Pale Kings (Emaneska Series)

by Ben Galley

  Unfortunately, Hjaussfen seemed to have run out. The palace and the fortress beneath it had been filled with hubbub and madness. The palatial corridors were now home to camps of refugees from all over Nelska. The Long Winter had finally driven them south and now they had nowhere else to go. Makeshift tents and lean-to’s lined the edges of the hallways, struggling to find space amongst the growing piles of supplies and the constant swarms of people rushing to and fro. More than once along the corridor he trod on a hand or a foot poking out from a tent or sleeping roll. He mumbled his apologies and walked on, bewildered and aching.

  He made it to the great hall and found it crammed to bursting with soldiers, peasants, riders, dragons, and everyone in between. The cavernous place was like a beehive, buzzing with voices and the clanging of armour and mail. It was as though last night’s party had never stopped; simply morphing into a battlefield instead. Farden was careful to keep out of the way. He stood in a doorway and watched the bedlam from there. There was no other word for it, he decided. Desperate bedlam.

  Ranks upon ranks of half-dressed soldiers stood in lines, arms out straight, waiting to be given their armour and their weapons. Carts of clanking metal were hauled up and down the lines while a team of weary-looking Sirens doled out their contents left right and centre. Some of the pieces of armour looked new and shiny, some were antiques from the last war, rusted and scratched and dented, and the rest was a poor excuse for protection, mere hardened leather and scraggy chainmail cobbled together from forge-scraps. Farden didn’t blame them. Time and resources were tight, and the Sirens were using anything they could get their scaly hands on.

  And anyone for that matter. Word had it that the hawk sent to Krauslung had never returned, and that the spies had found nothing and no one. The chance of raising a resistance in Krauslung was looking bleaker by the hour. Farden had been wondering why he had only seen mothers, children, and the elderly camping in the corridors, and now he knew why. Every spare and able-bodied man and woman had been conscripted into the growing army, no matter who or what they were. The strange thing was, none of them seemed to be complaining about it. Even the young men barely out of boyhood wore the same look of steely, grinning anticipation. Who knew what awaited them in Krauslung, thought Farden.

  The refugee conscripts were easy to point out; their scales were of paler hues than those of the Hjaussfen Sirens and their clothes were positively rural. A group nearby wore nothing but bear-skin tunics and wide-brimmed hats made from dried seaweed. Farden assumed they must have been from the far north, maybe as far as the ice fields. Their accents and dialects were different too, from what the mage could pick out. They chatted excitedly and in quick sentences. They looked at their new armour and curved swords as though they had fallen from the sky.

  There were others there too. A contingent of wizards stood gathered around a fireplace. They wore long black and grey robes with coloured sashes. Farden knew from experience that the sashes denoted rank, with purple being the highest. Brown and grey were the lowest. Their spell books hung by their sides as always, hidden away in thick leather satchels and tucked inside their robes. The bulge under the clothes was obvious. In battle, a wizard could wrap copies of their spells around their arms and wrists so they could read them quicker, or have them on coiled strings inside their cloaks, rather than having to flip through their heavy tomes in the heat of the moment. One of the wizards caught Farden’s gaze and nodded respectfully. There was a look in his eye however that said something different, something Farden didn’t quite understand.

  There were witches in the hall. The mage had never seen a witch in the flesh, but had heard many a story. It was said that a witch could turn a man into a block of ice by kissing them, that they were followed by ghosts who could tell them every secret they wished to know. Farden had heard tales of witches flying on magick rugs, or on pine branches covered in special tar, or with wings made of goose and black swan feathers. He had no idea which of these tales were true, but what he did know was that the witches got their magick from jewellery, and were great collectors of magick trinkets. They had no books, no tattoos, just things passed from witch to witch. To the untrained eye, this might have seemed a weakness, and saying so to a witch would have been an insult and would probably have resulted in the loss of a limb. No, the witch clans of the ice fields were masters of potions and poisons, cantrips and concoctions, physicks and philtres. And more than handy with a blade, too.

  The witches in the hall were skinny, pale women, and their tartan kilts were white and blue. Their long robes and upper garments were decorated with long black goose feathers which made them rustle and sigh with every movement. Their eyes were white like snow with pupils as black as their feathers, and their scales were greyish in colour. Almost all of them wore their dark hair knotted in long, thick dreadlocks, which, rumour had it, was for keeping warm on the ice.

  Some of the witches had bags at their sides. Others had thick belts with pouches and pockets filled with what can only be described as things. Gods only knew what they were carrying. Their fingers and necks were covered in necklaces and rings of all colours, and while their faces were haughty and suspicious of their surroundings and their arms constantly folded, they smiled at each other often, and when they smiled the mage saw sharp needle teeth in their mouths, similar to the wild Sirens he had seen the night before. Now that he thought about it, the northern Sirens and witches were actually rather similar in appearance. Farden found himself wondering whether the teeth had been filed into that shape or if they were natural.

  Farden noticed something odd about one of the witches. There seemed to be something moving in her hair. Farden squinted and suddenly realised it was a bird: a little brown finch with iridescent blue stripes like a dragonfly. The finch pecked at one of the witch’s dreads and the witch, completely unperturbed by a bird in her hair and deep in conversation, clicked her fingers and the little finch flapped its tiny wings and flew to the witch’s fingers, where it stayed.

  It was at that moment that Farden noticed a pair of yellow eyes staring at him through the crowd of strange people. A pale face, devoid of expression, gazed at the mage like a frog gazes at its own reflection. The face smiled at him and bared two rows of distinctly fearsome teeth. It was the man from the previous night, the dragon-rider from the far north, one of the Lost Clans, as Brightshow had called them. Farden felt cold just looking at him. He wore nothing but a kilt of tails and an open jacket of black bear fur. There was a dragon behind him, a lithe black dragon flecked with gold and red like lava bubbling through cracks in basalt. The dragon’s canary eyes were thin and wary and her bristling crest of horns had been painted red. Knotted scales ran along her spine and flanks, scales gnarled like the bark of a tortured oak tree. Her feet were thick and webbed, presumably for walking on snow, and her claws had the appearance of saw-blades.

  The mage held the man’s gaze until he looked away and whispered something to his dragon. The dragon growled something in reply, shrugged, and then lay down to rest her head on her foreclaws. Her black tongue tasted the air with little flicks. The rider politely excused himself and made his way through the crowded hall towards the mage.

  Farden, not in the mood for any sort of small talk or awkward conversation, considered turning to leave, but it was already too late. Anything he did now would just seem rude. Small talk it would have to be then, he said to himself.

  The muscular man approached him slowly. Yellow eyes stared into Farden’s grey-green, and together they sized one another up like duelling sabre-cats. There was an uncomfortable moment where Farden wondered if he should bow, and then fortunately the strange rider walked forward holding his hand in front of him at a strange angle, as if he was out of practice when it came to shaking hands. Farden firmly shook his rough, scaly hand and the man smiled.

  ‘They say you killed the hydra,’ said the man. His voice was hoarse and his mouth was crammed with long, thin, and intimidatingly sharp teeth, like a dragon’s. Hi
s dark scales covered his eyebrows, his cheekbones, his neck, and his temples, and he had shaved his hair into a thin stripe that ran from his forehead to the back of his neck. Strange shallow ridges of bone hid under the skin of his scalp. Farden guessed him to be in his late fifties, but it was impossible to tell with Sirens. There was definitely something about this man, and his Lost Clan for that matter, that verged on the dangerously suspicious. There seemed to be a bit more dragon in them than the Hjaussfen Sirens, a hint of unsettling wildness. Farden wondered if they were trustworthy.

  The mage nodded. ‘That I did,’ he replied. ‘Though it was with the help of Farfallen and his dragons.’ At this the man smirked.

  ‘Is that so, Written?’ he said. ‘And now the golden one leads us to war once again.’

  Farden gave the man a wary look. ‘I can’t think of anyone better.’

  ‘Perhaps you haven’t met him yet.’

  The mage crossed his arms. He was quickly making up his mind about this strange character. ‘I didn’t get your name…?’

  The man winked. ‘That is because I didn’t give it,’ he said, bowing deeply and waving his arms about in mock regality. ‘Well met, and good wishes. I am Saker, lord of the North and master of the Castle of the Winds.’

  The small talk was over. ‘Farden, mage, and lord of extremely busy. If you’ll excuse me, there are a few things I have to attend to.’

  Saker winked. ‘That you do, sir mage, that you do. Say hello to that gryphon for me.’

  Farden nodded and swiftly left, confused and suspicious. He wondered if the northern Sirens were really as Siren as they pretended to be. Even Brightshow had seemed wary of them and their dragons. Farden shrugged to himself; he had enough problems of his own to deal with.

  The mage left the bustling hall and its crowds to themselves, and wandered back to his room. His head pounded. He needed more sleep. Like the lost lines of a song, the previous night’s dream and the mention of Ilios were beginning to play on his aching brain.

  Initially, Farden was worried about slip-sliding back into a sleep infested with another murky nest of his disturbing dreams, but as it turned out nightmares were the least of his problems. Sleep itself was.

  Try as he might, and no matter how many times he punched the pillows, reshuffled the sheets, or shifted around the bed, he still wound up staring dumbly at the ceiling or the equally uninteresting walls. His rooms were cold, there was a strange perfume on his sheets that he half-recognised, and to make things worse his mind was intent on churning over everything from the day before like a chattering waterwheel. His incessant thinking kept him awake.

  One of his biggest flaws, Farden had realised some time ago, was his irritating overactive imagination. Every whisper of a winter leaf, every creak of an old door, every subtle nuance of mumbled conversation, every stranger’s glance, his mind would begin to turn like the gaudy pages of a picture-book, depicting every fantastical possibility that could possibly be extrapolated from such miniscule occurrences. It was no surprise then that thoughts of Cheska were the most prominent, and for that he could not blame himself, but everything else in the world was clamouring for his attention at the same time. Scenarios of knives and dark rooms floated past his eyes. Possibilities and hopes paraded around his room. Dark possibilities plagued his mind like waves battering a shore. Then at last, wisps of helpless grief arrived as the thought of his mission, his terrible, murderous mission, drifted past his heart. He lay still and yet tossed and turned at the same time. Thoughts of Vice came with gritted teeth and ideas of sweet revenge, followed by doubts over his uncle’s words. Was Farden strong enough to take on a pale king? What if Ilios was wrong? What if the Dust Song was nonsense? What if it wasn’t? Could he really, if faced with the possibility, kill his child and the only woman he had ever loved? What if he ran away and got to them before the others, before it was too late? Would she come? Did she still love him? What if, what if?

  The mage talked to himself inside his head, instructing himself what to do about this and that, and slowly but surely, over a course of a few hours, his over-active mind grew quiet, and the dark thoughts left him be. His mind once again, was made up, his course was set. Farden’s eyelids drooped like windless sails and the mage soon found himself in a deep and this time, dreamless sleep.

  That was until there came a loud knock on his door.

  The mage awoke with a snort and a cough, blinking the drowsiness from his eyes and pushing the sheets away from him as though they were trying to smother him. ‘Hello?’ he managed, his throat hoarse from his groggy sleep.

  ‘It’s me,’ said a muffled female voice.

  ‘Elessi?’

  ‘No, it’s Lerel,’ replied the voice with a laugh, a laugh that kindled a little spark of recollection from the night before. Farden groaned, rubbing his head, and was momentarily comforted by the fact his headache had almost disappeared.

  Lerel drummed on the door with her nails. ‘Are you going to let me in then? Your door is locked.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ mumbled the mage and outside in the corridor Lerel huffed. A few moments later and the door was opened, and Farden was blinking blearily at the people outside. Lerel was there, a coy smile spreading across her lips at the sight of the sleepy mage with his tangled hair, and a group of Sirens he didn’t recognise.

  ‘A present from your uncle,’ she said, pushing the door open with her toe. Farden stood aside scratching his head as the Sirens walked into his room bearing boxes and blankets and bags and bits and pieces. ‘How nice of him,’ said Farden, eyeing a few shiny trinkets poking out from under paper and straw packing. Lerel was watching the mage from the corner of her eye, and when he turned and caught her gaze she smiled all the more. ‘What?’ he asked, knowing full well what.

  ‘That’s twice I’ve woken you up today.’

  Farden cleared his throat and fought a confused grin as best he could. He searched around for something to say. ‘Last night was fun.’ That would have to do, he thought.

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t remember,’ she muttered, glaring at him in what Farden hoped was mock-annoyance. She sniffed and looked down her nose at him. ‘I’m not sure what you’re referring to. I went straight to my room after the party,’ she said, and then pointed towards the door. ‘Anyway, there’s someone here to say hello.’

  As the Sirens left, Farden poked his head around the door-frame and saw a familiar beaked face and fierce yellow eyes staring back at him. Ilios trilled a happy-sounding warble and then crouched down so Farden could ruffle his feathers. The gryphon purred. Behind them dragons and riders passed by, glancing at the gryphon with curious yet respectful looks, every one of them trying their utmost to avoid treading in the beast’s flickering shadow. The mage made a mental note to clear that intriguing aspect up with his uncle.

  Farden knelt down to look at the gryphon’s wounded side. The Siren healers had definitely worked their magick, and even though the wound was still an ugly purple colour, the arrow-hole had been stitched up tightly, and bandaged with a moss and herb poultice. Farden put a hand to his own ribs and felt the ridged scar from his own arrow-wound. He grimaced, remembering how long the pain had lasted. But Ilios seemed happy enough, and with a whistle he strutted around in a circle and flapped one of his wings. The gust of air almost knocked Farden and Lerel over. She laughed and Ilios whistled with her. ‘He’s coming with you to Albion,’ said Lerel.

  Farden smiled at the news. ‘That sounds like a good idea,’ he answered, absently marvelling at how the eagle feathers and lion fur merged perfectly halfway along the gryphon’s body, as if he himself had been stitched together from two separate animals. ‘And what about you?’ he asked. ‘Are you coming with us too?’

  But Lerel shook her head, and the mage found himself unexpectedly disappointed. ‘I’m staying here with Tyrfing and Eyrum. For some reason they need my help with the preparations, though how I’m going to be any help is a mystery to me. And anyway I hear it rains a lot in Albion. Y
ou know how I hate the rain,’ she said, suddenly shivering and cat-like. Farden half expected her to lick the back of her hand and run it through her hair. She went on. ‘Durnus is coming though, and that dragon Brightshow and her rider.’

  ‘Good,’ said Farden. ‘Sounds like a good team.’

  Lerel nodded and leant close to place a light kiss on his cheek, so light it felt as though her lips had accidentally brushed against his skin, and had never been a kiss at all. ‘I don’t have to tell you to be careful. I know you can handle yourself,’ she whispered in his ear, and behind them Ilios whistled a low melody and clacked his beak together. Lerel smiled and led the gryphon away. ‘I’ll see you at the shore later,’ she said, and Farden nodded.

  After he closed the door, the mage gathered together the bags and boxes and packages that the Sirens had left scattered about his room in no discernible order. He lit a fire to warm the room and then began to nose around in the packages, tearing through the paper wrapping and straw padding like a spoilt child on Highfrost’s eve. He was glad to have something to keep his mind occupied.

  The first few bags clinked as he picked them up, hinting at their glassy contents. He upended a few on his bed and out tumbled a handful of little vials full of what looked to be, and smelled to be, mörd, the infamous Arka moonshine. Feeling a wave of nausea wash around his stomach at the smell of the fiery spirit, the mage put them to one side.

  The next few packages contained tightly wrapped foodstuffs; flaky salt-fish and cured bear meat, dried fruits, tack biscuits, and slices of a salty cheese wrapped in seaweed. Sirens and their seaweed, inwardly sighed Farden, before stacking the food on his pillow.

  To accompany his supplies, the mage had been given a new haversack and a new black seal-leather belt with plenty of pouches for stowing his rations. The haversack had been thoughtfully waxed to make it watertight, which was going to be useful in Albion. There was a black hooded cloak and a leather jacket to match, one of the high-collared affairs that the Sirens wore, and a gaggle of grey and white tunics to go with them. The mage shook his head with a smile. He had plenty of coats and cloaks as it was, the last thing he needed was more. Nevertheless, he spread his supplies on the bed, ready to be packed later. He would be travelling light.