Pale Kings (Emaneska Series)

by Ben Galley

  Without warning, a clatter of frantic feet came around a corner and a young boy, sweaty and dusty, suddenly collided with his chest. The cup of hot farska exploded over Modren’s armour, and in a blur he grabbed the boy by the hair, yanked him to the ground and whipped out his sword. He had it to the boy’s neck in seconds. At the sight of a fiery-eyed, stew-covered, sword-wielding Written, the boy hung limp, even more terrified than before. There was a smear of blood across his cheek and crusting his nose. ‘What in gods’ name are you up to boy?’ barked Modren, more startled than angry. Lumps of meat and potato were slowly sliding down his breastplate.

  The boy didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Soon enough more feet rounded the corner, though this time they were armoured and heavy and accompanied by heavy breathing. Keeping the sword at the boy’s shoulder Modren turned to face the newcomers. Two Skölgard soldiers skidded to a halt and breathed two great sighs of relief. They panted and banged the butts of their halberds on the cobbles. ‘Nice catch,’ one chuckled, a muscular man with dark skin and a haze of stubble framing his face.

  ‘Almost got away from us didn’t you, boy?’ said another, a taller man with a shaved head. Both wore suits of pale metal plate armour. Both of them had a wild look in their eyes.

  ‘Dirty little beggar,’ added the first, waggling the shiny blade of his halberd close to the boy’s face. ‘Thought you could escape.’

  Modren batted the weapon aside his hand, glaring at the two soldiers. ‘Watch who you’re waving that pig-sticker at.’

  ‘And who exactly would that be, Arka?’

  The second soldier looked Modren up and down. ‘Mage by the looks of him,’ he murmured.

  Modren motioned for the boy to stay where he was and took a step forward into a patch of fluttering torchlight. His yellow cloak billowed in the wind. ‘That’d be “Captain” to you two.’

  But the two soldiers merely smirked, nodding to the chunks of meat and vegetable that were slowly migrating down the mage’s armoured chest. Modren tapped his sword on his boot. ‘Something funny?’

  The first soldier took a step forward and leant heavily on his the shaft of his halberd, pointing to the spilt stew. ‘Seems to me like you’ve missed your mouth, Captain.’

  Modren’s foot moved so quickly the soldiers only realised what was happening after one of them was already sprawling on the ground, having had his weapon kicked out from under him. Modren tutted and flicked the point of his sword under the soldier’s chin. ‘Seems to me like you’ve lost your balance, and please, if you like your head attached to your shoulders then I’d suggest you stay exactly where you are. Now, perhaps one of you can explain to me why you were chasing this boy?’

  The second soldier, now twitchy and unsure, looked over at the cowering lad and sneered. ‘He’s a thief.’

  Modren turned to look at the boy, who shook his head vehemently. ‘What did he steal?’

  The soldier on the ground, very aware of the sword under his chin, spat to the side, narrowly avoiding Modren’s boot. ‘He stole some coin.’

  ‘That’s right,’ the second soldier agreed.

  ‘Did he now?’ asked the mage. The boy shook his head again. ‘And what were you going to do with him?’ asked Modren, eyes turning steely and hard. He had noticed the blood on the fists of the first soldier. It was not his own. Neither of the soldiers answered for a moment. Then the first spat again, this time on Modren’s cloak. The mage shook his head and moved so that the sword was tickling the man’s eyeball. ‘Do that again and you’ll regret it. What were you going to do with him?’ repeated Modren, already guessing at the answers. His anger was beginning to build.

  ‘Chase him,’ mumbled the first.

  ‘Beat some sense into him,’ hissed the second.

  ‘Then?’

  Silence.

  Modren pushed the sword into the soft fleshy spot beneath the soldier’s eye. He didn’t blink. Instead he just stuck out his chin and glared at the mage. ‘Answer me or I swear I’ll make you regret being born. What were you planning on doing with him?’

  The first soldier sneered, flicking his eyes to stare at the boy. ‘Whatever we wanted,’ he replied. ‘Young boy like him, not going to put up much of a fight is he? Serves him right for being out at night, all alone…’

  Modren’s boot caught him in the side of the jaw and all four of them heard the crack of bone and teeth. One felt it. The other soldier jabbed forward with the halberd but Modren snarled at him and held out a hand glittering with sparks. ‘I’m waiting,’ he growled.

  ‘WHAT’S GOING ON HERE?’ bellowed a deep and hoarse voice. General Agfrey and a handful of her lackeys had emerged from an adjoining street and spotted the commotion. She was puffed up, furious, and red like a beetroot. Modren stood his ground. She marched straight up to him and prodded him with her lump of a fist. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, Written? I’ve half a mind to gut you right here for treason!’

  ‘I’d like to see you try,’ Modren brought his face so close to Agfrey’s he almost head-butted her. She shoved him backwards and hauled the soldier with the broken face to his feet with one hand. He yelped and mumbled in pain as the others dragged him away.

  Modren quenched his spell. ‘You want to remember whose city you’re in, Agfrey, and keep your cretinous dogs on a short leash.’

  A soldier tapped Agfrey on the arm and whispered something urgent in her ear. Agfrey nodded and turned to Modren, beginning to back away. ‘And whose king is it sitting in the Arkathedral, drinking Arka wine and bedding Arka women? Krauslung is ours now mage, you’d better get used to it,’ she sneered.

  Modren shook his head. Beneath his clothes and armour, his Book burnt white hot. Agfrey and her soldiers laughed at him. ‘You’re not worth the steel,’ he snarled at them. He grabbed the young boy by the arm and hauled him down the street, fuming with anger and shouts of ‘coward!’ ringing in his ears.

  Once they were out sight and earshot, Modren halted. He looked at the young boy writhing in his grasp. He couldn’t have been older than nine years old, maybe ten at the most, and he was no more than a scrawny bag of bones and terrified eyes. A constellation of spots wandered across his sweaty face. Modren slowly let go of his arm but before he could say anything, the boy bolted down the street, shoes thumping the cobbles.

  Modren sighed. ‘You’re welcome,’ he whispered to the empty street.

  High above the smoke-filled sewers, high above the sulking cobbles and the ice-clad slate rooftops of the subdued city, high above the slumbering soldiers and their bitter streets, the people of the Arkathedral slept through it all. All, that is, except for one.

  Cheska lay flat on the cold floor of her dark peephole of a cell, eyes rimmed with pain-filled tears, both teeth and fists clenched like clamps as another wave of pain coursed over her swollen womb. Cursing everything and everyone she could think of and one mage in particular, she took several deep breaths and waited for the pain to pass.

  Eventually it did, and Cheska managed to prop herself up onto her elbows. She breathed a sigh of relief and rubbed her hand across her pregnant bulge, feeling the marks where her skin had stretched to accommodate her burden. Something kicked her hand and for a very brief moment, a shiver of something ran through her blood, as if cold water had been flushed through her veins. The tiniest of smiles curled her lip, but it quickly disappeared as another brief wave of pain took its place. It was smaller this time. Manageable. Cheska breathed slowly and deeply and it gradually passed. She shook her head and sighed. At least her broken fingers had almost healed, she thought as she clenched her aching hand.

  The princess pushed herself into a sitting position and wiped the sweat from her brow. Her bladder complained at her but she ignored it. The princess refused to use the stinking bucket in the corner any more; she wouldn’t give Vice the satisfaction. With a clench of her tender fist, blue light illuminated the room and she got to her feet, telling her bladder to quieten down.

  Slowly and gi
ngerly, Cheska waddled across the room to her uncomfortable straw mattress and sat down with a long and well-earned sigh. The princess was convinced the child would come any day now. She wished it would. She longed for the torture to be over. In her opinion, pregnancy was almost as bad as her Ritual had been, and that was not a comparison to be made lightly. Cheska flopped onto the equally uncomfortable pillow. Once this baby was out of her she would be let out of that horrible cell. That was all she cared about at that moment in time. The thought of what Vice might do with her afterwards had been thoroughly banished from her mind, and Cheska had refused to let her father’s words disturb her. No, she told herself, she was important to Vice’s plans. She was vital.

  Cheska closed her eyes. She concentrated on making her heart beat as slow as it could, like she had been taught at the School not so long ago, and tried to ignore the smell of her cell, of her bucket, and the pain of her aching womb. At long last she fell into the foggy realms of a half-sleep, where time had no meaning and dreams were rife.

  But perhaps there was another person in the Arkathedral avoiding sleep. Outside her fortified door, someone else was awake, and stalking the corridors like a hungry bear.

  Bane was skirting the edges of drunk. The king was clutching a gurgling bottle of something in one of his giant hands, plodding through the silent and dark corridors of the Arkathedral and muttering to himself under his foul, drink-spiced breath. He stopped at a large window and stared at the cold city below, watching how the intermittent moonlight made the icy roofs glitter like jewels. The beauty was completely lost on him. The king breathed on the glass, as though smothering Krauslung with heavy fog, and then with a squeaking fingertip, he drew a crude sketch of a noose in the mist. How much longer must he bide his time? the king asked himself. Bane cursed and spat and watched his spittle run down the window pane. He hated this boring city and its pathetic population. He was tired of waiting for his bloody war. He wanted excitement, and tonight he was hunting for it.

  Bane took another swig from his bottle and wandered on. He passed a few doors and kicked them with the toe of his boot, daring their inhabitants to open them. Nobody appeared, which was probably just as well. Bane grunted and ran his nails along the smooth polished wall. They scraped and squeaked like strangled mice.

  He came across another doorway and came to a swaying halt. Bane turned to the door with his boot ready and waiting, and then realised he recognised this particular door; it was the one Vice had warned him away from, that special, secret door of his, the door behind which he suspected his precious daughter Cheska was hiding. Bane’s eyes flashed in the gloomy darkness and he took a step towards the door, a malicious intent already forming in his wine-addled mind. The king sneered at the doorway and waved his half-empty bottle at it, swearing at its magick locks and bolts as though the door had verbally assaulted him. Bane squared up to it and tapped its solid wooden frame with his spare finger. ‘Anyone home?’ he whispered, and both the corridor and the door stayed quiet, refusing to answer the drunken king.

  ‘Thought so,’ said Bane. After an enormous gulp, he placed his bottle carefully on the floor and then rubbed his bear-like hands together. The door wobbled in front of him. He licked his lips and he put his hands on it to keep it still, and set about finding the hidden keys to Vice’s locking spell. Inch by inch his fingers crept like slugs across the door-frame until at last he found what he was looking for. Vice thought he was so clever, so skilled, Bane chuckled to himself. Brother or not, Vice was an egocentric fool, far too concerned with his cunning little plots and plans, too obsessed with his histories and the prized pot-bellied pig that was Bane’s pregnant daughter. They were deluded if they thought the child was going to be anything but a bastard. He had told Vice a hundred times, but his brother had been vehement, and so Bane had given him his daughter, let her be used. Bane snorted then. There was nothing special about this foretold child of theirs, and he couldn’t wait to see the look on their faces when they realised it. Fools. They would turn to him and beg him for forgiveness. Beg him for a war. Beg for the use of his army. They were weak, and Bane was fed up with waiting on them. A king took what he wanted when he wanted.

  With a click and a thud, the magick locks came loose and slid apart. The spell was broken. Bane kicked the door roughly with the toe of his boot and it opened with a creaky squeal. Careful not to forget his bottle, he stepped into the room and half-closed the door behind him.

  ‘Cheska,’ he called, in a voice as slippery and as dark as tar. Something moaned and rustled in the darkness and Bane grinned. ‘Cheska,’ he said again, louder this time, and a sleepy voice answered with a tired groan.

  ‘Vice? What is it now?’ A light spell pierced the gloom and illuminated Bane’s leering face staring down at her. Cheska recoiled and pressed herself up against the cold wall, hugging it like a limpet. ‘What do you want?’ she spat. Her father waved his bottle and shrugged nonchalantly. ‘You’re drunk again. Go away,’ said the princess.

  Bane took another step forward and Cheska got to her feet as quickly as she could. ‘What do I want?’ he replied. ‘You know what I want.’

  ‘Go away,’ said Cheska, sidling along the wall of her cell to stay out of his reach. ‘I’m warning you.’

  ‘I want war,’ he said, wiping something from his beard. ‘I want death.’

  Cheska’s heart was beating against her chest. She had seen her father in this state before, when she was a little girl. It was not something she ever wished to repeat. She pointed a finger at him as though it were a knife. ‘I swear to the gods, you touch me and I’ll give you death. Go find one of your little whores and play with her instead.’

  But Bane kept coming, unruffled by the threats. The princess could feel his gaze probing her, crawling over her body. ‘I want carnage, Cheska. I’m tired of this scheming, this waiting, this boring life, scratching an existence like the filthy rats living below us. I want the glory of the old days, when people fell at our feet and shivered with fear. When we took what we wanted.’

  ‘You’re a fool. Vice will give us all that and more!’

  ‘Patience has never been my virtue,’ Bane shook his head and smiled. ‘I want it now.’

  ‘Leave me alone!’ shrieked Cheska.

  The drunken king had somehow managed to corner her. He took another swig from his bottle without taking his glowing eyes off her. ‘You look so much like your mother; did I ever tell you that? She was just like you, at the end,’ he whispered.

  ‘Fuck you,’ swore Cheska. Little sparks of electricity began to shiver at her fingertips.

  But Bane was quicker.

  Dropping his bottle, he surged forward and seized her wrists and slammed her up against the dank wall. His breath smelled of wine and spirits and old meat. Cheska shrieked and tried to keep her face away from his, but it was no use. His beard was rough against the skin of her neck. ‘Vice is the fool, not me! Did you hear me?’ he barked in her ear. ‘The Dust Song isn’t real!’

  ‘Get off me!’ Cheska’s wrist tattoos glowed as lightning flowed from her fingers and coursed along her father’s arms. But Bane was too drunk to notice. Instead of recoiling in pain, he took a step back and backhanded her with his huge fist. Cheska slumped to the floor, dazed and dizzy. One of his rings had cut her cheek. She touched a finger to her face to feel hot blood. She screamed at the top of her lungs, hoping a passing guard or a soldier would come to her rescue, but Bane’s fingers wrapped around her throat and wrenched her upwards. Her scream died to a whisper on her tongue. With his spare hand, he ripped her thin blouse from her skin and threw it to the cold floor. Cheska kicked and punched wildly, hoping to catch him in the groin or scratch one of his eyes with her sharp fingernails, but Bane was too strong and too drunk. He slammed her head against the wall until she was barely conscious. Darkness gathered at the edges of her vision. Cheska could hardly breathe, let alone scream, and as darkness crept into the edges of her vision, she caught a glimpse of a shadow in the doorway, an
d reached out for help. Bane slapped her hand aside and grabbed the hem of her skirt, fingers sliding up her thigh.

  ‘You disgust me,’ he whispered, his vile tongue inches from her cheek.

  But unbeknownst to the king, a pair of iron hands were slowly encircling his neck, hands that glowed with an unearthly red and orange glow, hands shimmering with a powerful spell. A voice rumbled in his ear. ‘You disgust yourself,’ it said.

  Bane lurched as the hands seized him, shaking as though they had sucked the very breath straight out of him. ‘Let her go!’ shouted the voice, but the king was stubborn and slammed Cheska against the wall once more. The hands only gripped tighter. They wrenched him backwards and Bane had no choice but to let go. Cheska slumped to the floor and looked on dazedly as Bane thrashed his arms about wildly in a vain effort to grab his attacker.

  Vice had his hands locked around Bane’s thick neck now and was dragging him backwards across the cell. Had the king been sober it would have been a different story, but luckily for Vice he wasn’t, and the more Bane struggled the tighter he gripped. His hands shimmered with a strange crystalline fire, neither orange nor red nor anywhere in between, and it stung Cheska’s eyes to look at them. She shielded her face and watched, choked and breathless, as the Arkmage pulled her foul father to the floor with an almighty crash. Bane spat out some words. ‘Vice you snake! Don’t you dare!’

  ‘I warned you, brother!’ Vice yelled. He used his legs to keep the thrashing king at bay and used the leverage to tighten his grip even further. Bane’s fiery eyes bulged and the veins on his head throbbed. His breath gurgled in his throat. Vice shifted his weight and his grip and something appeared in his hand, something long and thin and glowing hotly like a shard of light. His spell began to shake the air as he held the shard like a dagger.