Pale Kings (Emaneska Series)

by Ben Galley

Tyrfing pointed at the barrels and chests crowding the edges of the circular room. ‘They’re like magpies. They love gold,’ he explained, and turned to run a hand down the gryphon’s thick neck. ‘They don’t talk, but they love to whistle.’ As if to prove his point, Ilios trilled a strange little melody.

  ‘And does he always do that, that thing? With his eyes?’ Farden asked, trying to avoid looking into those uncomfortable eyes.

  Tyrfing shrugged and made a face which was neither yes nor no. ‘It took him a long time to trust humans again,’ he murmured. ‘Especially me. They don’t like magick. But he shows me things like you and the rest of the world, and that’s how I knew where you were and what was happening, well, most of it.’

  Farden shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You will,’ replied his uncle, with a smile. Tyrfing turned to face his nephew and put a hand on each of the mage’s shoulders. At first Farden glared and flinched away, but the apologetic look in his uncle’s eyes made him relax slightly. Tyrfing took his time trying to decide what to say. ‘Farden, if I, er…’ here he took a breath to think. ‘I’ve let you down. I’ve spent so long in these caves, living as the faun, that I couldn’t think of any other way to talk to you. I’m sorry if that hurt you, and I’m sorry I never made much sense. I did truly try to help. If you could understand how hard it is to speak through dreams then maybe you might forgive me. It’s like swimming through stone, you see, but I hope that you can accept that I at least tried to help. You remember the Arkathedral? When you were tied to that chair? I told you to keep an eye on the weather? Do you remember that?’ Farden nodded reluctantly. He remembered his uncle’s voice in his head, telling him not to give up, telling him to run, and live.

  Tyrfing carried on. ‘People like you and I have to stick together, Farden. And I’m just not speaking about mages; you’re the only family I have left. Your mother made me promise to look after you, and that’s what I intend to do.’

  Farden scowled. ‘I still have questions.’

  ‘And I still have some explaining, I know. And I will in good time. There is so much to tell you about that I fear we don’t have time for it all,’ replied his uncle. He made an uneasy face. His eye twitched again. ‘And I think we need to talk about that princess of Vice’s, as well.’ Farden wondered what he meant. He glared again. Tyrfing’s arms hovered, uncertain of themselves, by his sides.

  There was a moment, a particularly awkward one, and then with a sigh, Farden moved forward to embrace his uncle. Tyrfing looked relieved. He grabbed Farden in an enthusiastic bear-like hug. As they embraced, both uncle and nephew silently counted the years they had wasted. Farden cleared his throat. ‘Welcome back from the dead,’ he mumbled. Tyrfing did nothing but nod, and perhaps wipe a grain of sand from his eye. Perhaps he didn’t.

  Behind them Ilios suddenly trilled, flicking his head to the side and then up to the sky. He sniffed the sandy air and made a low thoughtful humming noise. Hearing the sound, Tyrfing turned around and followed the gryphon’s gaze up into the sandstorm. He too made a humming noise and he and Ilios shared a look. Tyrfing chewed at the inside of his lip. Farden had seen that type of look before between the Sirens and their dragons. Talking in silence. Farden clicked his tongue and wondered if this was going to be a common occurrence; it was a bit irritating having to listen to only one side of a conversation.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, stifling a yawn. He was suddenly very tired.

  ‘Ilios says there are people coming.’

  ‘People?’

  ‘Dunedelvers.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Maybe Whorltreaders.’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘Nomads!’

  Farden nodded, pondering how this empty desert had seemingly and suddenly become so full of people. He shrugged because he had no reply, and patiently waited for Ilios and his uncle to stop staring at each other. He cast an eye to the open roof above them and noticed, with a touch of relief, that the storm was dying. Patches of blue were beginning to poke through the swirling curtains of yellow and brown; the wind was taking its dying breaths.

  ‘Right,’ said Tyrfing. ‘Off we go.’

  Farden threw him a quizzical look. ‘Where?’ he asked.

  ‘Outside, of course. To meet the caravan.’ And with that his uncle made for the door, wrenched it open, and tapped his foot impatiently for Farden to hurry up. The mage decided to bite his tongue and just follow.

  Leaving Ilios alone in his room, the two men followed the winding corridor back the way they had come. While they walked, Tyrfing jabbered on about the nomad tribes and Dunedelvers and Whorltreaders and Sunchasers and Pathcleavers and caravans and trader etiquette, how it was dangerous to touch their wares without the proper introduction, how their gods were strange wild beasts with a thousand names, how they carried their dead around with them in jars or mummified them so that they could speak with the ghosts of their ancestors, and how they could navigate using the trails of the sandworms they followed around Paraia, trading their meat for cloth and food, and how they herded the wild bastions and coelos and harvested their tusks. He told Farden about their strange customs, how their men took as many wives as they wanted, how they drank the blood of their enemies, how they could find water in the most surprising of places, and how each individual tribe had a very specific greeting which had not changed in a hundred lifetimes… Farden couldn’t remember ever hearing his uncle so loquacious. It was as though he had left the dishevelled and slightly strange old man with the gryphon, and followed a completely different person out of the room. The mage allowed himself a bemused smile.

  They halted at a small room filled with small wooden boxes and barrels, and Tyrfing took a few moments to select a few things for Farden to carry. Soon enough the mage was tottering down the hallway with his arms piled high with packets of strange food and salted meat, trying very hard not to trip and fall. Tyrfing, carrying a small firkin of liquid under each arm, led the way.

  They reached the small dining room near to the cave entrance and Farden was instructed to put the things on the table so Tyrfing could count them and make his calculations. If there was one thing Farden had noticed about Paraia, it was that trading was not just a way of exchanging goods, it was an art form. In the markets of Galadaë and Belephon he had seen merchants bartering for hours and hours on end to no avail, and he had seen entire stalls emptied in return for a tiny stone or a flower. Farden didn’t pretend to understand it. He preferred good simple Emaneska coin.

  Tyrfing hummed and mused and rubbed his bearded chin and then finally clicked his fingers with an echoing snap. He plucked a few of the golden blossoms from the vines around the window and stuffed them in his pocket. Next he went to the bone bookshelf behind him and searched in between the withered pages and dusty spines. With a satisfied mumble he pulled forth a sheaf of dusty pages which had been left untouched and unscribbled. He waved at Farden victoriously. ‘If there is one thing the nomads love, it is paper. Don’t ask me why, but they do,’ he said.

  Farden nodded and smiled. ‘You could sell them some of your drawings,’ he suggested, motioning to the wall of sketches and hand-written histories. Tyrfing made a horrified face and shook his head.

  ‘No, definitely not. They’re too important to give away,’ he replied, as he folded the inch of parchment in two and stuffed it into one of his coat pockets. He pointed to the taller pile of boxes and packets on the table. ‘That’s your pile,’ he said, and Farden rolled his eyes. Tyrfing took a moment to click his neck from side to side. A smile twitched. ‘You’re younger and stronger than I am,’ he added.

  Farden reluctantly grabbed the teetering tower of goods. ‘I’m also more tired than you. Some of us have been wandering the deserts for months on end,’ he retorted.

  Tyrfing winced and wagged a finger at the awkwardness. ‘Yes, and the nomads outside do that for a living, now remember what I told you about their customs,’ he said.

  Farden nodded. ‘Yes, unc
le,’ he replied, noticing how strange that word sounded coming from his mouth. As Tyrfing turned away, Farden thought he saw him smile.

  Tyrfing rolled his shoulders and put his hands together. After a breath and a brief moment of silent concentration, he cast his spell. Farden watched as his shape began to shiver and warp and stretch upwards. Curled horns emerged from his skull with strange crackling noises, his arms and face grew hairier, and his legs clicked as they bent backwards into their familiar faun shape. When he was finished, he turned and grabbed his barrels and made for the narrow exit without so much as a word. Farden followed him, reflecting on which shape his uncle felt more at home in.

  Outside, the sandstorm had finally blown itself out, and the sand had returned to its rightful place on the dunes. The sun was slowly sinking towards the western horizon and the shadows were getting longer and longer with every passing minute. The vast blue sky above was tinged with rosy pinks and dusty purples and far to the north a few wisps of yellow cloud hovered over the undulating horizon. The blackened crater of the falling star had been buried by the sandstorm and now only a thin dark smudge of scorched earth remained.

  Laden with their gifts, the two men trudged across the sand towards the nomad camp that had sprung up near to the base of the cliffs. The light breeze, the remnant of Tyrfing’s storm, did nothing to stifle the dry heat of the desert. Farden’s feet had barely touched the sand and he was already longing for nightfall. Sweat gathered at his temples.

  Ahead of them, the makeshift nomad camp was a splash of bright colours against the dull dunes. The nomads had made camp in a crescent shape, as they always did. The nomad caravans were tall and narrow, shaped like the fins of a shark so that they could cut through the fast desert winds without being blown over. They were of a lightweight construction; formed of coelo hide stretched over strong curved spars. Their bases were thick woven baskets, and they ran on narrow skis of varnished wood that was incredibly slippery. The special varnish was one of the nomads’ most carefully guarded secrets. People had died trying to discover its ingredients, and the nomads had killed to protect it.

  At the front of each caravan was a curious-looking grey boulder. Each one was at least seven foot high and just as wide. Their surfaces appeared to be composed of rough plate-like sections that fit together almost seamlessly, like the cracked earth of a dry plain or the scales of a snake. To the unobservant traveller these boulders might have seemed unremarkable; magick rolling stones perhaps, or just anchors against the winds. Farden knew better.

  He watched as a gang of nomads wandered up to one of these strange boulders and began to shout at it and tap it with thin switches of wood. With a creaking sound like that of old leather being twisted, the boulder slowly unfurled, plate by curious plate. First came an arrow-like head, sharp and whiskered with two little black eyes. Next a pair of arms, each with a set of long digging claws, wriggled out from the boulder’s sides. Last of all came the legs and a short, whip-like tail. They popped free as the strange beast rolled onto its stomach.

  The dillo, for that was what it was, shook sand from its armoured back and bleated softly as two thin ropes were fastened to hook-like protrusions on its shell. With a few more taps from the switches, the beast moved forward and towed its caravan to a better spot. Farden watched the dillo disappear behind a tent, fascinated as always by the odd half-crab half-mouse creatures.

  In the wake of the storm, the nomads were swiftly putting up their tents for the night. The tall conical tents were made in the same way as their caravans; fabric stretched over a wooden skeleton, and they filled the spaces between the dillos and the caravans like brightly coloured barnacles squeezing into a crevice between two rocks. The cooking fires had already been lit. Brown smoke wafted on the breeze. Strange smells invaded the noses of the two mages as they came close to the camp.

  Tall, long-legged figures strode out to meet them. Farden had seen their kind at the market in Belephon. Like Tyrfing’s faun, it seemed to the mage as though they had gotten stuck halfway through a shapeshifting spell, and hadn’t quite figured out whether to go back or to stay as they were. They had long, spotted legs like that of an antelope, and long, hairy faces and flat noses. Their hair was either jet-black or dune-gold, and worn in long plaits so it could be tucked behind their furry ears and curled horns. Their eyes were of a deep nut brown. They shone with the sunset. It seemed the sands were as much a part of them as it was the desert.

  Tyrfing came to a halt and put his barrels down. He raised a hairy hand in greeting to the little group that had gathered around them. The tallest of the group, a female. returned the friendly gesture and smiled at him with a mouthful of snow-white teeth. Her eyelashes were spectacularly long and coated with flecks of sand. She bowed and then the whole party, the mage, the faun, and the half-dozen nomads, all knelt in the sand. Keeping absolute eye contact with the tall nomad, Tyrfing used his fingernail to etch a symbol in the sand. When he was finished, the female drew a symbol of her own and there was a silence as everybody present stared at the symbols. What seemed to Farden like an age passed, until finally the tall nomad’s solemn face broke into another wide smile and she began to laugh. Tyrfing beamed and looked to Farden, who shrugged and grinned back. With that the whole party got to its feet and the two men were led into the colourful camp.

  Tyrfing whispered in his nephew’s ear as they wandered towards a big tent that stood at the centre of the crescent-shaped camp. ‘That’s the greeting over with. Now these are Pathcleavers, so be careful not to touch any of them, especially the women. We are sorcerers to them, particularly me, and that means we’re cursed with the desert spirits. If in doubt, just bow and smile,’ he said.

  Farden nodded. ‘Just bow and smile,’ he repeated.

  Some of the nomad children came to dance and run circles around the newcomers, and Farden grinned and bowed to them as they pointed and whispered and giggled at the strange man and the stranger faun. All this smiling was starting to make Farden’s cheeks ache.

  When they reached the big tent, the tall nomad, who Farden had rightly guessed was some sort of chief, introduced them to a huge table piled high with her tribe’s wares. Tyrfing and Farden put their barrels and boxes on the sand and greeted the growing circle of onlookers with more smiles. After much bowing and even more grinning, the Pathcleaver chief said something to Tyrfing and beckoned him to peruse her table of brightly coloured objects. Farden couldn’t help but sate his curiosity. He leant forward and let his eyes wander.

  Covering the table was an extraordinary assortment of goods. There were jars of strange liquids, bottles crammed with pickled plants, bolts of cloth and gauze, and jewellery of every hue and material, from bone, metal, glass and stone. There were dried lizards on sticks, feathers great and small and rainbow-hued, brushes made from mouse tails, a lone and rather dilapidated shoe complete with a skeleton’s foot, wild wyrm claws, golden quillhog spines, painted skulls, dried desert flowers, owl-pellets, sandworm teeth, stunted vegetables, glowing berries, salted meats of assorted texture, balls of salamander wool, cloaks made from bastion, donkey, and coelo skin, blankets of goat hair, and pelts of animals Farden couldn’t even recognise. Crammed in between these were books upon books and page after page covered in every imaginable language, vials of fat, quivering jellies, twitching fingers, glassless mirrors, bottled whispers, boxed nightmares, packaged dreams, hollow promises, and for some reason only known to the gods, every possible scrap of wood there ever was or ever would be: driftwood, hardwood, softwood, whitewood, sandalwood, petrified wood, terrified wood, and even invisible wood, which, Farden was swiftly told, came from the invisible trees of the south.

  The mage’s mind swam. He felt completely over-stimulated and utterly worn out. The vibrant table made his eyes hurt, and the stares from the nomads were beginning to make him feel a little uncomfortable.

  A very young-looking Pathcleaver walked up to the mage and pointed eagerly at his vambraces. Farden instinctively crossed his arms but
the man proffered a silver pendant and pointed again, grinning and nodding all the while. Farden held up his hands and shook his head. ‘Sorry, no,’ he replied. ‘Not for sale.’

  The nomad man did not understand. He delved into his pocket and added an amethyst the size of a small grape to his silver chain. When the mage continued to shake his head the young nomad bit his hairy lip and danced on the spot, still pointing and grinning feverishly. The mage made a confused face. Just as he was debating how to go about getting rid of the eager nomad, he felt a hand on his shoulder and found his uncle standing next to him. Tyrfing winked and tapped a finger to his faun nose. He burbled something in the strange Pathcleaver dialect and the man instantly stopped dancing. Retreating swiftly with a polite bob of his head, the man went and reclaimed his seat by the campfire, throwing Farden wary looks. Tyrfing chuckled quietly.

  ‘What did you say to him?’ asked Farden.

  ‘I told him there was a ghost in your armour. They hate spirits,’ answered Tyrfing, and Farden couldn’t help but grin. ‘Listen,’ began his uncle, ‘why don’t you go and get some food, have a walk around. This is going to take a while.’ Farden nodded and let Tyrfing get back to his bartering.

  The mage backed away from the hustle and bustle and took a moment to stretch and yawn. He looked back at the cliffs. The dying sun had painted their faces a dusty rose colour, and they seemed to glow in the sunset. The sand was a deep orange and the sky was a palette of pinks and purples and yellows. In the east a lone star hung in the firmament.

  Farden took a deep breath and exhaled through his nostrils. He could feel his earlier anger and confusion being replaced with a drowsy peace, a feeling he credited to the cool of the evening and the intoxicating smells of the campfires around him. He watched Tyrfing banging his hand on the table and pointing and talking very loudly in the nomads’ strange language. The others around him were doing the same, swapping things left and right whilst yelling their terms. It was all a bit too noisy for Farden. He decided to wander along the row of caravans to see what he could find in the way of food. The commotion had made him peckish.