by Ben Galley
‘Do I smell blood?’ he asked, without so much as a greeting.
‘That you do, brother,’ confirmed Valefor, sniffing the air. His nostrils flapped. ‘Daemon-scent.’ Reaching out a single claw, he gently lifted Samara to her feet by her chin, and then tapped her arm. Samara opened a hand, where a faint welt of a cut could be seen, already half healed. Valefor flicked a glance to Lilith, who was still kneeling, swaying back and forth. ‘I see,’ was all he said.
Hokus growled. ‘What use you still see in her escapes me, cousin.’
‘She,’ began Samara, unsure. She raised her chin. ‘Has served me… us well so far.’
Hokus waved an arm. ‘So be it,’ he said, reaching into the fire and grabbing a handful of burning coals. Clutching them to his charcoal lips, he blew hard, making them glow white hot. ‘We have found you transportation,’ he said, between breaths.
Samara looked around. The glare of the coals and their little fire had made it difficult to see anything beyond the summit of the barrow. ‘Where is it?’
‘What is it, would be more appropriate,’ Valefor chuckled. ‘Show them what we’ve dragged from the depths of the forest’s caves, brother.’
Hokus nodded. He drew his hand back, the one that held the coals, as if to throw a punch at the moon. Then, with the quietest of grunts, he hurled the coals down the slope of the barrow. They landed in a flash and hiss of sparks, scattering like coins out of a torn purse. The two beasts standing at the foot of the barrow snarled in reply.
Wolves. Two enormous wolves. The flash of the coals lit their maws for the briefest of moments, but it was all that was needed. Yellow teeth and huge ice-white eyes. The mere sight of them was enough to stop the hearts of lesser creatures. Even Samara flinched. Lilith fell to the ground, prostrate on the stubbled grass, shivering.
Uttering low whines, the wolves began to pad up the slope in the gentle, yet terrifying way that wolves do: legs bent and fluid, effortless, head low and moving not an inch with the motion of the paws. Eyes fixed like nails welded to steel.
They stopped just short of the daemons. Even Hokus and Valefor, in their current size, looked puny beside them. Easily taller than a man, the wolves were wide and long like a cow, with thick, shaggy coats and tufted ears. Their claws were so large they could have been fashioned into doorhandles, their fangs polished and whittled into dirks. These creatures had a smell about them, like old leather, of dusty fur and hot, rotting meat.
‘What are they?’ asked Samara, breathless.
‘Fenrir,’ grinned Valefor, obviously enormously pleased with their find.
‘They’re massive…’
Valephor made a shocked face. ‘These are small, for fenrir. The elves used to breed them much, much bigger,’ he said, wagging a claw like a lecturer.
‘I hate to think,’ mumbled Lilith. She had gotten to her feet, and now stood on shaky legs. Her fear had faded quickly once she had remembered her earlier thoughts. All the same, one of the fenrir growled at her, and she stumbled backwards.
‘They can smell the blood on your breath, seer,’ said Hokus. He clapped his hands together and the colossal wolves flinched. ‘Ready?’
Samara pointed at the creatures. ‘How do we… er… How are they going to…’
‘You ride them.’
‘Ride them?’ Lilith spluttered.
Hokus glared. ‘Problem with your ears, old woman?’
The seer had the cheek to bob a curtsey. Samara blamed the mörd. ‘They’re just fine, thank ‘ee,’ Lilith replied.
Hokus glared a little more. ‘Every question you let dribble out of your leathery mouth wastes more of our time. Gather your things. You ride north,’ ordered the daemon.
Samara went to it with a will, hoisting her pack over her shoulders and putting the fire out of its misery with a few quick stamps. In the darkness, the volcanic veins and cracks in the daemons’ skin glowed a faint orange, giving them just enough light to see by. The thin moon did the rest.
As Lilith gathered up her cloak and her pack, Samara stepped up to face the nearest, and largest of the fenrir. Its breath was like the breath of a forge. It stank of decay and death. The fenrir growled, throat rattling, as she reached up to touch the fur hanging around its chin, but it didn’t move. It had its orders. Samara twiddled the fur between finger and thumb and made a contented little noise. ‘Soft,’ she mused, and with the help of Valefor, she lifted herself onto the back of the giant beast. The fenrir’s shaggy coat made a perfect saddle. Thick enough to dig heels and hands into. Thick enough to keep the bones from being jarred. Samara let her hands sink deep into the warm, shaggy fur and gripped tightly.
Lilith was struggling to climb her fenrir. Her pack was heavy, her hand still withered despite the blood. The beast snarled as she slipped for the third time and tugged too hard on its coat. An impatient Hokus finally pushed her onto the fenrir’s back, muttering something about excess baggage. His claws strayed close to her neck, but he held himself.
Once their cargo was firmly aboard, the fenrir lifted their heads to howl at the sliver of moon. It was a skin-prickling harmony, one that undulated as the two howls intertwined, both piercing and deafening at the same time. For just a fleeting moment, the wastes were silenced for miles around.
‘We will meet you in the north. The fenrir will know where to go, and where to wait,’ Hokus instructed, as the huge beasts began to paw at the dirt.
‘We have several other engagements,’ replied Valefor, looking southwards.
‘How do you get these things moving?’ Samara asked.
Valefor winked. ‘Like this,’ he said, as Hokus clapped his claws together, making a sound like a whip-crack. The fenrir burst into life. One giant leap took them from the barrow to the flat earth, and then they were off, galloping across the wastes, nipping at the heels of the wind.
Chapter 13
“Power may rest in the hands of the gods, but defiance is a man’s business.”
Words from the writing of the philosopher Winble Narn
Questions. The ship was veritably aflame with them.
Where did the dragons go?
Why had the Lost Clans attacked?
Is the Old Dragon still alive?
How did they escape the mountain?
Where are we going now?
How are we supposed to sleep in these crowded conditions?
What are we going to do with all these women and children?
‘Where do the dead go?’
The whole table looked up at that. Forks dangled, hesitant, in front of open mouths. Knives rested mid-slice on the porcelain plates. Every eye turned on Farden. The mage met only one pair, those of a dark and tall man that his uncle had insisted the others refer to as “Heim”. The god-incognito was sitting silently in front of his untouched plate, smiling politely and somewhat uncomfortably.
‘Where do what now?’ Roiks repeated. Despite Nuka’s covert kicking, he had been recounting a ribald tale concerning a lifeboat and several young, innocent maidens. Gabbant, Colonel Tinbits, and Hasterkin had been mid-guffaw. Now they simply stared, laughter dead, mouths half open.
Farden’s question had been simmering within him all afternoon, bubbling and boiling like a stew, working its way up to his lips. His interrogation of the gods had been thwarted by his uncle. Loki and Heimdall had quickly made themselves scarce. Farden had been forced to keep quiet, for the time being, under threats of being tossed into the briny deep, Grimsayer and all. Farden had spent the rest of the afternoon helping to house the stranded Sirens, or thumbing through the Grimsayer and simmering quietly to himself.
Now the question had boiled to the top. It wasn’t the best timing. All the others knew of “Heim” was that he was a quiet, slightly odd, keen-eyed aid of Arkmage Tyrfing’s who wasn’t too keen on his food.
‘You heard me,’ replied Farden, still staring directly at the tawny-eyed god.
‘I do not know what you mean,’ answered Heimdall, in a low voice. His eyes flic
ked around the table, finally resting on Captain Nuka.
‘You four,’ Nuka said, pointing to Roiks, Gabbant, Hasterkin, and Tinbits. ‘Dismissed.’
Roiks immediately got to his feet. He knew the captain well enough to feel the edge to his tone. Even though he wasn’t the ranking officer, he shepherded the others quickly to the door. ‘Right. Dinner on deck, lads. You ‘eard the ole captain.’
It was a moment’s work on the bosun’s part. Moments later the door was shut and the clomping of boots quickly faded into the corridor beyond. The ship pitched and rolled on a wave before anybody spoke.
With a clearing of his throat, Tyrfing put his knife and fork down and rested his elbows on the table. He looked to his nephew and nodded. ‘It seems that my nephew wants answers.’
‘So it would appear,’ Heimdall replied. ‘It would also appear that he does not have the patience to wait until after dinner.’
Farden let himself bubble over. ‘You’re all sat here like nothing is wrong. If Modren were here, instead of me, he would be marching across those waves on foot, instead of sitting here, eating and laughing and pretending that nothing is wrong, like today never happened. You’re acting like Elessi is at home, darning her new husband’s socks,’ Farden scowled. ‘Well, she isn’t. And let’s not mention my beloved daughter, heading north as we speak. What about her, eh? We all seem a little bit too relaxed for my liking,’ he said, drumming his fingernails slowly on the table.
‘Now look…’ began Nuka, readying his fork to punctuate his points with little jabs, but Tyrfing cut him off cold.
‘He’s right,’ said the Arkmage. By his side, Lerel raised an eyebrow. Nuka frowned. Farden, face blank, simply listened as his uncle went on. ‘Farden is the only one around this table that actually seems to know what in Emaneska is going on. I can hardly believe it myself, and he’ll forgive me for saying that, but it’s true. I also know he’s got a plan, and even though I suspect it will be the downright maddest plan I’ve ever heard, I want to hear it. You came here to help us, Heimdall. You can do that by answering his questions. He’s not the only one who wants to hear the answers,’ he said, shuffling in his seat. He glanced at Farden out of the corner of his eye. His nephew was nodding. Tyrfing shrugged. If there was one thing their family wasn’t good at, it was apologies.
‘What exactly happened in Hjaussfen?’ Lerel raised the other eyebrow.
‘Let’s just say we reached an understanding,’ said Tyrfing. His little speech over, he began to cough. He hoarsely excused himself and went to stand by the window.
Heimdall folded his arms. ‘Your questions then, mage?’
Farden leant forward. His exterior was expressionless, but inside he grinned a little at his minor victory, and at his uncle’s words. It warmed him in ways he hadn’t felt in years. ‘I’ll ask again. Where do the dead go?’
‘You mortals already know full well. The other side.’
‘Yes, but by what path?’
Heimdall pushed his plate forward and let his elbows occupy its space. It was odd to see a god make such a human movement, as simple as crossing arms over a table. ‘You think your maid is on this path.’
Farden nodded. ‘I do.’
Heimdall shook his head. ‘Then I shall not tell you.’
Lerel and Nuka pulled similar faces. Tyrfing was about to interject when Farden held up a hand. ‘Let him speak. I know what he’s going to say,’ he said, enjoying the looks of “do you?” radiating from the others at the table. Farden settled back in his chair and motioned for the god to continue.
Heimdall fixed the mage with his tawny stare. ‘I have been patient with you. We,’ he motioned to the ceiling and the sky beyond it, ‘have been patient. We have watched you chase the salvation of your dying friend across the sea in the hope that the path to that goal was entwined with the other, more serious path. The path we should be treading, as was explained to us in Krauslung.’
‘Forgive me, sire, but you’re talking in riddles,’ Nuka bowed his head, reverent as any.
‘And avoiding my question.’
Heimdall waved his hand. ‘I have let you waste enough time trying to save the maid. It is time we do what is most important, and kill your daughter, Farden. Before she brings the whole sky down upon us.’
Farden rubbed his stubbled chin, absorbing the words. He nodded slowly. ‘I see,’ was all he said. The others held their breath, half-expecting the mage to throw his chair against the bulkhead, or storm off in a rage, but instead he pulled back the sleeve of his cloak and let his armoured forearm fall on the table with a thud. He pointed at the glittering Scalussen metal and watched Heimdall’s eyes take it in. ‘You’re a god that sees a lot of things,’ he said. ‘Have you seen this before?’ Heimdall didn’t answer. Farden went on. ‘I know you have. A god like you, a watcher, if I heard Loki right, doesn’t forget things like this.’ Here he flicked the metal, making it sing. ‘Especially something that has godblood in it, whatever that may be.’
The eyes of the room slowly swivelled from the vambrace to the god.
Had the god ever tired of being a god, then he could have sought a lucrative career in gambling. His face was deader than deadpan. Unreadable. Still, there was something in his silence that betrayed him.
Farden tapped his vambrace again. ‘My next question then, seeing as you’re unwilling to answer my last. What exactly is godblood?’
‘I would have thought the clue was in its name,’ Tyrfing suggested.
‘As would I. But I have it on good account that gods, or rather ghosts, don’t bleed,’ replied Farden, remembering his altercation with Loki on the beach. ‘You could say I know first-hand.’
Heimdall stayed silent and still and staring. Farden’s eyes did their best to hold Heimdall’s heavy stare. He held it for as long as he could while he spoke. ‘You brought me back from Albion to fight my daughter, and I intend to do exactly that. Whatever emotions I had for her were lost that day on the hill, when I saw what she did, and the smile on her face as she did it. Nobody understands the gravity of the situation more than I do. And whatever reservations you have about me, us, bury them. We’ve earned the right to be trusted. No more secrets. Not now. Not when we’re so close to the end,’ Farden said, calmly and slowly. He wasn’t a born speaker, but his words were tough and true.
For a long while, Heimdall didn’t answer. It was only when the silence was becoming unbearable that he sat back in his chair, making it creak loudly under his weight. ‘The Allfather demanded that you be punished for your insolence, after what you did to Loki. He is a young god. But a god all the same,’ he said, quietly. He saw the reaction of the others. ‘Ah yes. They do not know you struck him.’
Farden lifted his chin. ‘And I would do it again, too,’ he said, making the others pale.
Heimdall continued. ‘I have watched you longer than most, Farden. Longer even than our sister Evernia. Watched you tarry and squander your gifts and duties. I remember when Evernia called for help, I doubted you in front of all the gods. I proclaimed you unfit to carry responsibility on your shoulders.’
Farden raised his chin. ‘And now?’ It was like asking the hangman if he could see the knot.
Heimdall let the politest of smiles tug at his mouth. ‘Even a god can be wrong, at times,’ he said. ‘But I think your uncle is right. We came here to help you.’
‘So my questions?’
Heimdall looked to the wooden ceiling. ‘It is a fine night to taste the air, do you not think?’
So it was that Farden, Heimdall, and Tyrfing ended up on deck. Lerel and Nuka stayed behind to see to their unfinished plates, citing hunger and something about ignorance being bliss.
Heimdall was right: it was a fine night to taste the air. Salty and ice-cold, it stole the mages’ breath away as they climbed the stairs onto the quiet deck. Night had taken the sky, and the stars were on watch. In the east, a waxing moon held court. Its milky light turned the wave-tips into mercury and silver as they reached and bo
wed before the ship as it sped east and north around the Nelska cape. Sailors and soldiers went about their evening business quietly, smoking pipes and murmuring in low voices. It had been a long day indeed. All were tired.
The three went to the prow, where Ilios lay curled up, yet awake, in his usual spot. The wind was playing with his feathers. He eyed them curiously as they approached and sat on the steps beside his head. He raised a tufted ear when he saw the huge, gnarled tome that Farden placed on the deck.
Heimdall had remained standing. He folded his arms behind his back and stood in front of the mages like a soldier at ease. ‘You asked of godblood. Why?’ he asked.
‘When the second daemon attacked us outside the Spire, it saw my armour and hissed that word at me. Then it left. Quickly too.’
Heimdall was intrigued. ‘That is interesting, if unexpected.’
‘Farden seems to think there is something about the armour that will help fight the daemons, and his daughter,’ explained Tyrfing. ‘He wants to find the rest of it.’
Farden scowled a little at his uncle. ‘I was getting to that bit.’
‘Well,’ said Heimdall, ‘if what you say is true, Farden, you may be right.’ The mage barely resisted the urge to punch the air.
‘So what of the rest of it? You must know where it is.’ Farden was trying hard to hide his excitement.
‘If only it were that simple, mage,’ said Heimdall. ‘I know where it was last. I do not know where it is now.’
‘How delightfully cryptic.’ Farden ran his fingers over the perfect ridges of his armour. ‘So this wasn’t part of the reason you wanted me to come back?’
‘An added bonus, it would seem. If we are abandoning secrets, then the real truth is that we did not know about this.’
‘There seems to be a surprising amount you gods don’t know.’
‘We’re gods. We’re not perfect,’ said a familiar voice. Heimdall turned around to find Loki standing in the shadows by the iron-wrapped foremast.
‘Evernia’s favourite saying,’ said Farden. He was surprised that he could remember that. Clarity he may have had, but his memories were still frayed. The nevermar hadn’t left him yet.
