by Ben Galley
Farden was bent double, hands pressed to his shaking knees. He looked up, grimacing. ‘The very best, I think, on Towerdawn’s part.’
‘Winds be damned, mage, you’re whiter than a virgin, and bloodier than a butcher’s floor. What in Emaneska have you been doing?’ he asked, eyeing the gore splattered across their clothes and hands. ‘Or dare I ask?’
Farden was still trying to regain his breath. It had been snatched away by the wind. ‘Mountain-climbing. Dangerous activity.’
Lerel came running up. She spied the Grimsayer resting like a boulder on the deck. ‘What’s that? Could you not find a bigger book?!’
Farden shook his head at her. ‘I couldn’t even begin to tell you.’
‘Well, you can try at dinner!’ Nuka clapped his hands. ‘So, are we successful?’
Farden couldn’t answer. Tyrfing did so on his behalf. ‘Not quite, Captain.’
Nuka winced, and bit his lip. ‘Ah. North, then.’
‘North it is.’
Nuka leant forward. ‘North to what, may I ask?’
‘The answer to that, Captain, lies with them,’ said Farden, jabbing a finger towards the stern. Nuka’s eyes walked the length of the mage’s outstretched arm and hand, following it across the crowded, silent deck, to two silent figures standing by the ship’s wheel. Two gods, faces vacant, eyes narrowed. Looking innocent, for all the world and its heavens.
Farden was already marching across the deck.
1561 years ago
Beautiful.
It would have been, in any other circumstance.
A hundred thousand lights, all aglitter, creeping towards the city like a horde of fireflies. Rivers and streams of them flowed and surged across the ice. Lines and clusters of them, moving in waves and currents. A hundred different armies from a hundred different lords.
Halophen had been right.
Emaneska had come for the Nine.
‘They said it,’ panted Chast. He had been talking like this for hours now. The others were swiftly tiring of it. ‘They said they’d come, and we didn’t believe them. Just kept on going about our business. As if we were kings ourselves.’
‘We are kings.’ The words surprised even Korrin, and they had leapt from his own mouth. five years had gone by since the desert, since his sword had tasted the neck of King Halophen. The Nine had been busy indeed. Quashing rebellions in the east. Hunting warlord kings in the south. Breaking the back of depravity across Emaneska. People had cheered them. The Smiths had praised them. Emaneska had praised them. They were untouchable. Righteous. Powerful. Conquering. They were like kings, in their own right. They had all thought it, at some point or another. And it was about bloody time somebody said it out loud, Korrin thought.
‘We are kings,’ he said again, drawing frowns from Balimuel and Gaspid, his closest friends of the Nine. ‘Are we not?’
‘Korrin, the farmboy…’ Estina was muttering. Korrin stamped his foot on the marble of their Frostsoar balcony. ‘This is our castle.’ He waved his hand over the black veins of the city below. Spots of orange and yellow burnt here and there, where the fire from the catapults had landed. ‘Our city.’ He rapped a knuckle on his breastplate. ‘Our crowns.’
Gaspid rubbed his goatee, making the glittering metal of his gauntlet rasp against it. Standing in the orange light of the gathering armies, their armour looked like molten rock, like shimmering lava. ‘A crown doesn’t make a king. Actions do,’ he intoned, wisely.
‘You’re damn right, Gaspid. And look at all that we’ve done over the last five years.’
‘My my, is this the same Korrin, the quiet son of a pig farmer?’
Korrin frowned at Balimuel. ‘I’m just saying what we’re all thinking.’
‘He’s right,’ Lop said, gazing out at the encroaching hordes. ‘But look where it’s led.’
‘What are kings, if not conquered?’
‘Korrin is right,’ Balimuel growled. ‘We are kings, every one of us, and we should act like them.’
Estina got up from her rock and raised her visor. ‘What are you saying Balimuel?’
‘I’m saying we should go down there and protect our kingdom.’
‘But the Smiths ordered…’
‘There won’t be any Smiths, if we do not.’
There was a silence then, and in that moment a roar blew in from the south, borne on a hot wind, unnaturally so for the icy north. A roar of fire and iron, of steel and straining wood. The Nine turned to face it. A hundred lights flashed in the dark, sparking bright in amongst the firefly torches. Thunder then, of a hundred catapults lurching, hurling their fiery missiles high above the city, so high they almost came level with the Knights’ gazes. Thunder struck as they crashed down on the city, fallen stars of chaos and flame. Fires sputtered and flashed in the streets. The wind brought the Knights snatches of screams, of crying.
Korrin stood. ‘I’m not going to sit here and watch. That’s not what we were made for.’
Chast was biting his lip. ‘Have we ever fought so many?’
‘No,’ Balimuel chuckled. They could always rely on him to make light of any dire situation. It was his way. His huge shoulders held a lot.
‘Maybe it’s time we truly put our armour to the test.’
‘But it’s the armour they came for.’
Korrin clenched his fist, and felt the metal shiver and pop around his knuckles and fingers. He watched as another swarm of fireballs rose into the sky, each a shard of the approaching dawn, making the sky glow orange and furious red. Thunder rolled again. Screams followed. ‘They’ll have to try harder than that,’ he said, and then marched for the door.
The others traded glances. Balimuel reached for the handle of his sword. ‘Our little Korrin, indeed,’ he smiled.
Chapter 11
“His world is afloat on ambition and dreams,
Long nights of ale spent sharing his schemes.
The world is his oyster all wrapped up in shell,
But my dear, oysters need catching, and his live in Hel.”
Excerpt from ‘Lark and Lady,’ an old comedy originally thought to be penned by Billo the skald
‘I have spent a long time and a lot of coin sowing the seed of doubt in this city, and now it is harvest time,’ Malvus said to the stained-blue window. It painted the city below a cobalt blur.
The good Colonel Jarvins, or rather, the new General Jarvins, given his most recent accomplishments, stood behind him, admiring his new armour. It had come straight from what had been left in Arkmage Tyrfing’s rapidly disassembling forge.
‘And what are the crops of such a harvest?’ Jarvins mumbled. The armour had come with several epaulettes, and his wife, immensely proud of her husband’s sky-rocket to status, and no doubt hers in the meantime, had insisted on sewing several bright red ribbons to it. For burnished gold-green armour, the colour clash bordered on vomit-worthy. He hadn’t the heart to rip them off just yet, but he was tempted, as he flicked them back into their rightful place.
Malvus, or rather Lord Malvus, as befitting his new status, turned around wearing a little hint of surprise on his face. ‘Well, well,’ he remarked, grimacing once more at the dreadful sight of the gaudy red ribbons. He slid a dagger from his pocket and marched up to Jarvins. The general tensed as he saw the blade, but Malvus was not after him. Only his ribbons. He caught them with a sigh as they twirled to the floor. At least he could claim it was the Lord Malvus’ orders. ‘Now that is sorted, an answer to your question,’ Malvus said, striding back to the window.
‘The crops, or rather the juicy fruit, of our harvest are many. Taxes. Power. Expansion. Adoration, and the freedom to rule this city as I see fit.’
‘You mean the Marble Copse. As the Copse sees fit,’ Jarvins pointed out. He himself had been a member for many years now. The Copse’s attitude appealed to him, a man who had spent half a decade policing the finer debaucheries of the magick markets.
‘Jarvins, I am the Copse now,’ replied Malvus, wi
th a tone of icy exasperation.
Jarvins cleared his throat. ‘Right you are,’ he said, biting his lip. ‘So, how are we going to harvest these fruits?’
‘All in good time. In fact, ah. Here we are,’ Malvus smiled as he heard the echoing thud of the hall’s doors shutting. Three men were walking briskly towards them. Two held their heads and noses high, confident and eager smirks curving on their lips. The third at the centre held his head straight and formal. His strides were military-crisp and sharper than a winter wind. The creases in his shirt and cloak looked as though they could cut like daggers. His face was blank, a shadow of unease hiding there. Toskig had heard the good news, just like the rest of the city. He had heard the bells and seen the protests turn to parties in the streets. He had heard the sound of change on the wind. As for how good this news actually was? He had yet to fully decide. For the moment it sat with Toskig like a cold stone in the stomach.
‘Ah, fellow victors.’ Malvus welcomed them with arms held wide. As the two council members came to a shuffling halt, Toskig stamped his feet and came to attention. He even saluted. Malvus received it with a curt bow, his armour and long cape rustling. The others had to privately admit that the new Lord of the Arka made a grand sight; all wrapped in golden mail and fringes of black, with a cape of soft grey that stretched to caress the floor behind his leather shoes. If clothes maketh a man, then these made Malvus look like a king. He knew it too, judging by his effortless smile, his glint in his eyes. He gestured for the men to sit on a nearby bench. The councils did as they were told. Toskig remained standing. Jarvins hovered in the background, trading glances with him.
‘The fruits incarnate, Jarvins. Council Draun, Council Brothniss-Parr, and Sergeant Toskig, thank you for joining me on this fine morning. I trust your celebrations ran long into the night?’
Draun chuckled. He was a wicked willow of a man, thinner than a beggar’s lips. His bony face was puckered with two beady eyes, and his nose ventured outwards like a beak. ‘And long into the morning, Barkhart,’ he said. His voice was narrow and dry.
Jarvins clicked his tongue. ‘Lord Malvus,’ he corrected.
‘Lord. My apologies,’ Draun sniffed, looking uncomfortable.
‘Accepted.’ Malvus waved his hand in a little circle. He was enjoying playing this new role. ‘And Brothniss, how were the streets?’ he asked the second man, looking him up and down as he spoke.
Brothniss-Parr was a plain man. Plainer than parchment. He was of average build and average height, not too muscular and not too thin. His hair was neither short nor long, and hovered in the nether regions between black or maybe brown. His face was, well, a face… in fact, he had no features worth noting save for a black mole hovering just below his left eye. Apart from that, he could have been lost in a crowd at a moment’s glance. ‘Electric, m’lord. Most of the citizens held their celebrations right on the cobbles. Taverns turned inside out. Markets opened late. The city had quite a time of it, for the most part,’ said Brothniss.
‘What do you mean, for the most part?’
‘There were a few that did not partake of the revelry. The Temple and the Remnant caused a little trouble,’ Brothniss explained. By his side, Toskig murmured in agreement. He had spent most of the night making sure such “trouble” didn’t escalate into anything more serious. The city was like metal left on the anvil, so beaten, so hot and so passionate, waiting to be carefully moulded and shaped. He knew it would snap if not treated so. He abruptly realised Malvus was looking at him.
‘Your Ma…’ he caught himself just in time ‘…Lordship.’
‘Sergeant Toskig,’ Malvus said, with that glint in his eye. ‘I hear from Manesmark that you can make a recruit piss himself with little more than a handful of words.’
Toskig nodded. ‘It has been said, my lord, but never proven.’
Malvus took a step forward. ‘And you, Sergeant, are the only one I am unsure of.’
‘Unsure, my lord?’ Toskig frowned. His hands were held stiffly behind his back. Military man to the core.
‘Where do you stand on all of this?’
‘All of what, my lord?’
Malvus waved his hand to the broken thrones behind him. Half the rubble still had to be cleared away. Toskig bit the inside of his lip. It was not a sight he was proud of witnessing. ‘All of this. The Arkmages dethroned. The Copse taking control. This shift of power. This change? I would hear your opinions.’
The Copse. Toskig had heard that name several times in the night. The new council. Toskig let his tongue loose. ‘Well, it depends,’ he said.
Malvus looked intrigued. ‘On what?’
‘May I be honest?’
‘You may.’
‘It depends on what you intend to do.’
Malvus smiled then. A sympathetic, understanding smile. Perfectly practised. The kind that Modren would have fought not to stave in. He went to another bench and picked up a stack of waiting parchments. Some looked old, while some looked very new. All of them had been sealed with the red wax of the School hawkeries. He handed a few to Toskig and Jarvins and let the men read. They were formal letters of complaint. Some anonymous, others signed by familiar names. Toskig even found one from himself, addressed to Tyrfing. He mouthed the words as he rehearsed them. Words like unacceptable, or dire situation, or simply too many. The echoes of yesterday’s cheers rang in his head, cheers of the instructors and mages drinking to change. He pulled a wry face.
‘I take it you recognise these?’ Malvus asked of Toskig. He nodded. ‘Good.’
‘Lord Malvus, forgive me being blunt as a spade, but what am I really doing here? Why not talk to Captain Haverfell? He has been far more outspoken about this…’
Malvus cut him off with a question. ‘Are you happy with the current state of your army, your School, Toskig. Are you proud of it?’
Tosking frowned again. There were two soldiers inside him. One whispered of treachery, loyalty, and other such guilt-ridden words. The other spoke proudly about the way things used to be, of the way things should be. Toskig looked to the splintered throne behind Malvus. What was treachery when there was nobody there to betray?
‘No.’ Toskig’s tone was flat.
‘You’ve been a soldier in the Arka army for, what? Sixteen, seventeen years?’ Malvus feigned ignorance. He knew exactly how many years Toskig had been soldiering. He had done his homework.
‘Twenty-six my lord,’ Toskig said, as his chest swelled. Jarvins nodded and made a scrunched-up face of approval.
‘Twenty-six,’ mused Malvus. ‘And in all that time, did you ever think the army would be in the state it is now?’
Toskig opened his mouth, unsure of what words to fill it with. Malvus filled it for him. ‘An army bursting at the seams with underpaid and undervalued men and mages, nudging shoulders with newcomers, farmboys, pretenders who take up your precious space, time, and coin. An army that has lingered in its barracks for fifteen years An army untried and untested, carelessly forced to fight against hellish foes the likes of which we have never seen.’
Toskig had to nod. All his gripes and complaints had just been delivered neatly on a silver platter. The proud soldier ground its teeth. The loyal one held its tongue and blushed. The fight on the hill had been a shambles for his recruits. Most of them had lost their nerve and crumbled under the pressure. A paltry few had barely managed to cast a small spell or two. The rest lay in crowded graves, high in the Manesmark slopes. Those graves would have been even more crowded had it not been for the spit and verve of the veteran companies around them. A decade and a half stuck doing patrols and guard duty will give any veteran an unquenchable thirst for battle. Toskig knew this better than most.
Lucky. That’s what they’d been.
Malvus smiled and walked to his stained-glass window. ‘Look at what depths the Arkmages have brought us to.’ He was talking to everyone now, not just Toskig. Malvus knew he had the big sergeant thinking. He would crumble like the rest had.
Malvus looked through the glass, turning the city yellow, green, blue, and red with little movements of his head. ‘A shadow of our former selves, whore to anybody who wants to practise magick, a crowd of penniless bickerers. Over-taxed. Under-valued. We need direction.’ Malvus took a breath before delivering his killer line. He had already rehearsed this several times that morning. ‘And that is where you four can help me.’
‘Us?’ Jarvins spoke up. He was no actor. He delivered his line flat, barely making it sound like a question. It did its job.
Draun and Brothniss quickly stood up to join Toskig. ‘Us?’ they chorused.
Malvus pointed at each one of them in turn. ‘I am putting you four in charge of turning this city around.’
The two councillors looked at each other with grins. Malvus could almost see the coins glinting in their eyes. Toskig stood a little straighter. ‘I want taxes levied on the magick markets. If they want to trade in Emaneska’s finest port, then they need to pay the tax for the pleasure. Draun, this is your responsibility. Brothniss, I want these bickering factions calmed or silenced. Their usefulness has faded. They can believe what they wish, as long as it falls in line with the Copse’s creed.’ Malvus delivered his plans like punches to a gut. ‘And yes, you will be compensated handsomely for your work.’ The grins of the councils widened.
‘And what of me, my lord?’ gruffly asked the sergeant.
Malvus broke into a smile. ‘Now, Toskig, how would you like to see your army returned to its former glory?’
Toskig’s throat was dry, but his nod was sure. ‘Very much so, Lord Malvus.’
Malvus stared Toskig straight in the eye. ‘Then it’s yours to command.’ The captain’s eyes went wide, and Malvus leant closer. ‘These farmhands and peasants don’t deserve the magick they wield. The common man has dabbled in the matters of magick for too long. They deserve a sword and a shield, nothing more. If they want to be paid, then let them fight for it. Do you not think, Jarvins?’
