Pale Kings (Emaneska Series)

by Ben Galley

  The vampyre continued to push and strain against the air, and to the others he seemed to grow bigger, not by height nor by stature but in some other way, in a way they couldn’t quite understand. It was as though he straddled a world between distance and time, swelling with magick as he forcefully bent it to his will. His fingers moved like a harpist’s, twitching and plucking.

  ‘Here, we… Go!’ grunted Durnus. He turned and clapped his hands at Farden. ‘Quickly, I need your Weight!’ he snapped, and without a second thought, Farden fished the golden disk out of his cloak pocket and tossed it to him. Durnus caught it in one hand and quickly thrust it into the space under the arched tree.

  There was a sudden flash of light and a brief gust of wind that rattled the branches, and then nothing. It all seemed a bit anticlimactic. The others swapped confused glances. Eyrum opened his eye to see what had happened. ‘Was that it?’ he asked. ‘Did it work?’

  ‘I believe it did, my dear Eyrum, I believe it did.’ Durnus took a step back, breathed a sigh of relief, and put the Weight in his cloak pocket.

  ‘Well?’ Farden shrugged. ‘Nothing happened.’

  ‘I expected you, of all people Farden, to know better than that. Take a closer look,’ said Durnus, wiping a drop of sweat from his brow. The mage walked forward, squinting at the tree. The vampyre was right. The spell had worked. Farden could feel a tension in the air, as if the magick were pulling and tugging at unseen strings. He could feel a low throbbing under his feet. The tree vibrated softly, and the air under the archway shimmered like a gossamer curtain waving in a breeze. He put his hand close to it to feel the heat of the quickdoor’s surface. Flecks of rain landed on his hand. ‘It worked,’ agreed Farden. He turned around. ‘Remind me never to make fun of your old spell books again.’

  Durnus wagged a finger in an admonishing manner. ‘There’s magick in their pages, Farden, mark my words. More magick than you could shake a stick at. All you have to do is learn it.’ Behind him Tyrfing nodded.

  ‘And remind me never to let you do that again,’ muttered Eyrum. He strode forward purposefully and inspected the shivering surface of the makeshift quickdoor. All around its edge the ivy was beginning to wilt. ‘Is it safe?’ he asked.

  ‘Perfectly,’ answered Durnus.

  The mage chuckled. ‘I thought you Sirens were big fans of the natural magicks.’

  ‘Opening a doorway that transports you a thousand miles in a second with nothing but a strange tree and a big bit of gold isn’t natural, Farden, it’s just odd, spell or no spell.’

  The mage shrugged again, and hid a smile. Tyrfing rubbed his hands together and stroked Ilios’s neck. The gryphon blinked weakly. ‘We need to go. Ilios is getting weaker by the minute.’

  ‘Tyrfing’s right, we need to get somewhere warm and dry, and hopefully with food,’ nodded Farden.

  Eyrum was peering through the shivering air of the quickdoor. ‘Just as I suspected it to be; the weather in Nelska hasn’t eased at all,’ he said, moving back to wipe the icy raindrops from his face. The Siren was right, a cold and wet wind was now blowing through the quickdoor. They could almost hear the howling of the gale behind it. ‘We’ll need help from the dragons. They don’t even know we’re coming,’ said Eyrum.

  Farden fastened his cloak and hoisted his trusty hood over his tousled hair. ‘I’ll go through and get help, then you can help Tyrfing and Ilios,’ said the mage. Eyrum paused for a moment, looking at Farden, then the wounded gryphon, and then finally at the old scarred man standing by its side. The big Siren cleared his throat and nodded.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Tyrfing.

  ‘Then we’d best be quick about it, I don’t know how long this tree can maintain this sort of effort,’ warned Durnus, and as if to punctuate his words the tree suddenly began to groan. Something deep inside it cracked.

  ‘Let’s go!’ said Farden, and wasting not another second, he took a deep breath and dove into the quickdoor, careful to keep his arms and legs tightly pressed to his body. It barely helped. The makeshift quickdoor squeezed his ribs until they ached and stung with old injuries. The roaring of the ice-cold wind deafened him. His eyes watered, his skull felt as though it were being pinched between two boulders, and the wrenching and tumbling made his stomach do leaps inside him.

  Thankfully it only lasted for a few seconds.

  Before he knew it the mage was rolling across a shingled beach coughing and spluttering. Farden got to his feet and shook himself off. Behind him the iron sea crashed against the stony pier. Waves exploded against the rocks in plumes and fountains of salt-spray, fighting with the icy rain for space in the gloomy sky. Despite it all, Farden took a deep, deep breath of the salty air and relished the feel of the sea spray lashing his face. It was good to be back.

  The quickdoor sizzled behind him, spitting as the rain and rimy spray collided with its hot surface. The mage turned to face the narrow doorway, and instantly saw the problem. The Nelska quickdoor was simply not big enough for the gryphon, fashioned as it was from two thin horns of glossy black rock. The mage cursed himself for not realising this sooner. It was a disaster; the quickdoor would be shattered, the others left stranded, and Ilios would be left half-in, half-out of the door, severed in half.

  Farden’s heart skipped a beat. Without even thinking, he slammed his vambraces together and hurled three fireballs high into the tumultuous grey sky, hoping to the gods that the dragons would see the fire and come to investigate. There was nothing else he could do but wait. If he were to go back through the door, he could collide with the next person and the two of them would cease to exist all together. Farden took several large steps back and crouched, and watched, and prayed.

  Suddenly, there was a flash of light and a thin figure flew out the quickdoor. Farden dashed forward and deftly caught Durnus in mid-air. The two men collapsed on the wet shingle. ‘By the gods you’re heavy,’ spluttered the mage. The vampyre winced and wheezed as Farden helped him to his feet.

  ‘It’s been far too long, and I’m far too old for that,’ coughed the vampyre.

  ‘You can complain later, we have a problem,’ yelled Farden over the noise of the sea and the wind. Durnus blinked water from his eyes and stared in the direction the mage was pointing. He saw the problem instantly. The quickdoor was too small.

  ‘Oh no…’ mouthed Durnus.

  ‘What can we do?’

  The vampyre shook his head. ‘There’s nothing we can do!’ he cried. ‘Ilios will be crushed for sure!’

  Farden clenched his fists. ‘Can’t you stretch it somehow, make the door bigger?’

  Durnus looked panicked. ‘There’s no way! We’d have to break the door open and the spell would fail!’

  The mage racked his brains. ‘Then we lift it!’ he yelled.

  ‘It’ll never work! I’m not as strong as you, Farden!’

  Farden was already running towards the door. ‘We don’t have a choice. I lift, you hold the spell!’

  Durnus ran after him, shaking his head. Farden was already trying to find somewhere to grip the slippery stone. His fingernails scraped at the base of the door, but to no avail. Farden pushed as hard as he could but still nothing happened. In anger and frustration he punched the stone plinth that held up the door, sending a quake spell rippling through the pier. A wave crashed over them and soaked the pair to the bone. ‘It’s not moving!’ yelled Durnus, as he struggled to wrangle the quickdoor’s energy. Words of frantic spells tumbled from his lips.

  Farden gritted his teeth and heaved and strained against the solid black rock. Any moment now Ilios could come through, dead or maimed, and his uncle and Eyrum would be trapped or dead alongside him. Farden’s arms shook. The symbols on his wrists burnt white. His vambraces rattled under the pressure of the magick coursing through his body. The pier began to shake violently.

  As another wave collided with the end of the pier, he heard a crack and thud, and for a sickening moment he thought it was too late, but then the stone under his hand b
uckled and split, and the door-frame began to teeter and wobble.

  ‘Durnus!’ roared Farden, but the vampyre was deep in concentration, fangs bared and snarling at his task. Just as a pulse of light flashed across the teetering doorway, Farden slammed his shoulder against the stone with one last desperate effort, driving his magick hard into the stone. It came just in time.

  With an enormous bang, the quickdoor split in two and toppled backwards. Durnus kept the quickdoor open just long enough for two men and a wounded gryphon to escape. In a flurry of feathers and limbs they flew high into the air, hovering for that brief moment at the highest point, eyes wide and bewildered, stomachs in mouths, before plummeting to the ground with cries of pain and surprise. Ilios slumped where he landed, whistling mournfully, yellow eyes clamped shut, wounded but alive.

  Farden fell to his knees as the quickdoor tumbled into the sea, shattering in a fountain of steam. The black stone fractured like hot glass and it sent razor-sharp shards flying in all directions. A thin sliver of one cut a long path across the mage’s cheek and neck and buried itself deep in his shoulder. Farden winced and fell to the ground, more from surprise than anything else. He slowly rolled onto his back and lay spread-eagled on the slimy, sea-worn stone of the pier. He put a hand to his bloody shoulder and stared up at the grey clouds.

  Soaked to his core, tired, and now injured, Farden breathed a sigh of relief. Then he smiled, because high above him the sky was filling up with every colour he could think of, a scaly rainbow of dragons numbering in their hundreds, circled overhead like giant benevolent vultures. Even over the cacophony of the throbbing waves and the howling wind, he could hear their roars and their trumpeting. It was good to be back, he thought, good indeed.

  Part Two

  The Secrets and Iniquities of Gods and Men

  …She shouted at the top of her lungs. ‘One more terrible than Three! He’s closer than we imagined! They have to kill it before it’s t…!’ and that was all she managed. A hand reached out from the oily darkness and snapped her neck in two. Fingers of brimstone and nails of iron crushed her skull. The other daemon snarled and hissed and began to pull at the fleshy part of her wings, whining for his master’s approval. Darkness rumbled like a storm in the night, and a shape, huge and brooding and dripping with malice, slunk away into the nothing. Left to its own devices, the smaller daemon began to devour her lifeless flesh, gulping down her blood and soul until nothing was left but feathers and a dirty sword…

  Chapter 9

  “So, these mages…”

  “The Written?”

  “No, not them, the others, the rest.”

  “Right…?”

  “Well, where did they get their spell books from?”

  “They keep them in the Arfell libraries with the scholars. Or in Manesmark, in the School.”

  “Yeah, but where did they come from?”

  “Er, well dear boy, it must have been the spellsmiths. They were responsible for gathering them all up, and for making new ones.”

  “When was this?”

  “Hundreds of years ago, I think, before they were all burnt at the stake or something.”

  “Well what about before that?”

  “Hmm. Well, you've got a point there. Probably the elves or the gods, I guess.”

  “Do you reckon they'd let me have a spell book?”

  “Dear boy, you can't be trusted with beer, never mind a spell book.”

  Drunken conversation

  It took two dragons to tow Ilios up the hill and into the mountain fortress of Hjaussfen. The gryphon lay upon a makeshift sledge made of driftwood and thick rope, whistling all the while at the dragons and at Tyrfing, who despite a twisted ankle and many a bruise stayed at his side the entire time. The dragons, like the old mage, seemed to understand the gryphon’s mournful whistling, and they chattered and whined back in a language that was far older than the tongue of any Siren. Only Durnus, for some reason, seemed to understand parts of their conversation, not that he would have admitted it however. He just feigned ignorance, and shrugged along with the others.

  Farden and the others made quite a sight as they limped and hobbled up the rocky slopes that criss-crossed the face of the slate-grey cliffs, hanging from each other like the walking wounded of a war, covered in blood and sand, clothes soaking wet. For all their cuts, bruises, red-rimmed eyes, and cold skin they could have easily passed for a gang of ghosts. Even Durnus was a paler shade than normal; his grey vampyre skin now bordering on white. The Siren soldiers flanking them couldn’t help but stare and whisper. Some even laughed.

  Eyrum chatted away to his scaled comrades in his deep gruff voice. Like Farden, it had been months since he had left his homeland. The mage had never seen the man so verbose. Farden smiled.

  Their entrance into the fortress was greeted by a small crowd of dragons and Sirens from the higher echelons of the Nelska society. Some sat atop their dragons while others clumped together to keep warm, wearing thick coats and hoods made of goose down and sabre-cat fur. They clapped politely and stared with wonder at the poor gryphon as he was tugged past them on his sledge. Tyrfing kept his head down, a tight yet respectful smile on his face, and walked past the crowd, wishing his jacket had a hood. Caring only for his gryphon, he followed Ilios down the hallway. The others stayed behind.

  In the centre of the colourful crowd stood the goldest and oldest of them all, the Old Dragon, Farfallen, a welcoming smile on his scaly lips, teeth bared and scales flashing in the torchlight. By his side stood the imperious-looking queen, his rider Svarta. She was clad in a long copper dress and a thick sabre-cat fur coat. As usual, her expression was devoid of humour. A smile was as foreign to her face as a seagull was to a library.

  Once everyone had arrived, Farfallen lifted a massive claw and pointed to the great doors behind them. The soldiers closed them with a bang and locked them tight to keep the bitter wind out. ‘Finally!’ boomed the dragon. ‘Well met and good wishes, friends. With no message or hawk we were beginning to worry.’ Durnus and Eyrum opened their mouths but the Old Dragon smiled. ‘You may explain later, but for now hot food and baths await you all, and healers too by the looks of it,’ said Farfallen, in a voice as deep as the roots of a mountain.

  The three men bowed deeply and tried, unsuccessfully, to hide their joy. The small crowd dispersed like morning fog and Farfallen and Svarta led the way towards the hot springs and the steaming baths. Hjaussfen seemed cold and quiet. Save for their echoing footsteps and those of the scattering crowd, there were few noises to be heard. The crackling of the torches was loud against the muted silence. Other dragons and riders passed them, padding softly through the honeycomb corridors. They bowed to the Old Dragon and nodded courteously to the returned warriors. The mood in the fortress seemed subdued. The silence was quickly broken, however, for just as they reached an ornately carved spiral staircase, there came a loud shout from behind them.

  ‘Farden!’ It was more of an elated screech than a shout, and it came from Elessi. Farden and the others turned around to see the chambermaid running across the flagstones to meet them with her skirts held high with each hand to avoid tripping, and a skinny black cat trotting alongside her. Farden smiled and stepped forward to greet her. He was almost knocked flying as she collided with him, half-hugging half-wrapping herself around him. Farden chuckled and then winced as her wrist caught the shard stuck in his shoulder.

  ‘Agh! Elessi, careful,’ he managed, and her expression instantly changed to worry and concern.

  ‘Oh gods, I’m sorry Farden! That looks bad,’ she put a hand over her mouth and stared at the deep cut along his cheek.

  ‘It’s fine, don’t worry about it,’ he said, patting the back of her hand comfortingly. ‘It’s good to see you Elessi,’ he added with a smile. ‘And you Lerel,’ he said to the little cat by her side. Lerel just winked and said nothing.

  ‘I just heard from one of the servants that you came back through that door thing, you and the others here
.’ Remembering her manners she quickly curtseyed to Durnus, then Eyrum, then Svarta, and then finally to Farfallen. The dragon hid his smile pretty well. Svarta crossed her arms and waited for the annoying woman to go away. ‘You’ve been gone so long I was beginning to worry,’ said the maid.

  ‘As usual,’ mumbled Durnus.

  Farden ignored him. ‘Well we’re all safe and sound. You need to meet my uncle, Tyrfing, he’s gone to…’

  But the black cat yowled and held up her paw. Her tail swished impatiently from side to side. ‘Tyrfing is here?’ she quickly interrupted.

  Farden nodded. ‘Yes, he’s…’

  ‘Tell me,’ interrupted Lerel. ‘Now.’

  The mage, beginning to understand what she meant, pointed in the direction Tyrfing had gone. Lerel instantly scampered off, tail pointing high in the air. Elessi looked confused and moved to follow her. ‘I better go see what’s goin’ on. I’ll see you later, Farden,’ she said, hurriedly running after the cat, skirts held high once again.

  ‘What an odd woman,’ muttered Svarta as she rolled her eyes.

  Farden shook his head and smiled. ‘I need me a bath,’ he said, and they walked on.

  ‘I’ll second that,’ said Durnus. ‘Though I wish I could see the look on Elessi’s face when she sees the gryphon, or your uncle, or especially when Lerel is turned back into her original form.’

  ‘You don’t see that every day in Albion,’ replied Farden. He couldn’t help but wonder what Lerel would look like. He was sure he would find out soon.

  ‘Have I missed something here?’ said Eyrum, rubbing his forehead.

  ‘I’m assuming that it is because our good Tyrfing is the only one who can turn Lerel into her human form again, seeing as he was the one who did it in the first place,’ Durnus explained. Eyrum nodded. Behind them Svarta mumbled something about shapeshifters and evil.