by Ben Galley
Farden shook his head, closing his stinging eyes. He took a deep breath as the pain surged around his chest and up into his head. Yes. That old feeling. That sharp pain at the base of his skull, like a blade to his spine. No, it wasn’t pain any more, it was just pressure, just a rushing of blood and magick, burning the dust from his nerves, flushing out cobwebs and clutter like a broom across a forgotten floor. No wonder his back felt hot and clammy. No wonder his hands were shaking.
Farden opened up a shaking fist and felt his arm spasm as the magick tumbled down it, a landslide through his veins. Fire flashed into life in his palm, swirling like a tornado.
‘See?’ Tyrfing grinned as wide as he could, still gripping Farden by the shoulder. His nephew clenched his fist and put out the spell, then dragged Tyrfing into a near-crushing hug. It lasted only a moment, but they both knew it meant the world; a thousand words, what-ifs, and tears, anger, grief, and acceptance, all crushed into the clank and shudder of one short embrace. Sometimes that was all that people needed. Actions spoke when words were too hard.
‘Go,’ Tyrfing pushed him away. ‘The others need you.’
Farden staggered back and jabbed a finger at Hel. ‘You keep him safe,’ he said, before turning back to Tyrfing. He slammed his visor shut, lest he see the tears. ‘At least I know you’re not going anywhere.’
Tyrfing smiled, and watched Farden turn, stamp the cobbles to death, and then dive headlong into the rushing waters with a giant splash.
Hel sniffed. ‘He’s a good man, your nephew,’ she mused.
Tyrfing staggered onto his knees. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘He’s a great man.’
Chapter 32
“No, I do not know what he was thinking. There isn’t a scribble this quill can make that could describe by frustration, how exasperated I am with the man. To take on a Huskar chief’s son in a fist-fight. Not for honour, no, but for pure greed. For the son’s vambraces no less. Pretty they may be, exceptionally so in fact, but not pretty enough to jeopardise our tenuous political links with the Huskar tribes for. Not for all the Scalussen in the world would I risk another border skirmish with those savage beasts. I thank Evernia that the son instigated the bout. Thank Evernia indeed. Though I suppose it is worth noting that Farden did win the fight.
Regards,
Kospregr.”
Extract from a report to the Undermage, from Sergeant Kospregr, of the School of the Written
‘I feel sorry for her, y’know,’ said the woman. She had a soft, fair face, with a birth-mark spread like a splatter of jam across her temple and forehead. ‘Poor lamb.’
‘Hasn’t got much of a chance. Not out here. Should have taken her back to the ship. Who is she, anyway?’ asked the other. She was quite the opposite in appearance. She had an axe-head of a face. Blunt and severe. Her lips looked to be having a contest of how close they could get to her nose.
The first woman rolled her eyes. The two healers were huddled around a candle on the bedside and like the woman on the bed they had drowned themselves in blankets to keep the cold at bay. They shivered all the same. ‘I told you, it’s the Undermage’s wife. Poor lamb. Struck down on her wedding day too.’
‘Her? How’d you know?’
‘Cook told me.’
‘Cook tells more lies than, than…’ the second woman’s lips twitched, flinging themselves at her nose in a wild effort. ‘…Than is right for one man to tell. Ship’s full of ‘is rumours.’ She leant close and watched their patient’s chest for any signs of movements. She squinted. It was hard to tell if there were any. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was already dead.’
‘Nonsense. Daemontouched they said. Coma.’
‘Daemonrubbish.’
‘His Mage’s own words.’
‘If we were back on the ship…’
‘Oh, here we go…’
‘…If we were back on the ship, with a proper bed and a proper light, I might actually be able to do some medicinal good to this woman. Not sittin’ here watching her freeze to death. Here, in this rabbit-hutch of a sled? On this ice? We’re useless, we are. She hasn’t got a chance. And who’s going to explain to the Undermage, when he gets back? Hmm? Not me. If he gets back, that is. Then we’ll be in hot water. We might as well have stayed with the ship. And another thing… BLEEDIN’ NJORD!’
Two panicked screams split the air as the half-dead woman on the bed sat bolt upright. The two healers fell to the floor and scrabbled under a table. The severe-looking one reached for a butter knife, the other for a pillow to cover her eyes.
‘She’s awake!’
‘She’s possessed!’
Elessi retched and rasped. She flailed about like a mad thing, sending blankets flying all over the place. ‘Far…den!’ she choked.
‘Farden?’ cried the healers in unison.
Elessi turned around, eyes bloodshot crimson and wild with bewilderment. ‘He’s coming!’
Something was licking him. That was for sure. There was no other sensation like it. A wet slab of warm meat sliding and rasping across his skin, mingled with the feel of escaped breath, then a trail of cold following in its wake as the wet cooled in the icy air. A tongue. It had to be.
Farden opened his bleary eyes to find he was absolutely right. He just hadn’t expected what sort of tongue, and the creature that owned it. He couldn’t help but jump. He nearly made it to his feet, he flew up so fast. Instead he sank back on his knees, and watched the huge whale slide further onto the ice, rearing up out of its narrow waterway. Farden wiped his wet, slimy cheek, and pulled a polite smile.
‘Where?’ he began to ask, then his smile fell. His body sagged with it. Ice. Whales. Water. He was in the north alright, but days from the battle. That cursed Hel and her bastard ship. Farden put his fist in the snow, listening to it sizzle.
Then he heard it. That far off roar that could have been taken for a storm. But it wasn’t, not to his seasoned ear. It was too sharp, too metallic. It was the unmistakable roar of battle.
Farden’s head snapped north. There, cradled in a broken notch of the gigantic, blackened mountains, was a cloud of smoke and ash, its insides roiling with kaleidoscopic hues. Red turned to yellow, turned to blue, turned to green. The noise of it deafened even the flaming fury of the mountains and volcanos at its back. Farden watched as two bright, shining stars fell from the sky and dove straight into the haze. They exploded somewhere in its depths. Even at that distance the snow shook.
It was then that Farden spied his daughter on the hill, just on the cusp of the chaos. He could feel her too. Finally he understood. Shaking, trembling, the air was alive with her magick. It rose and fell for miles around like winter waves crashing on a snowy shore. Farden felt his head pound as he squinted at her. She was a bright star on a black hill, wrapped in fire and magick. His daughter. The paragon of magick. Apotheosis of power. Samara.
Farden got to his feet, shaking. He snarled. She would die like the rest of them.
‘Ice is cracking,’ hummed the whale, licking its dagger teeth. Its obsidian skin glistened in the dawn light.
‘What?’
‘Ice.’ The whale slapped his flipper. ‘Cracking.’
‘Er…’
‘We ride with it.’
Farden really wasn’t getting the picture. ‘Ride with what? Where?’
The whale waggled its fin as it slid back into the water. Farden could see dark shapes sliding along underneath, deep in the sapphire water. He suppressed a shiver. ‘Into battle. Cracks are running under the mountains. Sea bubbles up. We fight.’
‘Now?’
‘Now! You ride with us.’
Farden slammed down his visor. Gods, he loved the feel of that. ‘One question. How?’
The whale leant to the side so that his tall fin nearly knocked Farden in the face. ‘I swim. You ride.’
Farden lifted up his visor again. ‘I what?’
Samara shuddered. Not with fear, not with revulsion. She simply shook. Her body was failing.
She could feel it. The sky was nearly emptied. Only a few dozen now remained, but only one could be next. It was time. She could feel him darkening the sky already, feel him pressing his mind into hers, commanding her, crushing her. Samara winced as she reached for him. It was his turn now.
Orion.
Samara’s knees had long since failed her. She was now collapsed on her side, foetus-like in her black bowl of charred, splintered rock. The fire still spun, and the wind still howled. Only a few dozen left, she told herself for the tenth time in the last minute. Her eyelids felt as though they were made from hot lead. The feeling of triumph and power she had felt barely an hour ago had now all but vanished, burnt away by the searing, bubbling pain that wracked her body. She could still feel Lilith’s worried eyes on the back of her scorched neck. Only a few dozen left, then I rest, and ride on their shoulders.
And she pulled. She pulled with all the might she had left to spare. Her arms were near ripped clean of their sockets when her spell found him. He seized her with iron claws like anchor flukes. Samara cried out as her shoulders inched further. She bit down on the magick and the spell bit back. Something snapped in her back, as the daemon came loose, prized from the void above.
She slumped into her hole, almost letting the spell cave in on her as she watched Orion light up the sky above. Hokus’ ugly head appeared over the stone, a mask of teeth and blood that wasn’t his. ‘He is coming,’ he veritably cheered. Samara nodded weakly. ‘You have served your purpose well, child,’ he grinned, turning to yell and roar at any of his brethren that could hear him. ‘HE IS COMING!’
‘Who’s coming, brother?’ Valefor looked up from picking the purple entrails from his claws. The two were acting like foremen, directing their bloody workers with roars, shouts, and slashes from their claws and nails. Theirs was a most gratifying job. From their little fire-smeared and blood-splashed pedestal they could watch their brothers and sisters falling from the sky with grins and welcoming arms; they could crush anything that dared come near enough to take a swipe at them; they could taste the roars, the screams, the destruction. It was what they had dreamt of for centuries. Salivated at in the darkness. Music to their stubby ears.
They had even dabbled in some fighting too. Their spoils lay spread across the rocks below. Two dragons, a bear, and countless little four-limbed insects. But it hadn’t been all fun and games. Valefor had a chunk missing from his side. His left foot had been smashed by a big dragon-rider with an axe. Hokus was missing several claws and had a lightning burn across his chest from Durnus. The mages had struck early and viciously, but with every daemon that fell, they had been forced back into the smoke. Valefor and Hokus were enjoying themselves immensely.
‘Who do you think, brother Valefor?’
‘Our glorious king?’
‘The very same.’
Valefor clapped his claws and raised them to the sky. Sure enough, there he was, hovering in the dawn-lit firmament, teetering like the jewel of a broken pendant, already beginning to fall. He would be there very soon indeed. ‘He will be most pleased that we have left some for him. The Old Dragon, perhaps, should be kept for him. Ruin too, as he ordered.’
‘Insects,’ Hokus growled. A fireball flew out of the smoke and clattered against the rocks behind them. They heard a distant squeal from Lilith. ‘They never stood a chance.’
Valefor giggled as he watched another clump of mages shuffle out of the smog at the foot of the hill, accompanied by a lithe black dragon. ‘If you’ll excuse me, brother.’
Hokus flashed his fangs, but waggled a claw. ‘Over-confidence is dangerous, brother.’
‘I’ll remind them of that, before I sever their heads,’ Valefor snarled over his shoulder, flexing his smoking wings.
Shivertread let the carcass of the huge wolf slide from his jaws and drop to the snow. The fetid creature hissed as its last breath escaped from its lungs.
‘We should fall back,’ hissed the dragon, fearfully. All around them, hulking shadows battled with pockets of resistance and bravery. There were too many to count.
‘We should keep going, dragon,’ Modren snapped, pushing Durnus on. ‘We’re close! We kill her and we may just have a chance!’
Modren was right. No sooner had he spoken than they emerged from the blinding smoke at the foot of the hill, where the black rocks rose out of the dirty snow, rising up to join the mountains. ‘There!’ the Undermage cried.
Durnus could see her now. He squinted at the bright, fiery spot in his blind darkness. It was Samara, slumped in the broken stone. Was she dead? His heart rose and fell in a moment, hope dashed on the rocks. He could still feel her spell shaking the air. He could still hear its roar over the noise of battle and the volcano.
There was a snarl from somewhere nearby. They had been spotted. Two daemons loped towards them across the snow. One was a muscular beast, half boar by the looks of his face, while the other was a slim, slender willow of a creature, all wings and oversized teeth. Modren and Inwick went to work like the professionals they were, laying down a storm of sparks and lightning to keep the daemons at bay. Spells were the only thing that seemed to truly work against them. Blades took forever to hack through their iron flesh, and even then it meant getting close. The bastards refused to die quickly, fighting to the bitter bone. Oh, how Modren prayed for more mages.
Thoooom!
The air behind them shook as Durnus’ spell flew from his hands. The Arkmage dashed forward, listening for its impact, watching the bright spark on the hill and praying for it to be snuffed. There was a booming crash as his spell collided with hers, fire meeting wind in an explosion of power. Blue flame curled around its edges. Durnus watched, catching his breath as the spark glowed brighter for a moment. Then, as the light faded, there she still was, untouched and still reaching for the sky. ‘Curse that bitch!’ he yelled.
Another daemon was coming for them, sauntering down the slopes. This one was a different sort. Modren recognised his gait, his wings, his grinning face. It was one of the three that had attacked Krauslung. Shivertread stepped forward, spinning his tail in a figure-of-eight like a whip.
‘No,’ Modren said, tapping him on his scales. ‘He’s mine.’
‘As you wish,’ bowed the dragon, turning instead to the other two. They were getting too close for comfort. Inwick and Shivertread forced them back, the dragon bathing one in fire, the mage bringing the smaller to its knees with a well-placed ice-bolt.
‘Keep them busy!’ Durnus ordered, taking in a deep breath. He spread his hands wide and fire sprang into life between them. Orbs of hot flame spun and melded into bigger spheres, building, building, ever-building into a colossal fireball.
Modren felt the heat of it on his back. His Book burned with it. He held out his sword at the approaching daemon. The hulking beast was now standing on the snow, not twelve paces from them. Even from there, he could smell its stink. ‘I know you,’ he said.
‘Lord. Master. Executioner. Take your pick, mortal,’ it chuckled.
‘You attacked our city.’
‘It will not be the last.’
‘How about I make it your last?’
The daemon didn’t answer. It was looking with interest at Durnus and his huge spell. Everyone ducked as it exploded from his arms and sailed to the summit of the hill, where it crashed once again against Samara’s storm. ‘Ah, Ruin,’ said the daemon.
Durnus’ head snapped around to face the sound of his name.
The daemon flicked its eyes to the sky above, and smiled some more. Modren kept his eyes firmly rooted on the daemon, picking out the spots he wanted to drive his sword into. Face. Ribs. Groin. He skipped the heart; he had realised early on that these creatures were devoid of such a thing.
‘It’s fortuitous that we should run into each other, Ruin,’ chatted the daemon. He twirled a claw. ‘Your father will be here momentarily. I imagine the two of you have lots to catch up on.’
Durnus tilted his head to the sky and squinted. A shive
r, somewhere far above. That was all he needed. He spoke slowly and carefully. ‘Modren, call the others back. I think the time has come to beat a retreat to the sleds, as fast as we can.’
‘But…’
‘No, Modren, now!’
‘Right you are. Inwick! Shivertread! We’re leaving!’
‘So soon?’ the daemon called after them as they sprinted away, the dragon spraying fire in their wake. Durnus, his hand firmly clamped to Modren’s arm, had begun to sweat.
‘What’s going on, Durnus?’
‘Orion. He will be arriving very soon indeed. We do not want to be anywhere near him when he d…’
A chilling shout cut him off, ripping through the battle noise. It was a shout that nobody wanted to hear, at a time when they had enough to worry about with daemons and dragons and death, when they were sure in their knowledge that whatever happened, they were standing on solid ground.
‘The ice is cracking! The ice is cracking!’
Wide-eyed, Modren glanced over his shoulder. The ice was cracking indeed, and rapidly at that. A dark line had appeared in the snow directly behind them, and was getting bigger by the second. Even worse, the daemon from the hill was now running to vault it, fire streaming from his jaws, claws outstretched, wings flapping behind him, eyes firmly fixed on them.
‘Watch out!’ Modren yelled, throwing the Arkmage to the snow, fire already simmering in his hand. He needn’t have worried. The strange twists of battle were about to save him the trouble.
Nobody could have predicted a whale. Least of all Valefor.
The daemon pounded the snow with all his might. He could feel the fire in his lungs. In his peripheral vision he could see it dribbling from the corners of his mouth. His hands swung up and down like chopping axes, propelling him forward. He grinned wide as he saw Durnus pushed to the ground by the impetuous mage. Fool. I will start with him, Valefor thought, as he went to leap the crack in the ice, not even sparing a thought for the dark water bubbling up from below. I will start with him, pulling each one of his fingers and toes off while Ruin lays in the snow, ready fo…
