by Ben Galley
Farden nodded to himself. The smell of the food had begun to tickle his nostrils and his empty stomach had started to gurgle plaintively. ‘Sandworm?’ he asked quietly.
Tyrfing shook his head and smiled once more. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘I think it’s bear. Traded a stack of paper for it.’
‘Smells good.’ Farden hauled himself into an upright position and momentarily closed his eyes as the world swam around him.
‘Easy,’ warned his uncle, but Farden would not be dissuaded. With the utmost care and attention to his dizzy, and incredibly empty, stomach, the mage gradually pushed himself up from the sandstone and managed to make it onto his feet. He looked as though a stiff breeze could have felled him, and he wavered like a sapling.
‘If I ever find that bitch who gave me that wine…’ Farden began, but the empty threat trailed away into the night like dying smoke on the wind. Tyrfing turned back to his roasting spit, shaking his head.
‘I wouldn’t worry about that. The nomads are long gone. I doubt you’ll ever see her again,’ he said, and then drew a sharp knife from his pocket. Farden eyed the knife warily as a sudden and strange feeling washed over him, as if he had forgotten something quite important. Tyrfing lifted the spit from the fire and using the knife he carved off a thick slice of the bear meat. Farden walked forward, taking the smallest possible steps so as to not jolt his churning stomach. Something on his uncle’s finger caught the firelight. Farden pointed and squinted at the ring. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.
Tyrfing looked confused and followed the mage’s gaze. ‘Oh, this?’ He held his hand nearer the fire so Farden could see. The dark ring looked as though it had been carved from a dark glass, like obsidian, and if the mage looked closely enough, he could see something glimmering and rippling beneath its glossy surface, like a storm cloud trapped in a bottle. Farden said as much.
‘Well, you’re almost right. It’s a Paraian rainring, and it cost me almost all my paper.’
‘And hard to say,’ mumbled Farden, trying to get his tongue around Paraian rainring. ‘What does it do?’ Silly question, but he asked it any way.
‘The nomads use it in the deep deserts, far beyond the dune sea, so they can have water wherever they go. If the user is strong enough it can make rain clouds or, if you’re really lucky, summon storms,’ he said. The old mage rubbed the ring and his finger for a moment, staring at the sky, before shaking himself out of his reverie. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘you need to eat something.’
The mage accepted the proffered slice of dark meat and took a tentative bite. It was hot and greasy, rich, and very good, but thrusting such rich ingredients onto a stomach as empty as Farden’s does not come without its consequences. Farden retched and clamped a hand over his mouth as bile once again filled his throat.
Tyrfing merely sighed. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have let you wander off on your own.’
The mage swallowed hard. ‘I don’t suppose you know any recovery spells?’ he managed.
‘That was always Durnus’s area of magick, not mine.’
Farden put his hands on his knees. ‘Let me guess, you specialised in fire, light, quake…’
‘And the rest,’ muttered Tyrfing, not taking his eyes off the meat.
‘How do you know so much? And how can you shapeshift?’
Tyrfing shook his head. ‘Questions questions,’ he replied, and sighed. ‘Through spending a lot of time on my own, and practice. Lots of practice. It’s not as easy as it looks, and there are many sacrifices to be made for such power,’ he said. Farden nodded. Like uncle like nephew.
‘I have a question of my own. Not that you’ll like it of course, but in the circumstances….’
‘Ask away,’ muttered Farden.
‘Why nevermar?’
Farden pinched his eyes between his fingers and groaned. ‘I thought you’d have known that already,’ he said, one step from gouging his aching eyes out altogether. Words were pulled from his mouth like teeth. It was a subject he had never tolerated voicing. ‘Because I couldn’t bear the sound of my own thoughts any longer. My mind used to be like a waterwheel, churning things over and over and over all day long. The magick and the voices in my head used to keep me awake for nights on end, whispering at me, itching. You know how it is,’ murmured the mage. ‘Nevermar was the only thing that would clear my mind and stop me worrying. But whenever I wasn’t using it they would come back. So, I started using more and more to try to get the magick out my veins. That tends to happen when you’ve got the prospect of your uncle’s madness hanging over your head. Thankfully I managed to keep my habit secret from the council and under control, and my magick stayed. Anyway, I’m finished with it now, and you know that’s the truth. My mind seems to have calmed a little, and I haven’t thought about nevermar for months,’ lied Farden. ‘That’s two reasons for you. Want any more?’
‘Two is fine,’ replied his uncle, eyes fixed on the meat.
‘Is there any water?’ asked Farden, changing the subject. Both mages were glad for it. Bones creaking and lips drawn Tyrfing got to his feet and moved past Farden to where a small spiral staircase led down into the caves below them. ‘Stay here and relax. We have a lot to talk about,’ Tyrfing told him, trying as hard as he could not to make his words sound ominous. But they were, and he knew it, and Farden sensed it as well. Without another word he climbed down the steps and disappeared into the shadows.
The mage stared up at the stars and sighed. Nothing was ever simple in this desert, he told to himself. He cut himself another slice of bear and chewed on it slowly. The food was starting to do him some good. Slowly but surely his stomach was beginning to settle.
Tyrfing took his time in returning and it wasn’t long before Farden felt steady enough on his feet to go looking for him. The mage wandered down the steps and into the flickering candlelit gloom of the warrenous caves below. Farden looked left, then right, and then, deciding to go with his first choice, went left. His footsteps echoed softly against the stone and the breeze from the outside whined gently over the shutters of the hollowed-out windows. Farden quickly recognised a familiar-looking doorway. Curiosity kindled, he paused and put a hand to the wooden door. It swung inwards with a squeak and bright candlelight spilt into the corridor, and without the slightest hint of hesitation Farden stepped through the doorway and into the little room.
The room was the same as he remembered it, crammed with strange metallic contraptions that vaguely resembled armour. There were breastplates and cuirasses, shields and greaves, vambraces and pauldrons, gauntlets and helmets, every piece of armour that Farden knew a word for and even others he didn’t. There was even a little anvil and tiny forge at the back of the room. It was like a blacksmith’s trove.
Farden carefully picked his way through the benches and boxes and examined the items. Some of them looked very old, while others shone in their polished newness. To his left there was a dust-covered selection of battered shields, curved like the sickle moon and covered in symbols that Farden assumed were Paraian, while on his right was a full cuirass comprised of a complex arrangement of cogs and wires, like in his uncle’s scribbled drawings. Farden’s curious fingers found what looked like a lever and he pressed it. There was a click, and a whir, and suddenly the metal ribs around the waist of the cuirass sprung outwards with a vicious snap. Farden prodded them carefully and found them to be razor-sharp.
A flash of gold and red caught his eye and he turned to see what it was. On the next bench was something very odd, and yet very familiar indeed. It was a gauntlet made of metal scales of red and gold. Farden raised his right arm. He looked at the Scalussen vambrace wrapped around his forearm, and then down at the gauntlet perched on the bench, and then back to his vambrace. It took a while for his drowsy mind to make the connection, but when it did he reached for the gauntlet, and carefully slid it over his fingers. By some strange spell the metal contracted around his hand and began to interlock with the scales of metal on his forearms, slithering like the skins
of snakes, clicking and rustling. Once it was fully attached, Farden held up his armoured hand and clenched his glittering fist. He could feel a strange energy under his skin, and he felt better already.
‘I see you’ve found my little collection then,’ said a voice behind him.
Farden nodded without turning around. ‘Where did you get this?’ he asked.
His uncle took a few steps forward and surveyed his collection of shiny things. He held a beaker of water in one hand. He smiled with a sigh. ‘I’ve been collecting it for decades now. Before you were born I worked as a blacksmith in the Spire, and a damn good one at that. One day I would like to be one again,’ smiled Tyrfing. ‘It calms me, and in a way it quietens my own dark thoughts. There is nothing like hammering a piece of metal into oblivion to take away the stress.’
But Farden shook his head. ‘No, I mean this, the Scalussen gauntlet.’
Tyrfing took a moment to answer, then shrugged. He noticed the look in his nephew’s eyes. ‘Well, those I managed to prise away from one of the Whorltreader tribes, actually using the same little trick we used. I told them the armour was haunted and I would take them off their hands for a low price. I have to admit, I was surprised to find Scalussen armour all the way out here. Usually, the only place you’ll find it is locked away in the glass cupboards of kings and collectors.’
Farden seemed hypnotised by the red and gold metal. ‘I thought it had all been lost… I’ve been trying to track it down for years.’
‘It’s not that hard to find, if you know where to look, or if you have the coin…’ mumbled his uncle, and at this Farden hesitated, afraid of revealing his little secret. It was already obvious. ‘Wait, no. You’re not talking about the Scalussen armour, are you…?’ Tyrfing frowned, his forehead wrinkling with deep disappointment. Farden stayed quiet. His little secret was out. He had already said too much that evening. ‘I…’ began the mage, but Tyrfing interrupted him.
‘The Nine. You’re searching for one of the Nine Suits.’ It was more of a fact than a question.
Farden nodded nonetheless, turning his vambraces over so they shone in the light.
‘And you think your vambraces and those gauntlets are pieces of the Nine?’ Tyrfing was about to smile, but after he saw the serious look on his nephew’s face, the smile faded. ‘You do, don’t you? You actually believe that fairytale?’
Farden tapped the metal on his forearms. ‘Why don’t you try one on, and see for yourself?’
Tyrfing shook his head, sadly. ‘Are you really so afraid of turning into me, Farden?’ he asked.
Farden made a face, and crossed his arms. ‘What?’ he asked.
His uncle took a deep breath. He seemed upset, or angry, Farden couldn’t tell. ‘Why else would you seek out such things? We both know the eddas. Nine suits of armour made by the Smiths of Scalussen, forged for one purpose and one purpose only: to stop the wearer from ageing and make them invincible. No? Not heard that one? Don’t insult my intelligence Farden, I know why you fear growing old. You don’t want to succumb to the madness like your old uncle.’ Tyrfing put down his beaker of water and crossed his arms.
Farden tugged at the gauntlet and the armour came free, shivering and unfurling like an insect’s carapace. With a thud he placed it back on the bench. ‘Do you blame me?’
Tyrfing sighed. ‘We may be many things Farden, but one thing we are not is ordinary. Our Books are much more powerful than that of the others, mine especially, and it is because of that reason that we will never succumb to the madness like the other Written. Vice designed us to be perfect, not flawed, and in the end that will be his undoing. Don’t let your fear consume you.’
This time the words spilt from his mouth. Farden winced as he growled them. ‘This coming from the man who has spent the last thirteen years hiding in a cave, sneaking around in the body of a faun. Don’t be such a hypocrite.’
Tyrfing took a moment to stare at his nephew, as if he were weighing answers in his head. Finally he answered. ‘Subtlety was never your strong point was it, boy? Have you ever thought that I’m trying to stop you from making the same mistakes?’ His uncle shook his head. ‘Now, if you want the answers you came for, I suggest you follow me. And don’t forget your water.’ With that, Tyrfing left the room, leaving Farden to listen to his receding footsteps. The mage clenched a fist, bit his tongue, and followed, remembering to grab his beaker of water on the way.
Outside the air was still cold and brisk and Farden shivered involuntarily as he trudged up the steps. His uncle was waiting for him, arms still crossed. The mage took a sip of his water and sat down on a nearby mound of sandstone a short distance from the smouldering fire and the sizzling spit. He looked at his armoured forearms and watched the flames dance in their reflection.
‘You can’t blame me for wearing these,’ he mumbled. ‘And don’t call me boy.’
Tyrfing poked the fire with his fingers, oblivious to the heat. ‘No, no I can’t, but it still stings me to have you think that I’m weak, and senile, and losing my mind,’ he replied. ‘I’m not mad.’
Farden shook his head. ‘What was I supposed to think, after what you did?’
‘And I’ve apologised for that, Farden.’
The mage took another sip of the cool water. It had settled his stomach quite nicely. ‘I can’t just forgive you like that,’ he muttered, snapping his fingers.
‘Well, then maybe someday you will find it in your heart to accept my apologies, and forgive me. We can’t change the past, only bandage its wounds.’ Tyrfing prodded the fire some more. ‘Until then, there are some things you need to know.’
Farden nodded, feeling thoroughly chastised and guilty, and took another sip of water. Tyrfing looked up into the dark night sky and toyed absently with his rainring. Farden followed his gaze and waited for him to speak.
The sky was a bruise. High above them the dark vastness was preparing itself for the sunrise of yet another scorching day. Far to the east, just above the horizon, the sky was gradually shedding its darkness and blushing purple, but for now, the night above remained thick, black, and impenetrable. The moon was hiding. The undulating desert below was lit only by the dim stars above. A few of them had already sunk below the horizon, but countless thousands remained aloft, waiting to be ushered away by the sun. Some were bright and twinkled between red and blue, others were like specks of dusty light; some seemed alone in the darkness, cold and isolated, while others clustered together in chalky streaks and clouds, clamouring for space amongst their neighbouring constellations. Farden stared at them and mentally traced the shapes Durnus had taught him. It had been so long ago that he had learnt them.
As the two men stared at the stars, Tyrfing, slowly and quietly and in the measured manner of a true storyteller, began to tell a history Farden had heard many times before in the songs and eddas of the bards and skalds, a history that every child is told at a young age. But there was something in the way his uncle told it, something in the details he had never heard before, that made it so much more than just a history. It was if he were being let in on the deepest of secret, and it fascinated Farden. He had to lean closer to hear him over the wind.
‘Before you or I were born, before your parents, or my parents, before any of us were born, before the elves, before the mountains had become mountains and the seas had become seas, before our lands were rock and soil, when they were no more than an empty, endless void, there lived a giant with no name, and on this giant’s back, sprouting right from his shoulder blades, was a colossal ash tree. Now this was no ordinary giant, and this was no ordinary tree. Its roots were entwined about the giant’s heart, and it held in its branches two fruits, one of ice, and one of fire. These two fruits were kept separate, on different sides of the tree, and as the giant patrolled his endless void, carrying his tree on his shoulders, the tree would light the void with its fire, and water the darkness with the dripping ice.
‘For countless years the two wandered to and fro, the giant and
his tree, and not once did he take a breath or pause to rest. Until one day, when his eyes had become misty and his beard long, he lifted his head to admire the swaying branches of his tree, and in that tiny moment he stumbled. As he and his tree fell, the fire swung too close to the ice, and sparks flew as they touched. The branches of the tree caught fire and within seconds the entire ash was aflame. The giant fell in a heap, and, as the tree burnt down to a charred stump between his shoulders, its roots clutched at his heart and killed him too. The giant’s skin turned to stone, his muscles to rock and mountain, his beard to clouds, and his tears into lakes and rivers, and became this very earth, nephew, the rock beneath our boots. Some say that the best things come from accidents, don’t they?’ Tyrfing chuckled quietly, and then carried on. ‘Now alone in the cold void, the sparks that had flown from the tree began to cool, and as they did they began to grow, and form shapes in the darkness. Those sparks and shapes, as you know Farden, were the first gods, and as the time passed they multiplied in the skies above the dead giant, growing in number all the while, until the sky was full to bursting. They built a city in the darkness, and named it Hasgard, or Haven, as they called it.
‘After a while the gods took it upon themselves to leave the skies and Haven and fall to the giant’s body below, to see what they could make of his vast remains. So, in flashes of light and fire the gods fell as stars and the skies were emptied for the first time, and as they fell to the rock they took their earthly shapes and began to roam their new lands. In those days there were many gods, thousands of them, and they wandered in every direction, across the rocks and plains and oceans, giving names to everywhere they went and everything they came across.
‘However, unbeknownst to the gods, something stirred under their feet. Just as the sparks from the fire had forged the gods above, the smouldering cinders of the ash tree had also forged a world deep inside the giant, in the tunnels of his veins, in the darkness and cold, and there the cinders gave birth to the daemons. Over the centuries, these daemons forged their own domain: Hel, a place bordering the edges of the void the giant had once patrolled, the “other side,” as we call it.
