Dead Stars - Part Two (The Emaneska Series)

by Ben Galley

  Two mages were straddling the bowsprit. They were lashed and roped into place lest they were to fall in the ship’s shuddering. One dangled at a nauseating angle, staring down at the mermaid figurehead, while the other was busy staring out into the hazy, snowy night ahead of them. Bright light emanated from his hands, but it barely illuminated anything past the tip of the bowsprit.

  Farden watched them for a while, curious. The snow dripped off their warm clothes and bodies, kept warm as they were by the light and their magick. Absently, Farden raised his hand, mildly curious, and went to clench it in that old, familiar way, but then he stopped. No, he warned himself. Slowly.

  ‘Old habits?’ asked a voice.

  More than a little startled, Farden swivelled around to find the white-haired Written, Inwick, standing behind him with her arms folded behind her back. Farden didn’t make any effort to hide his surprise. He began to pat his hips. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Should I have worn a sword?’

  Surprisingly, Inwick smiled. It was a curt smile, rationed for politeness, but a smile nonetheless. ‘I am simply here to talk.’

  ‘Good. I’d hate to embarrass you a third time.’

  ‘Gossfring told me I should expect some sarcasm. I see he’s right, as always,’ she said. She hesitated then. ‘May I?’ she asked, gesturing to the empty space between Farden and the railing. Farden waved her forward and she came to stand by his side, not too close, but close enough to keep her voice low and still be heard over the constant cracking of the ice below them.

  ‘They tell stories of you, you know. Gossfring, Efrin, the others. Stories of a forgotten Farden, one that they met in the Efjar Skirmishes.’

  Farden crossed his arms. ‘Do they now?’

  Inwick nodded. ‘Indeed they do. They like to tell us newer mages the old stories of the Siren war, of Efjar and the minotaurs, of times golden and lost.’

  ‘Any stories in particular?’ he asked. Farden was gazing sideways at her, trying to figure her out. She had all the beauty of an icicle; her face paler than pale, and her nose and cheekbones were sharp and angular. When a snowflake landed on her cheek, he found it hard to tell the difference between it and her skin. She could have been made of porcelain, for all he knew. Only a light smattering of freckles across her nose betrayed her. Her hair was also white as a snow, and her eyes their curious pink. Farden had only seen a handful of albinos in his time. Usually a court jester or two, or a travelling minstrel or skald. Never a Written. Never even a mage. She must have been from a high family indeed.

  Inwick rubbed her chin. ‘One in particular keeps cropping up, I suppose. They talk of a certain mage, a young man. Scarred. Eager. Incredibly skilled with blade and spell. Call him the hero of Efjar most of the time.’

  Farden pursed his lips. ‘And why do they call him that?’ he asked.

  Inwick tucked her chin under the collar of her coat while she stared at the mages working on the bowsprit. Farden could have sworn her skin glowed slightly. Maybe it was her white hair and complexion in the glow of the lanterns, or perhaps it was her own spells at work, joining with the mages. Farden tried to feel that faint tingling in the air, the one he barely remembered, but it escaped him.

  She let the story unravel, reciting it as she had heard it told many times in the decks below, in the canteen, on patrol, in the Spire before it had burnt down. ‘They say that the entire camp was caught unawares. It was a misty morning on the marshes, so it might have been forgivable. The minotaurs crept in at first light, taking the watchtowers and the palisades before the alarms could be raised. They had the camp surrounded before anyone could crack an eyelid. They killed the ones that struggled and clubbed the rest back to sleep, and while they tied up their prisoners, they sat down to skin and butcher the ones that had resisted, roasting them in pieces over their own campfires, skin, bones, Book and all.

  ‘Only one mage escaped their attack. He had fallen asleep under a low wagon, though gods know why. Hidden by the wheels and the shredded tarpaulin, the minotaurs had missed him in their searches. As the horrid smells of his own men wafted to his nostrils, he awoke thinking of breakfast. It took him only moments to discover what had happened. Through the mists he could see the shapes, horned and hoofed and carrying their mallets and hammers.

  ‘The mage shuffled out from under the wagon and escaped to the edges of the camp, where he faded into the marshes and their mists. There, he realised he couldn’t fight them all. This coming from a man who had wrestled a minotaur to the dust a year before and strangled the life out of it with his bare hands.’ Inwick looked up at Farden. ‘Am I telling this right so far?’

  Farden rocked his head from side to side. ‘I’ve heard this story before. It was a juvenile. Barely a teenager. But yes, carry on.’

  Inwick made a mental note, and then carried on. ‘So this lonely mage happened across an idea. Skirting around to the edges of the camp, keeping to the mist and the walls, while the smell of his cooking comrades lingered in his nostrils, he gathered wood, tinder, torches, and two copper pans that had been left in a pile of smouldering coals. He made his way to the north of the camp and began to pace back and forth through the thick bogs of Efjar’s deepest marshes, marshes that can swallow a grown man whole.’

  ‘Two men, I heard.’

  ‘Two then. One by one he laid little piles of wood and tinder down in any dry patch he could find. He knew he had to be quick, for the air was wet, and he could hear screaming coming from the camp.

  ‘Only when he had formed a line of almost a hundred piles of wood and torches did he stop. He was almost a mile from the camp now, and exhausted from his work, but still the screams spurred him on. Taking a breath, this brave mage began to hop from pile to pile, lighting them with his fire as he went. Galloping from bog to bog he lit them all, and every time he lit them he threw a burst of light and sparks into the air, yelling and bellowing at the top of his voice and banging those two pans together for all he was worth. He didn’t stop until a wall of one hundred fires stood on the north side of the camp, stretching from east to west and turning the mists a bright orange in the morning light.

  ‘Now minotaurs are quite skittish beasts, and fearful when outnumbered, and when the minotaurs saw the hundred lights they fled. Those who awoke in those moments remember hearing an army of mages hot on their hooves. Fireballs flew across the camp like burning arrows. The sound of steel swords on shields filled the air, echoing back and forth across the marshes. A hundred fire spells glittered in the mists, advancing on the camp to liberate it from the hungry minotaurs.

  ‘Only when every last minotaur had fled into the mists did the mage reveal himself, covered in mud and soot and holding two copper pans, now beaten to a mangled mess. With a bit of fire and two pans, he had saved the entire camp from certain death. Sound familiar?’

  Farden took in a long breath. ‘It’s an old story, that’s for sure.’

  Inwick turned around to face him. ‘You know who you were in that story?’

  ‘If I remember rightly, and it’s harder than you think, I was the one at the end, holding the copper pans.’

  ‘Apparently so. What I mean is, do you know what you were?’

  ‘Lucky?’

  ‘The hero of Efjar.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘What happened to him, hmm? I grew up on such stories. The older mages live to tell them. Stories of mages and Written like you and your uncle and heroes that have never been matched. Stories like that were why I begged my parents to let me train with my brothers,’ Inwick said. She had an eager look in her eye. Half-angry, half-upset.

  Farden rubbed his stubbled chin. ‘I see. This is why you wanted to fight me, wasn’t it? Either you wanted to see if I really was the man in that story, or you wanted to punish me for letting him die.’

  ‘A little of both, I suppose.’

  ‘And what did you find?’

  Inwick paused to think. ‘Judging by the stories and rumours I keep hearing on this ship, that man is being re
surrected. Slowly. Surely. I hope.’

  Farden smiled. ‘And here I was thinking you were going to berate me, and harass me into being a better man.’

  ‘Oh, I am,’ said Inwick, flashing him a sour look. ‘There is one thing still missing.’

  Farden raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, and what’s that?’ Inwick slapped him on his back in answer. Farden could see her irritation building. ‘That old chestnut,’ he murmured.

  She put her hands on her hips. There was a stern fire about her that he was starting to like. ‘Do you know why I volunteered for this mission, Farden?’ she asked.

  ‘Because you’re one of the best we’ve got, according to Gossfring,’ Farden answered.

  Inwick shook her head. ‘No, because I didn’t have a choice. There was no volunteering whatsoever. We Written are a dying breed, Farden. We are the last of our kind. Do you realise that? What you see on this ship is what’s left of us. Doesn’t that bother you?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘It bothers me, mage!’ she snapped, the fire building. ‘And the rest!’

  ‘Of course…’

  ‘It bothers me even more that you are unwilling to be one of us. That you obdurately refuse to put your Book to good use, and fight for the survival of your kind.’

  ‘I am…’

  ‘Unwilling to even try. A mage like you. Unrivalled!’

  ‘It’s more comp…

  Inwick threw her hands up in the air in exasperation. ‘Do you know what this is like, Farden? To see you waste such power, when you could be using it to help us?’

  Farden dreaded to think. ‘No…’ he ventured.

  ‘It’s like you’re the last man alive in the whole world and you’re just too lazy to fuck to save your own species!’ Inwick hissed. There was an awkward silence as she realised what she had just said. ‘There,’ she said, brushing her hair behind one of her ears. ‘I have said my piece. That is all I wanted to do.’ Farden didn’t reply. He didn’t really know what to do apart from stand there.

  ‘Well,’ she sighed, as she slowly backed away. ‘I just hope you come to your senses soon, Farden. We Written need you. Not just Emaneska. Us.’

  Farden watched her turn and go. Suffice it to say, he was a little shocked. Ilios whistled something low and confused, and Farden turned back to watch the mages work. Farden puffed out his cheeks, watching the snowflakes spin away in his hot breath.

  Maybe, just maybe, Inwick was right. And Gossfring too. And his uncle. And Durnus. And all the bloody rest. Farden sighed.

  ‘The hero of Efjar,’ he spoke aloud. Ilios squinted at him, intrigued. ‘I remember him.’

  The gryphon warbled.

  ‘Young. Impetuous. Stubborn. Brave. Damn good at what he did,’ Farden rubbed his stubble. ‘Maybe I could be him again. A hero, like they used to say. I know what I need to do. Does doing it make me a hero, Ilios?’

  Ilios clacked his beak and nodded.

  ‘Though, a couple of minotaurs is nothing compared to what we’re about to face.’

  Another little warble, betraying the gryphon’s joy.

  ‘This hero just needs his armour first.’

  Part Three

  Of Snow and Fire

  1561 years ago

  ‘Where Is Lop?!’ Came the cry, echoing through the smoking crags.

  ‘Here!’ came the gargled reply.

  ‘Balimuel! Help him!’

  The giant leapt down the hewn steps, puckered rock worn smooth with age and pilgrimage. His armour clanked as he stumbled into a rock, glancing harmlessly off it. ‘I have him!’ he cried. Strong arms looped under Lop’s blood-soaked shoulders and hauled him to his feet. The man roared with pain as he was dragged upwards, hand clamped to his ripped neck.

  ‘Damn you Lopia!’ Gaspid was shouting. ‘What possessed you to take your helmet off?!’

  Lop just gargled in reply, desperately trying to wriggle his armour back on with shaking hands. His pauldrons greedily clasped at his helmet, and he was whole again. His armour would keep him alive, but only barely. The wound was disturbingly deep.

  ‘Up, you bastards! Up!’ Balimuel bellowed.

  Up and up they climbed, step by frantic step, leaping two at a time when the rock allowed. Strength poured from their armour into their legs and knees, into their arms and hands, powering them up the smoking, sulphur-bled path. Gods, how they were tired. Gods, how they were desperate. Months of fighting had led to this moment, months of bloody, vicious fighting on the steps of the forts and the city walls and of the Froastsoar. They had seen more blood than a thousand hearts. More guts than an army of butchers. Heard more screams and prayers than the ears of a god. And still the greedy, frantic hordes of Emaneska ploughed on, baying for their blood and metal. Korrin was tired. So very tired.

  Korrin stood at the crest of the volcano, where the razor rocks levelled out into a narrow path that lead to the blackened, jagged rim where the fires burnt. As the eight Knights climbed to reach him, he stared out at the ice fields, burning with the light of the Spine and the fires of war. Frostsoar was a hot brand in the distance, framed against the grey sky. Korrin could hear the great stones cracking over the rumbling of the volcano at his back.

  Scalussen had been razed to the ground.

  And all because of them. Because of their armour.

  The Knights had held them back for a time. A few months at most. They had stood at the edge of Scalussen and reduced army after army to dust, fighting alongside the soldiers of the city. But as each new lord arrived, rubbing hands and heart thumping with greed and vengeance, the Nine had fallen back, inch by aching inch. Word had spread like disease across the south. Every man with a sword and legs that could travel had made his way to the ice fields, eager to claim the fabled armour of the Nine for himself. Emaneska had turned on them, well and truly. Immortality, it seemed, was too great a lure.

  How silent Scalussen had stayed. How stubborn. Not a soul called for the armour to be relinquished. Not a mouth dared to entertain that notion. They had suffered the worst, to save Emaneska from a similar fate.

  ‘Curse it all!’ Korrin shouted into the hot air. He snarled at the world, bubbling with anger. He’d had it all. He had escaped his destiny with a shout of a name, become somebody that mattered, somebody with purpose, and now even that was crumbling around him. ‘It isn’t fair,’ he muttered, over and over again. ‘It isn’t fair.’

  Gaspid was first, wheezing through the gap in his visor. ‘Gods, this air is foul, lad! We better keep moving.’

  ‘We can’t be serious, Gaspid!’

  The man gripped him hard, eyes wild. ‘We talked about this Korrin! We already decided! You were in agreement with us all!’

  Korrin wrenched himself free. ‘I’m changing my mind, Gaspid!’

  Gaspid thrust him forward with a shove, almost driving him to his knees. ‘Well, you don’t get to! Now move! This way, Knights!’

  And so they moved, negotiating the narrow strip of rock that led to the crater. They could hear shouts below them, and the harsh crack of sling-stones and arrows chasing them.

  ‘Onwards!’

  The Knights scrabbled over the rocks as fast they could. Lop was dragging his feet now. Gäel and Rosiff had leant Balimuel their hands, and together the three of them hauled him up the mountain.

  ‘Here it is,’ Estina sighed, as they reached the lip of the jagged crater. Their path cut a notch in the rim of thick, black, charred rock, taking them to the very edge of the volcano’s fiery pit, where the Smiths had first learnt to forge.

  ‘Here it is indeed, Knights,’ Gaspid replied, his voice as heavy as the armour that clung to him. Heavy with tough decision and dread. They all felt it, all except Korrin, who quietly bubbled away in the background, angry and resentful.

  Gaspid put his hand out, flat and shaking, into the middle of them. He raised his visor, and one by one, the others did the same. It was a solemn moment, there, perched on the lip of that fiery chasm. Molten rock roared below them. ‘It is t
he only way.’

  ‘The only way,’ Balimuel nodded.

  ‘The only way, echoed the others. Only Korrin stayed silent.

  Shouts began to echo along the path behind them. Shadows flitted amongst the rocks. ‘It’s the only way we can put a stop to this.’

  ‘Why not just the armour?’ Korrin hissed. Even though he had spent the last five years dealing it, death was staring him in the face for the first time, and its breath was foul. He couldn’t help but tremble.

  ‘We’ve been through this, lad!’ Gaspid shouted, as the volcano roared around them. ‘There is no escape for us. You want to spend the rest of your life running?’

  Yes. Korrin spat, inside his head. At least that way there would be a rest of my life. ‘No,’ he lied.

  Gaspid nodded, reaching for his visor. It closed with a rattle of metal, as the armour locked itself in place. ‘It has been an exceptional honour,’ he said, before turning around. Before anybody could flinch, he was gone, plummeting into the molten rock far below without so much as a cry. Korrin felt something claw at his heart.

  One by one, the others stepped up to the edge. Calm and silent they were, each betraying their thumping hearts and trembling lips. One by one their visors were closed, fists were clenched, and feet shuffled forward. Quiet Gäel was next, gone without a sound. Then Estina, lip curled to the very last. Chast cried out as he fell, a long tapering wail that made the remaining Knights shake even more. Lop hobbled up to the edge, dizzy with the loss of blood. His armour undulated in the hot light of the fire. He was gone before Korrin could blink. Demsin went next. Korrin thought he heard her sobbing before she fell. Then tall Rosiff, falling head first. It was only when Balimuel stepped forward that Korrin spoke up.

  ‘No,’ he hissed.

  ‘Yes, lad,’ Balimuel replied. He rested a hand on Korrin’s shoulder.

  ‘This is wrong.’

  ‘It is the only way,’ the giant echoed. His grip was tightening around Korrin’s shoulder. He took a backwards step and his heel left the rock. As he balanced on his toes, Korrin was tugged forward, trapped in the giant’s grip.