Dead Stars - Part Two (The Emaneska Series)

by Ben Galley

  Loki’s smirking face slowly switched places with an expression altogether more stony and dark. ‘It seems my time here is short.’

  ‘That it is.’

  ‘Before I go…’ Loki reached out for Korrin’s helmet, curious. He wondered for a moment what it would feel like, to a god. He already felt alive, intoxicatingly so. Would it make him even more powerful? What would it feel like? Cold steel? Warm glass? It certainly looked like glass, up close. He wondered what…

  ‘Agh!’

  …in Emaneska had just happened. Loki clenched his fist as the burning sensation spread down his arm. The armour had stung him, seared him even. His fingertips were blood-red. Loki reached out again with his other hand, seizing a pauldron this time, and the armour bit him again. Loki clasped his hands tightly and growled, the sort of growl when no curses will suffice. Korrin snorted. ‘Failsafe. Ask Heimdall, if you ever see him again,’ he advised, sweetly.

  Loki hissed to himself. What a cruel twist! How sweet, how victorious to be alive and real, only to then suffer its bitter twist: pain, of all things. How human! How dare it! Loki trembled with anger as he felt his power surge through his veins.

  ‘I remember something about curiosity and cats…’ Korrin commented wistfully.

  ‘It really is time I was leaving,’ Loki snapped. And with that, he went to fetch his coat, cast aside at the foot of the bridge. He snatched it from the ground and threw it on. A sliver of something red and gold caught his eye, a glimpse of fingers clasped tightly to the edge of the bridge. Loki licked his lips, edging the toe of his boot closer to the steel fingertips, ready to kick. One nudge, he thought, one little nudge.

  Loki sneered. ‘Not yet,’ he smiled. He remembered what the Shrieks had told him. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Tyrfing?’ came a hoarse whisper from below. Loki stepped away.

  ‘Tyrfing…?’

  ‘Tyrfing?’ Farden rasped. His tongue was numb. His teeth ached and rattled in their sockets. His face was numb. Then again, how often could he feel his face? What a stupid thing to ponder, hanging from the edge of the world. ‘Uncle, are you there?’ His voice was like a file.

  Something wriggled in his other hand and a shot of pain coursed down his body, from left shoulder to right foot, like a blade had just been dragged across him. Farden winced, feeling every corner of himself suddenly ache. He preferred the numbness. Definitely the numbness.

  ‘Elessi,’ he wheezed, ‘hold still, damn it.’ Farden look down to where the shadow of the maid hung from his steel grip. She hung like a pellucid fish on a hook, limply dangling into the void. Every now and again she would kick, or wriggle, or reach out for the darkness of the void.

  ‘Fat chance of that,’ Farden muttered. He looked up at the broken stub of bridge his fingers clung tightly too. It was all that was left of the Bifröst. Just a shattered lip of rapidly cooling stone. Its colours were dying with its heat, slowly turning to the hue of old, drab iron.

  His shoulder had popped free of its socket, that was for sure. He could feel the bone and gristle scraping as he swung slowly back and forth. It was a wonder his fingers were still holding on, but he wasn’t about to question them about it. It was a wonder he was still clinging to anything, never mind a dead bridge and a ghost. ‘Stubborn luck,’ he smiled grimly, thinking of the dragonscale pendant wrapped about his neck.

  ‘Tyrfing!’ he called, his tongue less dusty than before. He still sounded like a file. ‘Are you there?! Now would be a good time to lend a hand!’

  Silence. Not even the muttering of the dead. He had heard voices before, in his semi-conscious state, but they were quiet now. Farden winced as Elessi wriggled again. He had to try something else.

  ‘Korrin!’ he called. ‘Can you hear me? If you’re there, I need your help.’

  Silence again. Not a rustle. Not a sound. Farden wondered briefly if he had gone deaf in the explosion. He decided to keep trying. ‘Korrin, my name is Farden. You wouldn’t know me. I doubt you knew any of my ancestors. I doubt you even know what I am, or have heard of where I’m from. All a little bit after your time, I suppose. But I know a lot about you. A great deal indeed. I’m something of your inheritor, I suppose. Your heir.’ Farden looked up as he heard a scraping. A little crumbling of dust fell in his eyes. He kept talking. ‘I’ve been looking for you and that armour for a long time. Years and years.’ Farden winced. ‘That’s probably not long to you, but… Anyway. I’m not a thief, or a grave-robber, if that’s what you’ve assumed. I’m not here to steal the armour for my own nefarious means. I need it. Everybody needs it. We need it to stop…’

  ‘And I thought the dead talked too much,’ said a voice. Farden looked up, and saw a face he had only ever seen painted in light. Farden let his mouth flap open, no words coming out.

  ‘Better,’ said Korrin, thrusting out a hand flecked with old tattoos, nails bitten and crammed with dirt. ‘Give me the woman. Careful now.’

  Farden took a few sharp breaths and heaved. Mercifully, Elessi was lighter than he had first thought. She still had some weight to her, more weight that a ghost rightfully should have, but still, he managed it. Heaving up and up, he raised her past his waist and chest, pausing only briefly as her face brushed his, a flash of something cold and not altogether there, and then up into Korrin’s waiting hand. He dragged her onto the rock and disappeared. Farden spat the dust from his mouth.

  It took an age for him to return, and a painful age at that. Farden managed to get two hands on the Bifröst’s remains, but it still didn’t alleviate the searing of his left shoulder. His feet scrabbled uselessly at the faceless rock below him. ‘Give me your hands,’ said a voice, more familiar than the last. Tyrfing, bleary-eyed and bleeding from the nose, popped his head over the edge. ‘One at a time, if you please.’

  Farden did as he was told, first the left, then the right. Tyrfing winced at his strong grip, the grip of a man who had spent the last half hour clinging to the lip of a cliff. Tyrfing hauled him up until his boots touched the bridge. Tyrfing sagged to the rock but Farden rushed to Korrin’s side, sprawled as he was against the wall. Elessi was standing nearby, still like a stone. Not going anywhere.

  Farden knelt by Korrin’s side and looked deep into his grey marble eyes, impossibly deep. They flicked down to the mage’s glittering wrists, his hands, and his feet. ‘So, Farden. It appears that you were right. We do have much in common.’

  ‘That we do,’ Farden said, softly. His own eyes had wandered to the folds of the dusty breastplate, bright gold over blood-red. Scalussen scales, sharp, hard, and impossibly intricate. He looked at the whorls of the inlaid design, splayed across Korrin’s chest. A lone wolf, hackles raised, baring its teeth at the gold tendrils of a lofty moon. A lone wolf, of all things. How perfect. ‘More than I thought,’ Farden dared a smile.

  ‘You may not be a grave-robber, but you’ve certainly got the eyes of one.’

  ‘It’s been a long time…’

  ‘…searching. I imagine.’

  ‘You chose a good hiding place.’

  Korrin looked around at his cave. He knew every rock and crack. He had counted them beyond a thousand times. ‘Spacious. Company’s terrible. Always talking, whispering. Thank the gods for this,’ he sighed, tapping a finger to the side of his helmet. Farden hungrily took in its curves, the way the visor mimicked a face, how the overlapping scales formed horns and spikes that ran down to join the neck of the cuirass, like a dragon’s spine. ‘So, what perils face the world?’

  ‘Daemons.’

  Korrin nodded. ‘Never fought those. Humans were bad enough.’

  ‘Would you fight with us?’

  ‘No.’ The reply was like a stone dropping. Final. ‘I made a deal with Hel. I stay here until I die, and then I’m hers. I had planned on crossing this bridge one day, but it seems that plan has been scuppered.’

  Farden lowered his head. Korrin saw his fists clench.

  ‘As you can imagine,’ Korrin shrugged his armoured shoulders. ‘Hel�
�s been waiting a long time.’ Farden couldn’t help but crack a smile.

  ‘What now then? What would you have me do?’

  ‘You go to fight these daemons?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘The gods have chosen you to be their champion?’

  Farden looked up at the ceiling of the cave. ‘In a fashion.’

  ‘Then it is time you set me free, warrior. Heir indeed,’ Korrin began to pant then, as if he were having trouble catching his breath. ‘It has been too long.’

  Slowly, respectfully, trying hard to hold back his hunger, Farden took the armour piece by magnificent piece. First the sabatons, folded over his boots. They wrapped around him like old friends, long lost, reaching up to meld with his greaves at the knee. Farden shivered, feeling that old familiar ice-water sensation as they tightened around him.

  Shrugging off his cloak and jacket, Farden reached for the cuirass. His fingers found the latches, set deep into the metal, and they unfolded by themselves with a metallic whisper. Korrin’s eyes were half-closed as he lifted his arms, letting the armour unwrap itself from his skin. He wore nothing but a dirty old tunic underneath, barely an inch from tattered, dusty rags. Farden felt a pang of guilt. Korrin sensed it. ‘Put it on, hero. Put it on.’

  Farden did so with a will. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, he slipped the cuirass over his head, noting with a grin at how the breastplate’s ribs expanded to let him in. Moments later it was tightening around him. The scales contracted and shivered into a tight, but not uncomfortable fit. The metal sucked itself in, following every contour of his ribs, his spine, and his shoulders. The pauldrons and rerebraces shivered as they unfolded and slid down to meet his trusty old vambraces. Scale met scale and intertwined like lovers. They couldn’t have been a more perfect match. Farden almost bent double as the metal joined, feeling the dizzying rush of its power in his veins. His shoulder popped painfully as the armour forced it back into place.

  As he bent his chin to the metal, riding the pain, euphoria, and everything in between, he looked down to find the wolf’s eyes looking back at him, two tiny rubies embedded into the metal. Farden let his fingers touch them, and then he forced himself to his feet, riding the surge.

  The helmet was last. Korrin had turned a frighteningly pale colour. Lines had drawn themselves in his skin. He was ageing now that the armour was being taken from him. ‘The helmet,’ Korrin whispered, through thin lips and fast-receding gums. He bowed his head to let Farden take it. Farden bent down and slowly lifted it free. He raised it high above his head, like a king receiving his crown. All but closing his eyes, he brought it down over his head. The world went dark as the helmet’s visor slammed shut. Farden heard the scraping of the scales as they coupled.

  It was done.

  Farden lifted the visor, sliding it back along his forehead. Not a scrape, not a whine of rusty hinges was heard. The armour was as perfect as the day it had landed on the smith’s table. Farden could barely keep from quivering, whether from the sheer joy, from the ice-cold sensation of the metal, or from the pain that was flashing up and down his body, racing through his blood, he didn’t know. He couldn’t tell if it was healing him or hurting him. He hoped the former.

  Farden looked down at Korrin, a final, ‘Thank you,’ ready to tumble from his lips. But when he looked, he found Korrin dead, eyes open and lips frozen in a final little half-smile. Farden knelt down and reverently closed his eyes for him. ‘Hero,’ he whispered. ‘I hope that I can be as half as good.’

  ‘It’s time, Farden,’ Tyrfing whispered. He had Elessi by the wrist. He was already pointing toward the exit.

  ‘That it is,’ Farden replied with a sigh. He turned to Elessi, leaning close to her faded face. Her eyes didn’t see him, they simply looked through him as if he were a pane of glass. ‘We’re not done yet,’ he said.

  And they ran. They ran as fast as their legs could carry them, hurtling through the tunnels, barging through the crowded dead like spears through shoals of bewildered fish.

  Farden was in front, Elessi in his hand. His red-gold legs pounded the rock as though he were a daemon himself. His breathing came in gulping gasps as they swerved left, right, then left again, weaving their frantic way through the tunnels.

  Tyrfing was bringing up the rear. To his credit, he kept pace with his nephew. His breathing was atrocious. He hawked and spat and panted and coughed all the way.

  And still they ran.

  It was only when the river and Naglfar came into view that they slowed. Farden jogged ahead while Tyrfing stumbled to a canter, then a fast walk, then a pained shuffle, hands pressed to his ribs.

  ‘Hel!’ Farden was yelling. The dead were crowded around the ship, which was listing to one side, as if it had run aground. The dead were travellers without maps now, aimless and confused. They milled about in their clumps, telling each other their stories and lives in their quiet little whispers. A precious few looked up at the newcomers, vacantly confused at the sound of a man in full armour clattering by, dragging a shadow with him, and moments later followed by an older man, croaking painfully.

  ‘Farden!’ Tyrfing cried, but his nephew was oblivious. He was already at the ship. Tyrfing walked a little faster.

  ‘Traitor,’ Hel was hissing to Farden, when Tyrfing reached the bow of the ship. He put out a hand to steady himself and thought better of it. Toenails, came the thought. That, and the slimy legs of the grotesque figurehead were only a few feet away. It looked down at him, licking its vulture beak.

  ‘What cost, he asks, what cost!’ it was mouthing. Tyrfing scowled darkly at it.

  ‘Which way did he go?!’ Farden demanded, by his uncle’s side.

  Hel was leaning over the bulwark. ‘He has escaped, Farden! It matters not where he has gone. He has broken it. The Bifröst! The dead are lost!’ she cried.

  ‘Then which way do we go? How do we get out?’

  Hel was rubbing her pale forehead with her black fingernails. She positively shook with rage. ‘Traitor,’ she was saying. ‘You hear me, sisters? Brothers? You sent down a traitor!’

  ‘Hel! How do we get out of this godsforsaken place? Honour your bargain!’ It probably was not the best choice of words given the circumstances, or their host, but Hel was too furious to notice. Anything but the last sentence, that was.

  ‘Oh, I intend to, mage,’ she said, looking him and his armour up and down. He glittered like flame. She threw an idle look in Tyrfing’s direction, then flicked a finger at the river. ‘Enter the river, and you shall return to whence you came.’

  ‘If this is a trick…’

  Hel’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘There was but one trickster in Hel, and he has left. I keep my bargains, Farden Protector, now get out of my sight. In the river with you. Get out of my sight.’

  ‘Protector?’ Farden asked, as he marched Elessi to the shore. The vulture twitched its pinned-together wings.

  ‘Protector, she calls you! For the armour! What do you think Scalussen means, in the old tongue? Hmm?’ it squawked, seemingly proud of itself. Farden gave it a wide berth.

  Together they moved clear of the listing Naglfar, and made for the edge of the rushing river. It was flowing much faster than before, as if it too shared Hel’s wrath. Farden manoeuvred Elessi to the edge of the hissing waters and turned her to face him. He stared deep into her glassy eyes. ‘You’re going home,’ he said to her, shaking her lightly by the shoulders. Gods, her skin was cold. She didn’t seem to hear him, or even acknowledge he was there. She looked about, completely deaf, dumb, and blind to the mage. ‘Well, here goes,’ he said, pushing her gently outwards. She toppled like a frozen tree, half-heartedly flailing as she hit the water. The river swallowed her up in moments, and she disappeared into the shimmering waters.

  ‘You next, uncle. This place is killing you,’ Farden reached for Tyrfing’s arm. Behind them, the figurehead cackled rather disturbingly, making the skin on Farden’s neck twitch.

  ‘No, you first, nephew,’ Tyrfi
ng smiled weakly, a little blood on his lip, gently pushing Farden’s armoured hand away with his own, wrinkles around his mouth quivering bravely, and it was in that moment that Farden knew.

  ‘It’s you, isn’t it? The cost of crossing…’ Farden slumped. His stomach knotted up again in an instant, adding to the pain of the armour that still coursed through his body. He grimaced as he reached for his knees.

  ‘I’m dying, Farden. My lungs are rotting. A tumour, the healers call it. No spells can touch it,’ he smiled wider, eyes blinking hard. ‘In a way it’s a mercy to go out like this instead of, well, the usual Written way. I already lost my mind once. Can’t have that again, can we?’ Tyrfing chuckled dryly.

  ‘Two goodbyes in as many minutes,’ Farden was muttering.

  ‘I’m sorry, Farden. At least we had one this time. And what you said to Hel,’ his uncle paused, ‘this armour is the start of a new life for you, nephew, I know it.’

  Farden bit his lip until he tasted salt and metal, felt the hot trickle fill his mouth. He took a strangled breath, throat tight. He grimaced, showing the blood on his teeth. ‘But we need you,’ he said, making a half gesture at the river, at the roof of the cavern. ‘Your magick…’

  ‘I can’t leave,’ Tyrfing said. They heard a rustle above them, and turned to see Hel standing at the prow of the ship. Her face gave away nothing. Tyrfing clapped his hands. ‘Besides,’ he said. ‘You have enough magick for both of us.’

  Farden snorted, but his uncle put his hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t you feel it Farden? That pain? That burning? It’s been so long you don’t know what it is. I can feel it coming off you in waves. Don’t fight it.’