by Ben Galley
‘Join us, Loki. Even you have not heard this story.’
Loki moved from the shadows without making a sound and went to stand by the railing, beside Tyrfing. A dark shape slid from the inside of his cloak, slithered down his leg, and then scampered across the deck towards Farden. The mage didn’t even flinch. He held his hand out and Whiskers ran up to his shoulder, where he nestled into the mage’s neck. ‘I thought I had heard all the stories,’ Loki muttered.
‘Looks like we’re not the only ones the gods keep secrets from,’ Farden nudged his uncle. Tyrfing nodded stiffly. He couldn’t help but notice Loki’s jaw clench.
Heimdall began to pace up and down. His voice was low, rough as gravel. ‘Loki and Evernia are both right. We gods are far from perfect. We have been known to make a mistake, or two, in the past. Mistakes like the ones being worn around your arms and legs, Farden.
‘In the years after we dragged the daemons into the sky, humanity grew and flourished faster than we could have ever imagined. We watched you from afar as you built kingdom after kingdom, forging the beginnings of empires. The Arka settled. The Sirens prospered. The first inklings of what would later become the Skölgard grew hungry. I believe you call this time the Scattered Kingdoms. Well, with kingdoms come kings, with kings come greed, and with greed comes war.
‘While these skirmishes and minor wars raged, the monstrosities left behind in the wake of the daemons and their elves continued to breed in the dark places of the world. I watched them all, and from above, I realised the world looked very much as we had left it. A dangerous, vicious place, full of darkness and war.
‘When the Allfather called for a solution, you were barely a notion, Loki. This is why you have no memory of this. We all swore a silence on the matter.’
‘On what matter?’ Farden interrupted.
‘Patience, mage,’ Heimdall told him. He paced some more before he continued. ‘We decided that if we were unable to protect the world we had left behind, then we would need to create something that could. So it was that we came to the smiths of Scalussen, a city high at the Spine of the World, populated by peaceful, wise, and gods-fearing people. We bade them to make us suits of armour to which we could lend our powers, what little we had. At that time the world was rife with prayer, and we were stronger then than we are now. It took all our power, gathered for almost five hundred years, to summon enough wherewithal to spill one drop of the Allfather’s blood into the Scalussen forges, and it took all the smiths’ skill to bind it to the metal that they drew from it. One by one, they forged nine suits, for nine warriors of their choosing. It took a decade to summon them all. I watched them arrive from every corner of the world. Some eager. Some skilled. Others both. Warriors and hopefuls all. The smiths and their pens called their names and they came.’
‘The Scalussen Nine,’ Farden said. ‘I have chased their legacy for years.’
‘As have many, and for one reason only. Not the warriors themselves, not coin, not fame, but the blood we spilt on their metal. That metal, Farden, that you wear. You know what power I speak of.’
‘Life,’ Loki whispered, staring at the mage’s vambraces.
‘Exactly,’ grunted Heimdall. He quickened his pacing. ‘Of course, we were foolish to assume that the world would accept our efforts. We imagined these Nine as guardians of peace, fighting for the gods and the people as protectors, forever watching over Emaneska as we should have been. And they did, for a time. Wars were interrupted. Elf wells were destroyed. Creatures thrown back into the shadows. The darkness was pushed back just a little. We had succeeded.
‘But soon enough, it was greed that muddled our efforts. Word spread of suits of armour that had been wrought by the gods, and soon enough every king and warlord with an army to their name came marching north. Scalussen and her lands were besieged for a long and terrible year, and slowly but unavoidably, the Nine fell, one by one. I watched as the remaining knights threw themselves into the volcanoes of the Spine, to keep the armour from falling foul of greed. All but one.’
‘One? Only one escaped?’
‘Only one. Wounded, he fled Scalussen, leading the fight away from the people and the ruined city. He shed his armour as he fled. A pair of vambraces here. Greaves and gauntlets there. He buried them in the ice and snow as he ran, in the hope of keeping them lost. Finally, he disappeared from my view, seeking refuge in the mountains. Like the kings and lords that chased him, I looked for days, weeks, even years, watching for any sign of him and the armour. I have looked for centuries and never found him. The rest of his armour was lost with him. By some twist of strange coincidence that baffles even the best of us gods, Farden, you have the only pieces known to man or I,’ said Heimdall. ‘It was one of the reasons Evernia put so much faith in you.’
‘How oddly convenient,’ muttered Loki.
‘Call it blind stubbornness, and luck,’ Farden replied, touching something around his neck.
Tyrfing spoke up. ‘Wait a minute. How can you, of all gods, Heimdall, just lose somebody in the mountains? Your eyes see beyond things we could only hope to understand.’
‘They do, but there is one place I cannot see. Only once place he can be.’
‘Where?’
‘Hel, Farden. The darkness between this world and the other side. Where the path of the dead leads.’
Farden was almost halfway to his feet, excited, or incredulous, or angry, or all three at the same time. ‘You knew this all along? You knew where the Scalussen armour was all along?’
Heimdall held up a hand. ‘On the contrary, mage. You speak of it as if it were a cave that one can simply wander in and out of. It is the realm of the dead, Farden. One must be dead to journey there.’
Farden was already halfway through the Grimsayer, hands spread and fingers drumming eagerly. ‘What was his name?’
Heimdall hesitated, sensing another distraction on the horizon.
Farden pointed a rigid finger at the blank page of the Grimsayer. ‘His name, Heimdall?’
‘It will not help,’ the god insisted.
Tyrfing slammed the deck with the flat of his hand. ‘Give it to him, before he pops a vein.’
‘It was Korrin.’
‘Korrin,’ breathed Farden, and the Grimsayer came to life as it had done in the library. Ilios whistled low and cautiously as it went to work. Twin lights like orange fireflies arose from the dusty paper while pages flapped and whirred past, too fast for any eyes but Heimdall’s.
With a thud of heavy pages, the book came to an abrupt halt, lying as still as a gravestone. The lights began their weaving. Farden leant forward, years, decades, and more culminating in every flick and frolic of their tails. He veritably shook with anticipation. No Elessi. No Samara. Only Scalussen occupied his mind.
A pair of feet appeared, armoured in achingly familiar metal, then a pair of legs, then a chest, shoulders, arms, and then finally a head. The lights fell back as if to admire their work, and the onlookers basked in the soft orange glow of the young man lying sprawled across the page, as if slumped against a wall. He flickered in the same way that Elessi had.
Farden’s eyes widened to saucers. ‘Fuck me. He’s still alive!’ he gasped, drawing a dark frown from Heimdall. ‘He’s been alive for all these years!’ Farden scrabbled to get closer to the image, so close that his nose almost touched it. His wide eyes devoured every inch of Korrin’s remaining armour, every ridge, every curve, every plate that covered his head, chest, shoulders and upper arms. It was simply, undeniably beautiful. Every inch like Farden had dreamt and more. He had to stop himself from reaching out to touch it.
‘That can’t be possible,’ Tyrfing said, awed. His eyes were almost as wide as his nephew’s.
Heimdall crossed his arms, as if Tyrfing hadn’t listened to a single word. ‘Of course it is,’ he rumbled.
Farden grabbed the sides of the Grimsayer as though he were throttling the life from it. It hissed as he slid it along the deck, closer still. ‘Where is he? Where
can I find him?’
Farden barely managed to retrieve his fingers before the Grimsayer slammed itself shut and then flicked to the very first page. A familiar scene began to fly across its pages then, of ice and trees and frozen mountains, of snow and of nine rocks clustered in a circle, pointing at the sky.
‘By the looks on your faces,’ Loki said, looking at Tyrfing and Farden, ‘I’d say that you two have seen that place before.’
‘Well, I’d be lying if I said I was expecting that,’ Farden took a deep breath.
‘You know this place?’ Heimdall asked.
Farden nodded. His nails were nervously drumming on his vambrace. His knee jogged up and down. ‘It’s where Elessi is,’ he said.
‘That’s a ghostgate,’ Loki blurted. Heimdall shot him a glance, and then sighed.
‘Loki is correct. There are a few still left in the world. You have encountered one once before, Farden, in Albion.’
Farden clicked his fingers. The mental itch he’d been clawing at died away. He remembered now. ‘When we went back to the Arkabbey.’
‘Ghostgates are doors for the dead, made when the world was young, made before we fell from the sky,’ Loki piped up again. ‘They are like the holes in a gutter, for souls to flood through.’
Tyrfing frowned. ‘A charming metaphor.’
Farden slapped the deck with his hands. It was all so simple. ‘Whatever it’s called, it’s where I’m going.’
‘No, mage,’ Heimdall boomed. ‘Your business is with your daughter. Your path leads to her, not the maid, nor to your own greed.’
‘Even when I can use it to fight her? That makes no sense.’
‘There is a reason that armour is better hidden away, lost.’
Farden got to his feet. ‘Are you saying that I’m unfit to wear it? I’m not warrior enough, like Korrin?’
‘It takes more than a sword to make a warrior, Farden.’ The god chuckled here. ‘It matters not. It is inconsequential. You cannot retrieve it, just as you cannot retrieve your maid.’ His smile faded as he saw the hot glint in Farden’s eye. ‘And for that, I am sorry.’ The word sounds alien in his mouth. He had never apologised to a mortal before. ‘You will pursue Samara. All else can wait,’ Heimdall instructed. He looked to Tyrfing, expecting him to nod, but the Arkmage stayed still. He looked torn.
Farden clapped his hands and grinned. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘You can do whatever you damn well please, Heimdall. I’m going north to that ghostgate. You’re more than welcome to stop me, if you can.’ Farden just stood there, smiling, while Heimdall simmered like a distant storm.
Heimdall stared out from under his bushy eyebrows. ‘I am beginning to agree with the Allfather on the subject of your punishment,’ he rumbled.
Farden raised his hands to the dark sky. ‘I’m waiting,’ he called. Tyrfing couldn’t help but wince at the blasphemy of it all. Farden stood there in silence, like a parched farmer waiting for rain, glaring at the night sky. ‘I said, I’m waiting!’ But nothing happened. No punishment came, and Farden shrugged.
As he bent to pick up the glowing Grimsayer, he flashed both Heimdall and Loki a dark look. ‘I’ve been punished enough,’ he grunted, before sauntering back to his room.
When Farden had disappeared into the gloom, Tyrfing tapped his hands on his knees. He coughed once, twice, grimaced, and then ran a hand through his beard. ‘Looks like this story finally has its hero,’ he mused.
‘What?’ Loki asked.
‘Nothing. Just something Durnus once said to me,’ Tyrfing mumbled. He ruffled his gryphon’s ears before standing. He bowed to the gods, trying to add a little deference to the situation, and made his excuses. ‘Speaking of Durnus, I better go and relay the evening’s revelations. I bid you both a good night.’ He left, leaving the gods to listen to the soft thumping of his boots as he receded into the creaking darkness of the deck.
‘What did he say?’ asked Loki, irritated at how confused he was.
Heimdall was glaring at the sea. ‘Nothing,’ he replied, and went to go stand by the railing.
Farden found his bed thoroughly occupied. Lerel was curled up like a cat, half-lost beneath the blanket and pillow. Farden quietly shut the door and rode the sway of the ship to the bedside table. The Grimsayer barely fit, so he wedged it on its end. He could have sworn he heard it mutter. Perhaps it was the creaking of the ‘Blade.
Farden felt the weight of tiredness pushing down on him. He perched on the end of the bed and let Whiskers tiptoe down his arms into his hands.
‘What a day, old boy,’ Farden whispered, with a shake of his head. The rat stared up at him with his expressionless black eyes and twitched his whiskers.
What a night too, he sighed. What revelations. Farden’s head swam through a sea of emotions he couldn’t begin to fathom. Excitement, fear, worry, elation. They mattered little. All that mattered was the piercing, crystal determination that had once more settled over him, the clarity as sharp as a diamond. For once, Farden knew exactly what he was doing. He could taste the end, whatever that was.
Whiskers ran his paws across his face and chattered to himself. Lerel shuffled around in her sleep, moaning something. Both the mage and the rat turned to look at her.
Farden frowned. ‘She’s taken up my whole bed,’ he muttered, then smiled. He reached out and tucked the blanket over her. She was still fully dressed. He wondered how long she had waited for him.
He placed the rat on the foot of bed. Whiskers curled up there, and didn’t move, watching Lerel carefully. There was something about her that the rat was wary of. Farden didn’t blame him. He probably sensed the feline in her. The mage ruffled his tiny black ears, tinged with silvery grey. He slid off one of his vambraces, and wedged it under a pillow so Whiskers could crawl inside it.
With a sigh that was as shallow, yet as deep as any sea, Farden got to his feet. He dabbled with the idea of crawling into bed with Lerel, but he shook his head. Something about her reminded him of a time with Cheska.
Cheska. His sweetest enemy. He couldn’t wait to forget her. Besides, Lerel was fast asleep, and his clarity couldn’t afford to be clouded. Farden stretched out on the smooth floor instead. He was dead to the world before his head even hit the wood.
She felt no cold.
She felt nothing of the jealous pine needles stinging her ghostly feet.
She felt nothing of the wind, tugging at her misted curls.
She felt nothing.
No confusion, as she tread the sticky loam of the dark, foreign forest. No fear, as the wolves skipped around her, gnashing jaws, as the ravens cawed and scattered in the pines. No regret, no anger, no fear, just a simple sense of purpose. To walk. To keep moving. But to where she did not know.
She could only watch as her body moved inexorably forward, bare feet glowing softly as they flowed effortlessly across the dirt and ice and rock.
She could only gaze down as the peaks of the mountains flew by beneath her, as her limbs trailed green and blue alongside the flowing magick, silent and soaring in the wake of the moon. Always moving. Ever north, with the stars shining down on her. Always crisp night. Never warm day. If a ghost can feel anything, anything at all, it is the dull ache of longing for a shred of warmth.
Elessi felt it. She felt it with every mile. But she could also feel it waning. The further north she travelled, the more the ache died away, until she had almost forgotten its bitter touch. The touch of what?
With every mile north, she was waning too.
Chapter 14
“There is no other way to describe the inner workings of the magick council than to say it is an eternal and vicious game of chess. And woe betide anybody who tries to take the king, the Marble Copse itself.”
Ripped from the diary of Council Fustigan
‘These Arka girls can’t dance to save their lives,’ Jeasin snorted, listening to the shuffle and clomp of the banquet hall around her.
‘These women, whore,’ Malvus muttered sternly, ‘are your b
etters. The cream of Krauslung society. Wives, sisters, daughters, and mistresses of the new ruling class of this fine city. You’d do well to mind your tongue around such company.’
‘Fine.’ Jeasin shrugged. ‘But they still can’t bloody dance.’
Malvus allowed himself a small smile, and turned to watch the evening’s revelry.
Well, perhaps revelry wasn’t quite the best word to describe it. The mood in the grand banquet hall was one of smug sedateness. He watched the men and woman calmly wheel around, treading traditional steps to the slow whining of the ljots and keening of the flutes. Everybody was dressed head to toe in the finest clothes the Arka markets had to offer. The new lords and ladies of Krauslung and beyond. Malvus could see it in their pinched smiles and twinkling eyes. He could see it in the grinning whispers as the men passed each other, or lingered at the tables. This was their city now, and they knew it.
And he ruled them all.
Malvus turned to the woman by his side. He looked her up and down, at her borrowed finery, her curled hair, her new, glittering jewellery circling her neck and wrists. She stood there, hip tilted to one side and arms crossed, staring sightlessly at the fine crowds around her. What a proud creature she was. What a hard woman. Malvus liked that. He had noticed the stares of the other women, of the councils’ wives and daughters. They wouldn’t meet his eyes, but he had seen them glancing at Jeasin. Albion trash, in their eyes. A whore. She didn’t belong in these circles. Malvus had initially agreed, confining her company to the nights and to his sheets, but now an idea had begun to form in his mind. An inkling. He smiled again as he considered it. Every king needed a queen.
‘And what would an Albion courtesan know of dancing?’
Jeasin laughed then. Brash and bold. ‘Dancin’ ain’t about music and banquets. It’s about bodies, and how you use it. It don’t end on the floor, Malvus. It don’t stop when the music does. I know more about dancin’ than these sisters and wives ever could.’ She winked then. Malvus rolled his eyes. Confident creature. He reached for her hand and she let him raise it. He half-expected her to snatch it away, but she was too clever for that. He kissed it, an inch past formally, and then led her to the dance floor.
