by Ben Galley
Next, he set about unfastening the strings that held the wooden boxes shut. The first one contained a freshly-sharpened sword, accompanied by a red shark-scale scabbard. The mage held the silvery blade up to the light of his fire and watched how the flames scampered across the metal, which had been engraved with the usual Siren charms at the base of the blade and a long feather halfway up the blade. The hilt was wide and painted black, as was the pommelstone, and the handle had been bound with red leather and had room enough for a two-handed grip. The blade was long and double-edged, with a deep blood-channel, as straight as an arrow and sharper than a winter’s wind. Farden ran his finger along the deep groove in the centre of the blade and felt the cold of the metal against his skin, cold like snowfall. He looked to where his old weapon stood propped up against the door-frame, old, notched, and tired. A new sword was exactly what he needed.
But it was the remaining boxes he was interested in the most, and after placing the sword to one side he ripped open their ties. There was a knife to match the sword in the smallest box, and a longbow and quiver of green-fletched arrows in the longest, and then he found what he was looking for: a deep box filled with strands of straw, hiding something heavy and solid. Farden delved greedily inside and pulled out the shiny Scalussen gauntlets he knew would be there, eagerly letting them wrap around his hands like coiling snakes. There was no need for gloves; the interwoven metal plates contracted around his fingers with sibilant whispers and creaking murmurs of sliding metal, squeezing there, adjusting here, shuffling and twisting until they fit perfectly. They glowed gold and red in the matching flames, glittering with their own bright fire. Farden clenched and relaxed his fists over and over again, feeling how slight and flexible the metal was, almost paper-thin, and how strong it felt against his strong fingers, even how it stayed cool under the flames of his spells. Farden fetched his vambraces and slid them onto his forearms. He watched with eager eyes as the metal touched and then bit, seizing their adjoining counterparts and fusing together.
The mage could feel the strange energy of the armour flow through his veins like melt-water. It was ice-cold and invigorating, completely different to the hot pulsating of the magick in his blood. Farden closed his eyes and drank it in.
If an onlooker thought it impossible for Farden’s eyes to grow any wider, they would have been mistaken. Somehow, when he discovered a pair of greaves hiding in the bottom of the same box, they did. Farden stared at them. Their diamond-shaped plates overlapped each other like the scales of a dragon’s hide, fiery-red and rich gold, each one a polished mirror that snatched the light. Their surfaces swam with engraved swirls and rippled with a topography of horns and ridges, perfect siblings to his vambraces and gauntlets. And, folded neatly and tucked between the plates, was a note written in smudged green ink. It read:
Nephew,
These may not be parts of the Nine, but I’m sure they’ll keep you safe nonetheless. A word of warning, Farden, I ran away from my fears and buried them in the sand; don’t do the same with metal.
Enjoy your present. I hope it makes up for the years we lost.
Tyrfing.
Farden cast the note aside and sat cradling the greaves, saucer-eyed and confused. How could Tyrfing have possibly come across four pieces of Scalussen armour, let alone pieces of the Nine? Surely it couldn’t be, the mage told himself. Farden prodded them and poked the greaves and dared them to be nothing but normal. He smudged their polished surfaces with fingerprints and then, once he couldn’t take it any more, he tried one of them on, sliding it over his trousers. He fumbled with the buckles and catches for a moment and Farden watched as the metal began to move and bend to fit the shape of his thigh and his knee, knitting themselves together. Then, true enough, and with a wide smile from the mage, the cold shiver of their strange magick began to permeate his skin. They were Scalussen after all. No, they were more than Scalussen; they were pieces of the Scalussen Nine. How could his uncle not believe? Had he never tried them on? Did it only work for certain people? Farden smiled and shrugged to himself. It didn’t matter what Tyrfing thought, Farden knew different. He shivered at the feeling of the cold metal against his palms and smiled. He felt better already. His dark thoughts and even darker destiny would have to wait for now.
Farden packed light, as he knew he had to, and took only the food and the bare essentials. He donned his new jacket and cloak, his clean boots, his Scalussen armour, oiled his new sword, and then packed the haversack with the food and mörd and anything else he thought he would need. He checked the sand-filled pockets of his old cloak for forgotten items and came across a lump of rock no bigger than a big walnut. He rolled the golden rock around his palm, considering whether to pack it or not. Farden tossed it from hand to hand for a moment before finally shrugging and stuffing it into the haversack with the rest of his things. Perhaps it was just a memento of Cheska, or a keepsake from the desert, maybe it was nothing at all, but something made him keep hold of it, and secretly, deeper down than even he could tell, he knew the little rock wasn’t finished with him yet. It was the same reason he kept Eyrum’s dragonscale around his neck, and the same reason he kept the gods in mind; it was better to have something and not need it, than to need it and not have it at all.
The mage met the others at sunset, on the wind-blown shore to the south of the mountain fortress. The weather was ugly. Even the dragons were indoors. The sky was a murky and roiling soup. Pockets of darkness swirled around in it. The sea frothed and overflowed like an upset bowl. Rain and sleet took turns with the waves to lash the rocks and shingles. The storm winds howled like tied-up wolves, intolerably cold and bitter, and whatever snowflakes survived the fall from the bubbling stew of a sky died instantly on the wet and salty rocks.
Offshore, a trio of tall Siren ships tacked northwards around the iron cliffs, battling the gale-force winds with every scrap of skill they had to spare and as much sail as they dared. They pitched and rolled with the mountainous grey-green waves, and the little group of people on the beach imagined they could hear the frenzied shouts of the sailors. Farden shivered at the thought of ships and boats. One shipwreck was enough for one life.
Amidst the scream of brave seagulls and the thunderous crashing of the waves, they said their farewells and good lucks. Durnus was there, standing stoically with his hands deep in his pockets, a heavy pack on his back. He looked cold and grumpy, and had a strange look in his eye. He said his goodbyes as briefly as possible, and then went to stand near Ilios, who was testing his wings by the water’s fuming edge. Rather than come to Albion, Tyrfing had decided to stay behind in Hjaussfen to help the Sirens, and in doing so had entrusted the gryphon to his nephew.
The rest of the party stood nearby. Brightshow was there with her rider Lakkin, who stood leaning against his dragon’s flank. Her saddle was heavy with packs of food and supplies and quivers of arrows. Lakkin stood patiently with his arms crossed, clad in a light suit of black leather and chainmail. There was a huge bow and matching quiver stuffed with arrows strapped between his shoulder-blades. Lerel was there as well, standing with Tyrfing, Eyrum, and Farfallen. The Old Dragon looked tired. Farden went to each of them one by one.
Tyrfing looked at his nephew, his arms and legs now glistening with red and gold armour, and smiled. ‘Fits you well,’ he remarked. Farden smiled proudly. He held his hand out.
‘Do you have my Weight?’ he asked. Tyrfing thought for a moment and then shook his head slowly. He spoke so quietly that the wind almost drowned him out.
‘It’s needed elsewhere at the moment, Farden. And perhaps it’s safer here with me than in Albion, if you get my drift,’ said his uncle. Unfortunately Farden did. He nodded and said no more. They embraced quickly and awkwardly, still getting used to the idea, and then shook hands and moved on.
After his uncle was Eyrum, who shook the mage’s hand warmly and wished him well, eyeing the scale pendant around his neck with wink. Next in line was Farfallen, who smiled wanly before lowering hi
s golden head in a nod. Farden bowed in return, and did his best to keep his face free of emotion. He only hoped his thoughts would keep from betraying him; he knew the keen insight of dragons all too well.
Lastly came Lerel. She placed a lingering kiss on Farden’s cheek that raised his uncle’s eyebrow. Farden smiled at her and looked around. Elessi was nowhere to be seen, but had Farden noticed, had his mind not been distracted, he might have spied a woman standing on a balcony high up the cliff face, half-scowling half-squinting against the wind, her curly brown hair lashing her face.
‘We’ll see you in a few days,’ said Farden.
‘That you shall, mage, hopefully with an Albion army at your back,’ said the Old Dragon. ‘Remember your mission, and remember what is at stake. All of you,’ he added, and for a moment his golden eyes flicked to the vampyre standing by Ilios. Durnus hadn’t heard, and continued staring at the cold sea. Farfallen looked to Farden then, and the mage heard a familiar deep voice echo in his mind. You should have enough time to gather the help we need and then head to Krauslung to fulfil your duty just as we strike. Send word before you leave Albion. I need not remind you of our conversation, my friend, just of its gravity. If my words hurt, then I apologise, they were only meant to be honest. Let us hope that when we meet again in Krauslung we can celebrate rather than commiserate. I have every faith in you, Farden.
Farden simply nodded, and turned to leave.
‘You have three days. We attack on the morning of the fourth,’ reminded Tyrfing.
‘Then may the gods be with us. We’ll need it,’ said Lakkin, and little did he know how true his words were. Not wishing to stand in the rain any longer than they had to, they left as quickly as possible, winging their way south towards the hazy lump on the horizon that was Albion, towards uncertainty and the Dukes.
A wind of change was blowing through the gaps between the stars. It was as though the darkness had shifted, no, not shifted, slipped in some way, but as indiscernibly as a creeping glacier stumbling over a stone. The stars glittered less, and the silences were filled with a frantic whispering, like scuttling rat claws, or fingernails scraping on stone, like leaves rustling, or ropes creaking and swelling. Something was changing there. Both gods and daemons could feel it, and could do nothing to stop it.
In the darkness, shadows rubbed their oily hands and bit their lips to taste sulphurous blood against their forked tongues, while above them in the dusty nothingness winged shapes and proud figures huddled close and peered warily at the world floating far, far below them, watching their brethren, shivering as they felt their ethereal prison begin to crumble around them. They reached for their swords and staffs and bows and waited. Waited for something, and hoped for nothing, letting what prayers were left wash around them.
And so the machines of desperate war had begun to turn, a war that in the end would threaten to tear Emaneska, and the sky for that matter, in two…
Part Three
On Whom the World Depends
Chapter 15
“Despite the rain and the mud I have experienced on this journey, I must admit there is something lying under the surface of Albion that is hard to put a finger on. Something intangible. It is as though the whole place vibrates in a way that is at odds with the rest of Emaneska. The bogs and hills are littered with remnants of darker days; old elf wells, forts, standing stones, and other things of an ancient nature. Perhaps their magick still lives on in some way. It is almost as though the gap between the real world and the other side is thinner here. Alas, who can know? Perhaps it is a sign that one day the country will be destined for great things, perhaps one day bucolic Albion will shrug aside its superstitious ways, and become the centre of culture and power. Perhaps one day my cow Bettly will fly…”
From ‘Travels in Emaneska’ by the Wandering Wallium
Vice felt good. In fact, good was a complete understatement, and had anyone asked him, had anyone dared to disturb him, he would have told them he felt beyond good. He felt great. Vice felt invincible.
With every flex of his wiry muscles he could feel his dead brother’s power flowing through his thumping veins. He could feel the very energy in his blood, feel the magick clamouring in his bones and making the hairs of his skin stand on end with every little movement he made. Vice felt like new again. He felt as though he had just shed a thousand years, and there was probably more truth to that than even he knew.
It had taken hours to wash Bane’s stubborn blood from his hands, burnt into his skin as it was, and in the end he had simply let the rest stay. Purple and crimson blotches decorated the backs of his hands and wrists like the deformed paintings of a blind artist. Vice turned over his clenched fists and peered at the stains. At least the shaking had finally stopped, he thought. The headache and nausea had almost passed. Vice smiled. For the hundredth time that evening, he strode to the polished gold mirror in the corner of the room and stared at his metallic reflection, eying it, challenging it, leering and smiling at it. Vice marched back to the fire and stood defiantly close to it so that his skin prickled. Reaching deep into his pocket, he withdrew a little glass vial and held it against the flames. He shook it and watched the blood trickle down the glass in miniature rivulets of dark, dark red, like the skin of his hands. Vice put the vial back in his pocket, and kept his hand on it.
The Arkmage stood at his wide window and once again stared down at the city below him, as he had found himself doing more and more often in the last few days, as if checking that it had not escaped. He would stand for hours, visualising his plans and plots and schemes come to life in the streets below him. It was all so vivid in his mind. Vice could almost taste the carnage behind his teeth, smell the smoke in his nostrils, and hear the anguished cries on the wind. Soon, he would stamp his mark on the land, and that stamp would spread like a plague. Two thousand years of planning had culminated in this moment, and Vice did not try to hide his smug satisfaction. He let a wide smile spread over his face and drew an imaginary sword through the centre of the twinkling city below. ‘Sleep well,’ he whispered.
All of a sudden, and without any hint of a knock whatsoever, a young Written mage burst into the mage’s chambers and stood panting and breathless in the doorway. Vice turned around and glared at the sudden intrusion, and his look alone made the mage take a step back. ‘My apologies, sire, your Mage,’ he bowed, trying to get his breath back.
‘Well what is it?’ asked Vice, walking forward.
The mage swallowed and put a hand to his chest to calm his pounding heart. ‘Your Mage, we’ve caught one.’
Outside, the air was cold and bitter like a blade between the ribs. It was trying to snow, and for the moment it was failing, but it made it no less cold. A faint, ghost-like mist roamed the honeycomb streets. The clouds above were like fortified castles, each one ready to unleash its flurry of white soldiers. The moon hid behind their walls, sneaking the occasional morbidly curious peek at the city far below.
A man, clothes ragged and sweaty despite the cold, hurtled headlong through the streets, taking every narrow alleyway and empty street he could find in the hope of losing his pursuers. They bayed like dogs behind him. Their shouts echoed across the rooftops and ricocheted off the brick walls. Nervous citizens poked their noses out from behind curtains. The homeless shivered fearfully in their blankets and tents at the sound of running feet and yelling.
It wasn’t long before the young man came to a dead end, stuck between a wall and the backside of a tall house. There were no doors. There were no windows. There was only the alleyway behind him. The man looked around desperately for a place to hide. A box, a drain, anything, but his luck, already running low, was finally out, snuffed like a dead candle.
Breathless and panting, the man ran to a corner and crouched in the shadows, uttering every prayer he could think of. But unfortunately for him the gods were busy elsewhere. It was too late.
Muffled boots echoed in the little alleyway. A shadow, cast in the torchlight from a
neighbouring street, wandered across the dewy cobblestones. The man shivered. The owner of the shadow, a hooded figure, appeared at the opening to the alley and looked around. The figure’s eyes seemed to glow a milky white in the dark and he rocked back and forth slowly as if scanning for something. It took barely a moment for the mage to spot the man cowering in the shallow shadows, and with a triumphant smile he shouted to his friends and walked forward to corner his prey. His gloved hands began to glow with a white light that flickered and darted about his fingers. ‘I’d stay put, if you know what’s good for you,’ he growled, and the man did exactly as he was told. Haruld was not about to argue with a Written. He could smell cheap tobacco on the man’s breath.
No more than a minute later, he was surrounded by a gaggle of soldiers both Skölgard and Written. They watched him from the corners of their eyes and made sure he didn’t move a muscle, waiting for something. The only muscle in poor Haruld that moved was his heart, and that beat a furious and frantic rhythm inside his ribcage. Not a man touched him, not yet. But his time was up and he knew it.
Soon enough, the sound of boots approached and two more figures joined the shadowy throng of mages and soldiers. Their ranks parted quickly to let them through. Haruld look down this dark new corridor and stared fearfully at the newcomers. One was tall and regal and fiery-eyed, the other slightly shorter and lithe, another mage by the looks of him, with short blonde hair that shone in the torchlight. The mage seemed to be whispering something urgently to the taller man, but with a grunt he held up his hand and the mage fell silent. The tall man crossed his arms and tapped his toe on the cobbles. Haruld shivered under his cold gaze. In the hazy glow of the light spells and the faraway torches he could just about make out his face. That confident, calculating face. The face of the most hated man in all of Krauslung.
