Pale Kings (Emaneska Series)

by Ben Galley

  As it turned out, neither had the others, and their stares of disturbed exasperation said it all. Lakkin leant close to Farden. ‘Are these the Dukes?’ he asked, hoping to the gods they weren't. The mage nodded. He counted twelve. That meant one was missing. Durnus had noticed it too, and his keen eyes quickly sized up the colours and the crests of the servants in an effort to find the missing Duke.

  ‘Leath isn't here,’ he growled in Farden's ear. The mage could tell the vampyre was disappointed, and he had to admit that little hint of hope had faded inside him too. As Durnus had informed them that morning, the Duke of Leath controlled the largest conscripted army in Albion, bigger than any other Duchy, and getting his forces on their side would be crucial in the fight against Vice. Thinking of the impending battle suddenly gave Farden a little shiver, half of anticipation, half of anxiety and unease. The war was merely a few days away. It loomed like a stormy shadow on the mage’s horizon.

  It didn’t take long for the distracted servants to notice the three strange men standing in the archway. They surged towards the men, waving their hands and shaking their heads as if they were being attacked by bees. Farden and Lakkin both put a casual hand to their weapons.

  ‘You can’t be here,’ hissed one of them, a pompous-looking man with wine-stains on his hands. ‘It’s against protocol!’

  ‘We want to see the Dukes,’ ordered Farden.

  ‘You’re not allowed,’ he said, waggling a finger in the mage’s face. ‘You should leave immediately; his lordship does not deal with riffraff.’

  Another puffed out his chest like a fat sparrow, not wishing to be outdone. ‘Neither does mine,’ he said before clearing his throat with an authoritative cough.

  ‘Or mine!’ said yet another.

  Farden was getting very bored very quickly. The first servant, utterly unaware of who he was dealing with, moved to prod the mage’s chest with his wine-stained finger. Farden broke it in a flash, and left the man cowering on his knees, face scrunched up in pain and mouth hanging open in a very silent scream. ‘Anyone else?’ he asked with a menacing smile, holding his hands wide. The servants backed off warily, clutching their precious fingers by their sides.

  ‘What’s all this ruckus?’ came a shout, and instantly the hall fell silent. Only the drunken bard played on, completely unaware. Somebody threw a fork at him and he came to a halt, swaying on his stool and blinking as if his eyes were too big for their sockets. Everybody else stared at the three strangers in the doorway.

  A rotund man pushed himself up from his velvet armchair, dislodging a few scantily-clad women in the process, and took a few steps forward. He eyed the newcomers suspiciously. The coat of arms on his breast, a trio of boars on a harlequin platter, told the men he was the Duke of Wodehallow himself. His face was flushed with wine and food and lust, and his scowling eyes were hidden behind thick crystal-lensed spectacles. ‘What business have you here, strangers? Explain this intrusion at once,’ he ordered. The other eleven Dukes began to get to their feet. A few of the other men reached for nearby daggers and forks.

  Durnus took a deep, impatient, breath and moved to step forward, but he found Farden’s hand pressing softly against his chest. The mage shook his head at his old friend, and Durnus understood. ‘After you then,’ he said, and then in barely a whisper he added, ‘but don’t expect to get any sense out of the pretentious fools.’

  Farden stepped forward and bowed in as grand a manner as he could manage. He knew exactly how to play this sort of ostentatious crowd. The Dukes looked on and waited, already wrinkling their noses at the sight of mud on the mage’s boots, his weathered, stubbled face, his scars, and his dishevelled hair. A few noticed the mage’s armour, and their eyes glinted greedily. Farden began. ‘Your lordships, ladies and gentlemen, I bring an important message from the Sirens of the north and the rest of Emaneska,’ began Farden, waiting for a response. At his back, Durnus and Lakkin exchanged glances. Their mission hung on a very subtle knife edge, and they knew it.

  Wodehallow, his stomach stretching the buttons of his purple waistcoat, waved a hand covered in gold and silver rings. ‘Let us hear this message then, messenger, so we may get back to our business,’ he replied, seeming somewhat intrigued. The other Dukes murmured in agreement.

  Inwardly, Farden seethed at being called messenger. He wisely swallowed his pride and continued. ‘As you all know, there is dark trouble in the east. The Arkmage Vice of the Arka…’ it troubled the mage to say the word, ‘…has joined forces with Bane the king of the Skölgard, and together they intend to march their combined armies across Emaneska. At this very moment they are loading their soldiers on to ships, ready to sail for Nelska.’

  There was a shout from the back of the hall. ‘Well, what has this got to do with us?’ hollered the voice, slurring badly. The others mumbled and grumbled between themselves. Wodehallow held up a hand for silence.

  ‘Once they are finished with Nelska, Albion will be next,’ Farden replied, trying to sound as ominous as possible. The drunken Dukes had mixed reactions; some looked around with worried looks and thumbed their golden earrings, while others smirked and shook their heads. The rest just stared blankly. Lakkin stepped forward.

  ‘The Sirens cannot defeat the combined forces of the Arka and the Skölgard hordes by ourselves. That is why we’re calling on the rest of Emaneska, and hence that is why we need your help,’ spoke the dragon-rider.

  Somebody in the crowd chuckled and snorted. A few others sniggered at the very thought of doing anything but enjoying their comfy armchairs and barrels of wine. Lakkin clenched a fist, and turned to Farden. The mage made a helpless face. He looked to the Duke of Wodehallow, whose bland expression was gradually turning into a wide and toothy, smile. For some reason he was staring at Lakkin. Farden tried again. ‘Albion will be destroyed if you do not act now!’ he urged. ‘Join us and we can fight Vice on our own terms…!’

  But it was no use. The Dukes shrugged and laughed and went back to their drinking.

  ‘When have the Sirens ever helped us?’ came a shout.

  ‘Or the Arka for that matter!’ said another.

  ‘Now they need us! Hah!’

  Durnus snarled then, coming close to exposing his fangs. ‘You’re a bunch of fools!’ he yelled. ‘You weak, spineless worms, All you care about is gold and wine and land! I hope Vice does destroy Albion, and every last one of you with it!’

  Needless to say, alcohol, pride, and insults never mix well together. Uproar descended on the hall. Angry Dukes leapt from their seats, furious and indignant. One red-faced and proud-looking man in a tabard strode forward with a dagger, and Farden readied himself to fight, feeling the magick itching at the base of his skull.

  ‘Wait!’ shouted Wodehallow, with a voice like a fog horn. The angry hall ground to a seething halt. Tension tugged at the air. Everyone watched as the rotund Duke rubbed his chin and took a few ponderous steps forward towards the three men, all the while staring directly at the tall dragon-rider. Lakkin warily looked left and right, eying the approaching Duke, his fingers hooked around the waxy string of his longbow. Wodehallow clicked his chubby fingers and smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes you!’ Lakkin narrowed his eyes. He didn’t reply. The Duke came closer and squinted at the scales adorning the Siren’s face. For a moment it looked as though he were about to poke Lakkin in the face, just to make sure he was real. Farden and Durnus were both as tense as springs.

  Wodehallow grinned. ‘A real dragon-rider if ever I saw one. In my very castle as well!’ said the Duke. ‘Where is it? Hmm? Above us somewhere? In the marshes? Is it a female, hmm? It is isn’t it!’ He smiled a clever smile and turned to his cohorts behind him. He made an intricate sign with his fingers, the traditional sign for commencing a barter, and winked. ‘A trade!’ he cried, clapping his hands loudly. In the blink of an eye, the hall transformed from an angry, wine-fuelled mob to a calm, even if still far from sober, circle of Dukes. Chairs were dragged into a semicircle, wine barrels rolled
away, servants mustered, and daggers sheathed. Even the naked women were ushered away. It was such a quick transformation that Farden had to blink several times to make sure it was not a mirage.

  Wodehallow sat in the centre of the semicircle, his clever smile hovering on his wine-stained lips. His heavily-ringed fingers tapped rhythmically on the arms of his wooden chair. The rest of the Dukes watched the strangers, waiting to see what this trade would be, measuring their reactions like seasoned gamblers and merchants. Which, of course, they were.

  ‘A trade,’ said Wodehallow. ‘Something of yours, strangers, for something of ours. Our men, our arms, whatever you deem necessary, and yes, our cooperation in this war of yours.’

  One of the other Dukes started to speak. His coat of arms indicated he was Kiltyrin; a shield with a black cat and crossed daggers on it. ‘Now just one moment! I have not agreed…’

  But Wodehallow flashed Kiltyrin a wink and he fell silent. Another Duke to his left, a small and puny man, whispered something and he shook his head. Wodehallow continued. ‘Of course, as my esteemed Dukes are very aware, the payment must be equal to our commitment. One that we can all benefit from. And in this case, it is, well, sizeable.’ The word was oily like cooking lard, and it slid out of his mouth like a snake.

  ‘And what would that be?’ replied Farden, finally unclenching his fists. ‘We have gold, alliances, favours, whatever it is you need.’ They were not in an advantageous position and the Dukes knew it; they needed Albion’s help desperately, and the Dukes could smell desperation from a mile away.

  Wodehallow looked around the room. He had them eating from the palm of his hand and he knew it. He jabbed a finger at Lakkin. ‘Your dragon.’

  Before anyone could blink, the Siren had an arrow knocked to his bowstring and had drawn it as far back as he could stretch. The bowstring quivered under the pressure. Wodehallow smiled like the cunning reptile he was. ‘Those are the terms. You can accept them or you can leave.’ Around him, the other Dukes were whispering frantically, grinning and wide eyed like village idiots. Farden could hear snatches of their hushed conversations.

  ‘A dragon?’

  ‘That would put Albion on the map!’

  ‘Think of the power…’

  ‘The possibilities…’

  ‘…The eggs we could hatch!’

  ‘We could have a whole fleet of dragons, one for each of us.’

  ‘Imagine Leath’s face when he finds out what he missed!’

  The mage glared at all them, one at a time. Lakkin’s eyes simply bored a hole in Wodehallow’s forehead. The Duke smiled back, but behind his calm expression there hid a glint of fear at the sight of the daunting Siren and his longbow. ‘A dragon or nothing,’ he said again. ‘What do you say?’

  ‘I say I should let this arrow go and watch you choke to death on your own blood,’ muttered Lakkin. Only Farden and Durnus could understand what the Duke had asked. Such a thing was unthinkable for a Siren, bordering on the fatally insulting. Wodehallow might as well have asked for one of Lakkin’s limbs, or his hand in marriage.

  Farden moved closer to the Siren and put a hand on his arm. Lakkin flinched away at first, and then grudgingly relaxed his arm. Wodehallow surreptitiously breathed a sigh of relief. Nearby Kiltyrin, a strong-looking man with a shock of red hair and a matching goatee, spoke up. ‘We haven’t got all day, Siren, what’s your decision?’

  Lakkin glared daggers at the both men. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Then we will not help you,’ said Wodehallow. He raised a hand to summon his guards, who had finally gathered at the edges of the hall.

  ‘Wait…’ began Farden, but he was interrupted by Durnus.

  ‘Give us a moment to decide,’ said the vampyre. Wodehallow shrugged.

  ‘Be quick about it,’ he said, and the Dukes resumed their excited whispering.

  Durnus lowered his voice so low that the other two had trouble hearing him. ‘I have an idea,’ he hissed.

  ‘Well it better be a good one, because we’re running out of options,’ replied Farden, looking to the Siren. Lakkin was literally shaking with indignation.

  ‘You were right Durnus, they’re nothing but a bunch of slippery whores. I say we call down Brightshow and raze this keep of theirs to the ground. That’ll make the bastards change their minds,’ growled the rider. Farden was inclined to agree.

  But the vampyre shook his head. ‘No, they’ll promise you anything to save their skins, and then at the last moment they’ll change their minds. We need them to join the fight willingly.’

  ‘And how exactly will we do that?’ asked Farden.

  Durnus tapped the side of his nose with a sharp fingernail. His sly plan had momentarily roused him from his dark mood. ‘I once read something very interesting on the subject of gryphons. Something your uncle, Farden, might have forgotten to mention. Something that might work on these weak-minded fools.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘If it works, you’ll see. It might just be a myth. Just be ready to cover your ears when I say.’

  ‘Our ears?’ repeated Lakkin.

  The vampyre nodded. ‘Tell Brightshow to send Ilios down right away,’ he said. Lakkin hesitated. ‘Trust me, Siren,’ urged Durnus.

  Farden shrugged. ‘Whatever it is, it’s worth a try,’ he said.

  A faraway look came over Lakkin’s face for a moment. It took no more than a few seconds. ‘Done,’ he said.

  Durnus turned around to address the Dukes. ‘We have another offer,’ he said.

  Wodehallow instantly crossed his arms. ‘His dragon, or nothing.’

  The vampyre shook his head. ‘We have something better that a dragon.’

  ‘And what could possibly be better than a dragon?’ called Kiltyrin. Durnus flashed him a gaze that made the man wilt, and for a moment the Duke caught a glimpse of something fierce and dangerous hiding behind those calm pale eyes. He withered in his chair. Durnus let his gaze rove over the Dukes. His voice was low and hypnotic. ‘Years upon years ago, when I was young, I was exploring the ice fields to the far north, further north than anyone had ever dared to go, where the mountains are made of frozen steel and the wind can cut a man clean in half. In this place there lived a beast that no man had ever tamed, a creature with poisoned teeth and terrifying strength. They said it had the wings of an eagle, yet the claws of a lion, fire for breath, and eyes like chipped diamonds,’ he paused for a moment, making sure he had the attention of every Duke. They were rapt. The vampyre continued. ‘And so I found this beast, and I fought it. For forty days and forty nights we raged back and forth, across ice field and frozen sea and back again, until finally I managed to tame it. I was poisoned and maimed and I hovered on death’s doorstep, but nonetheless I tamed it, and the beast was no longer wild after that. It took everything I had to keep it from breaking away from me, and in a way, it broke me to do so.’ Durnus paused again, as though a distant memory had drifted through his mind for a moment, and then left again. The papery skin on the back on his neck prickled, and then there came a whistling noise in the corridor behind him. The vampyre blinked his way out of his momentary reverie and turned around as a large shape emerged from the shadowy corridor. ‘Dukes of Albion, I give you this very beast.’

  There was no whispering, no shuffling of feet, no drunken slurs. There was only a shocked and deathly silence from the semicircle of greedy men. Ilios stepped out into the light of the hall and spread his feathered wings so high that they brushed against the ceiling. His curved lion claws clicked against the stone as he walked. His eyes flicked from Duke to Duke, eying each one in turn, and each man felt their soul being searched and probed, as Farden had in the desert.

  ‘W…what is it?’ stammered Wodehallow, his ringed fingers gripping the edge of his chair tighter with every step the gryphon took.

  ‘They call it a gryphon in far-off Paraia. You might call it a griffin,’ said the vampyre. Careful to avoid Ilios’s shadow, Durnus leant forward and ran his hand along the gryp
hon’s neck, and whispered something very secret in his ear. Ilios clacked his beak and bowed his head. Durnus retreated to the doorway, and stood near to Farden. The mage murmured in his friend’s ear. ‘Nice story,’ he said. The vampyre said nothing, and merely nodded.

  Wodehallow had managed to tear his eyes away from the gryphon and was whispering to nearby Dukes. ‘It definitely looks scarier than a dragon. Smaller though.’

  ‘Could you ride it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to try.’

  ‘He said it was tame.’

  ‘Does it lay eggs?’

  Before the Dukes could discuss the matter further, they suddenly became aware of a very low whistling sound coming from somewhere in the hall. Durnus looked to the others and nodded and together they slyly shuffled backwards and put their fingers in their ears as tightly as they could. Lakkin and Farden looked at each other and shrugged.

  The whistling noise began to grow, slowly at first, like an organ warming up, like the wind moaning softly over the edge of a windowsill. But soon that wind began to whine and howl and soon it was joined by another note, a higher whistle that was strangely discordant with the first. Had the three men unplugged their ears they would have felt the strange harmony rattle their eardrums and make their teeth tingle. The Dukes were spellbound. They stared into the mesmerising eyes of the gryphon, still poised with his wings outstretched, and watched the yellow orbs that were his eyes twist and swim and whirl in their sockets. The whistling song grew louder and louder until it reverberated against the pine pillars and granite walls of the room, piling up and up like waves on a shore, whining and screaming and undulating like a sea of noise. One more note joined the strange harmony, a piercing high note that made bones shiver. The Dukes twitched and convulsed in the chairs.