in the great hall, Farden. To be poisoned by a daemon is a death sentence. There is no cure for death. Elessi is slipping over to the other side, and we’re powerless to stop her.’

  Farden scrunched up his eyes as he listened to his uncle’s words. He put his head against the oaken shelf and wrapped his hands around the back of his neck. Failure lapped at his mind like a hungry sea at a shoreline. All he could see when he shut his eyes was Modren’s face, and the look that had passed between them in that marble corridor. All he could see was Elessi cleaning his wounds the day that he had come back from Carn Breagh, the way she had dabbed and prodded with her cloths. The mage let his forehead roll back and forth across the wood. He knew the others were watching. They kept silent out of respect.

  When he finally stood straight again, the mage didn’t know what to say. He raised his eyes to the ceiling and let his hands slide across his neck, as if he were about to strangle himself…

  Farden froze. His fingers pressed against the knot of a scar running around his weathered neck, probing, poking, remembering. Of cold waters and pebbles, of a fingernail ship and a screaming figurehead. Of the pushing, always the pushing. The mage shook his head. ‘N
o,’ he said. The word was a pebble being dropped on the flagstones.

  ‘No?’

  Farden wagged a finger. ‘No,’ he repeated.

  ‘No what?’ asked Eyrum.

  ‘There’s still hope.’

  Tyrfing was on the verge of throttling his nephew. He was more stubborn than he remembered. He didn’t think it possible. ‘Farden, just let it go.’

  ‘No. You’re wrong. Wrong about curing death.’

  Tyrfing tried to stay calm. He threw up his hands. ‘Please, enlighten us. What do you know that we don’t?’

  Farden had begun to smile like a madman. ‘The truth. You can come back from the other side. Believe me.’

  ‘And how can you possibly know that?’

  ‘Because, uncle,’ Farden took a breath, ‘I think I’ve done it.’

  Tyrfing was about to reply when he saw the look in his nephew’s eyes. Despite his smile, his pupils were like flint. Serious. Unflinching. There was a hardness in them that only truth can buy. Farden brought his face very close to his uncle’s. So close he could feel the heat of his breath on his cheek. So close they almost touched noses. ‘I can bring her back.’

  Before Tyrfing could even absorb Farden’s words, he was off, jogging down the corridor, his boots throwing up little puff-clouds of dust. ‘Where is he going now?’ The Arkmage strangled the air.

  ‘I dread to think,’ Eyrum grumbled, utterly bemused. ‘But I think it’s best to follow.’

  The hallway curved and wandered deeper into the mountain and its gloom. They followed the shine of Farden’s lantern as it bobbed along ahead, splashing urgent shadows across the bookshelves. They flanked them like the walls of a glittering canyon, caught in the mist of floating dust motes and abandonment. There was a reverence to the hallway’s state, like a graveyard, as Eyrum had said. Except here, the gravestones were memories and the tomes that held them close.