by Ben Galley
The mage pulled his yellow captain’s cloak around his knees. He brushed some of the mud from its hem and looked back at the single file of men and women that stretched out behind him. There were others waiting in the houses on the other side of the street. Some were hiding on the rooftops. There were even a few Written hiding amongst their ranks. They were the last of a rare breed; the handful that were still loyal to Modren. The rest of the men and women were the escapees, the once-rich merchants, the farmers, the bakers, the downtrodden leftovers of the city, and they were desperately eager for revenge. Some were little more than young lads, terrified and yet brave. One was in the middle of vomiting in a bucket. An older man patted his back, whispering encouragement. Despite their notched kitchen knives and wooden hammers, their patchwork clothes and crumbling shoes, their muddy clothes and gaunt eyes, Modren wouldn’t have wished for a better crowd of men; desperate men were dangerous men.
‘Do you remember the plan?’ he asked Olger, their unofficial ringleader.
Olger nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘Good,’ replied Modren. ‘Time to go.’ The mage stood up and strolled as casually as possible towards the Arkathedral gates and the contingent of enemy Written. It was barely a second before he was spotted. The air thrummed like the strings of skald’s ljot, thick with magick.
Amidst the shouts, one of them recognised the billowing captain’s cape and Modren’s face and stepped forward, hand outstretched. Modren walked up to him and shook his hand, and the tattoos on their wrists flashed briefly. ‘Captain,’ said the man, a wary look in his eyes. ‘We heard you had abandoned us?’
‘Special orders, if you get my meaning,’ Modren winked. The man smiled, and seemed to relax.
‘Any word from the gates?’ he asked.
Modren nodded. ‘From what I saw it’ll all be over by noon. The Siren rabble have no chance,’ he said. ‘Meanwhile, we need some help on the next street. We’ve found a bunch of rebel Arka barricaded in a house. Need to get them out.’
‘Sounds like fun. Don’t see why the Skölgard should get all the action, eh boys?’ smiled the mage, and in that moment Modren found himself hating this man and the others standing around them. He remembered a time when the Written were the pride of the Arka. Brutal and swift, yes, but loyal and righteous, and now here they stood, grinning at the thought of butchering their own people. How Vice had invaded their heads. Modren suddenly understood what Farden had meant.
‘Follow me, then,’ beckoned the captain, and ten of the Written followed eagerly in his wake.
Modren led them to an adjoining street where the buildings became narrow and close. Behind him, the mages rubbed their hands together and readied their swords and their spells. As he walked, Modren surreptitiously channelled his magick reserves, feeling the pressure swell against his ribs and skull, feeling his veins throb. He caught a glimpse of a shadow in one of the windows. The shadow nodded, and Modren pointed to a side alley. ‘On the right!’ he shouted, and instantly the mages turned, perfectly trained to the very last, and summoned their spells. The alley hissed with the sound of ice, fire, lightning, thunder, and wind. Rainbow colours flashed in the narrow street. The air sparked and crackled with thirty different spells, ripping through ranks like a sword through butter. Stones and rocks rained from above. Makeshift arrows jabbed downwards. Lightning flew from mage to mage. Fireballs surged back and forth. Shadowy men darted out of the houses and jumped from windows brandishing clubs and hammers and knives.
Soon, it was over, and the ten Written lay dead and battered in the alleyway.
Modren went back to the Arkathedral to fetch some more.
‘We’re through!’ roared Farfallen as the huge gates abruptly, and rather surprisingly, caved in. Blue sparks flew from the hinges as the fortification spells were smashed apart. Farfallen and his dragons swung clear of the action, and together they watched their forces rush through the broken mess of wood and metal. Wizards marched forward behind a wall of shields and Siren foot soldiers, battling a line of Written who stood brazenly in their path, hurling deadly spell after spell at the invaders. Tribesmen and chainmail-clad bears, their snarling mouths flecked with foam, tried in vain to flank the mages, only to be met by a phalanx of deadly Skölgard pikes. Archers loosed wave after wave of arrows into the faces of the brave attackers. Trapped as they were by the thick gateway, they were easy targets.
For a terrifying moment it was almost a massacre, and then a score of dragons fell to the ground and began to rip into the Arka and Skölgard ranks claw, tooth, and tail. One poor beast was hacked down by the spears and halberds of the advancing ranks, while another fell to a well-placed bolt of lightning.
‘Farfallen! We need to get the Arkathedral!’ shouted Tyrfing, over the pandemonium.
The Old Dragon didn’t answer. He stared down at the dragons and his Sirens fighting below. He watched as one of the Lost Clan dragons, its scales the colour of dirty ice, charged headlong at the line of Written. It didn’t stand a chance. Its milky blood splashed the cold grass of the hill.
Farfallen, the mage is right. We’re wasting precious time here, pleaded Svarta’s voice in his head. The Old Dragon relented, and silently winged his way towards the Arkathedral. Towerdawn flew behind them with Brightshow and two others. Eyrum and Lerel were there, both clinging to the lithe, charcoal-scaled dragon Havenhigh. They swooped so close to the rooftops that their wingtips brushed the chimneys.
Two ballista bolts suddenly darted through the sky. The dragons barrel-rolled to dodge them but unfortunately for Towerdawn he was too slow. One of the bolts tore through the thin skin of his left wing and he crashed into the corner of a tall house in a shower of tile and stone.
Farfallen banked and doubled back in a fierce manoeuvre and landed in the nearest street. His huge golden wings scraped against the buildings and his giant claws rasped against the cobbles. Tyrfing jumped from his back. The Arkathedral was barely a dozen streets away and they could already hear the horns and the clatter of running boots coming towards them. Tyrfing strapped his shield to his back. He could smell magick in the air. He could feel it twitching the hairs of his forearms. ‘Something’s going on,’ he said.
‘Good observation mage; we’re in the middle of a war!’ replied Svarta, hair flailing in the down-draught caused by the dragons hovering above.
‘Towerdawn is okay, I can see him in the next street!’ shouted Brightshow, her voice shrill with panic. There was a huge thud as another bolt flew past and imbedded itself in a house. Havenhigh and her rider flew low to drop off their passengers. Her forked tail swished with trepidation. ‘It’s too dangerous here!’ she shouted to the others. Two dark figures leapt from her back and seconds later two sets of feet thudded heavily on the cobbles; one landed nimbly like a cat, the other like sack of rocks. Eyrum grunted and stood up, lifting his giant battleaxe from his shoulder and squeezing its handle with both hands.
‘Someone’s coming,’ he said, nodding towards the end of the street.
The Siren was right; a crowd of Arka soldiers were running towards them. Their spears were low and their shields were locked together in a line. A trio of Written stood behind them, wreathed in grey, crackling mist.
‘Get out the way!’ Farfallen bellowed, taking a deep breath. The others sprang aside and the Old Dragon filled the street with a river of boiling fire. The Arka soldiers dug in and cowered behind their shields, but it didn’t save them; the shields simply melted in their gloved hands. The Written threw up their magick shields and wisely backed away. The street filled with thick smoke.
Tyrfing turned to Svarta and Farfallen. ‘Take the others and get out of here! It’s too dangerous for you in between the streets!’
The mage was right. Svarta and the golden beast rose into the sky with awkward flaps of his wings. ‘We’ll watch out for Towerdawn until he gets to safety! You go and find that child!’ shouted the Old Dragon, and with that, they were gone, the thumping of their wings receding behind the roofs of t
he buildings. Ballista bolts chased them.
Tyrfing nodded grimly patted Eyrum on the back. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, and the Siren grunted in agreement. Lerel cleared her throat and spun her shortsword experimentally. The girl was putting on a brave face. ‘Stay behind me,’ said the old mage, and she nodded.
‘Don’t expect to have all the fun,’ muttered Eyrum.
‘Would you like to place some bets?’ asked Tyrfing, striding forward confidently. Now that the dragons had left, the Arka soldiers had regrouped. They yelled and banged their spears on the cobbles as they began to charge. The mage felt the power surge into his scarred arms, and the skin glowed like fire. Wind leapt up around him. With every step he took it grew stronger and stronger, and then stronger again, until Eyrum and Lerel were forced to cover their faces. Oblivious and unstoppable, Tyrfing kept advancing. He spread his arms and clenched his fists as if he were being pulled apart by chains. His veins surged and popped beneath his skin. His bones shook and crunched. Tyrfing grit his teeth and focused his mind. Tyrfing swung his arms forward, and clapped his hands once and once only.
Then the street imploded.
Houses flew apart and hurled themselves into the centre of the street in a vicious maelstrom of masonry and glass. Bricks, doors, roof-tiles, windowpanes, gutters, all of them threw themselves wildly at each other. Great deafening booms and crashes shook the street as house after house detonated inwards. It rained stone. Dust replaced wind. Even the cobbles couldn’t take it, and they too gave up on life and were ripped from the street.
Every step the mage took was a challenge, and with each step another building fractured into a thousand pieces. As a strained cry ripped from his throat, he clapped his hands together again and lightning surged through the street. Those who weren’t dead or buried were knocked senseless and scorched by the shimmering cables of blue electricity that crackled from his fingertips.
Finally, Tyrfing brought the spell to an end and he stumbled on towards the Arkathedral, breathing heavily. Lerel and Eyrum emerged from their hiding places and brushed the dust from their shoulders. The big Siren spat out a splinter of wood and shook his head at the mess around them. The buildings that had once towered over the street had been reduced to a smoking pile of rubble. Blue fire licked at the bits that had survived. Eyrum turned to the woman beside him. ‘Not known for his subtlety, is he?’
Lerel shook her head. ‘Not at all,’ she replied grimly.
‘Come on,’ Tyrfing called to them, breaking into a stiff run. ‘We haven’t got any time to waste!’ Eyrum and Lerel quickly leapt after him, vaulting crumbled masonry and bits of house. They caught up with him at the end of the dusty-choked street. They could hear loud shouting and the clashing of steel coming from somewhere close by. All three of them coughed and spluttered. ‘Which way?’ asked Lerel, peering into the dust. Before Tyrfing could answer, a nearby pile of bricks shivered and a young Arka soldier in cracked armour crawled out from under them, gasping and coughing. Tyrfing instantly had a fireball spinning between his hands, but before he could finish him off, a dishevelled man with ripped clothes and a hunched posture sprinted out of the dusty shadows and dispatched the soldier with a savage blow from an ugly-looking wood axe. He clouted him once again to make sure he was dead, and then at the sight of Eyrum and Tyrfing, he cried out and ran back into the dust. The shouting grew louder.
‘This way,’ ordered Tyrfing. They sprinted over the rubble-strewn cobbles and darted into an adjacent street, running straight into a crowd of dishevelled, dusty men in patchwork clothes, all of which were brandishing a marvellous and disturbing variety of implements and tools and weapons. Suddenly faced with a mage they pointed and shouted and ran forward to attack him. Tyrfing had other ideas. His fingers began to shimmer with light and fire as Eyrum began to swing his axe in a circle around his body, daring them to come closer. Just before they clashed, a man in armour and a mustard-yellow cloak ran between them and quickly held up his hands. ‘Stop!’ he yelled, pointing to Eyrum and his spinning axe. ‘He’s Siren, you idiots! They’re with us!’
‘And who exactly is “us”?’ asked Tyrfing, eyeing the man and his intricate Arka armour. There was magick in this man. He had very short, blonde hair, clipped close to his scalp, and his clean-shaven face was streaked with dirt and sweat. The sword at his side dripped bright spots of blood on the dusty bricks beneath his feet. Behind him stood a half-dozen other mages, dusty and scowling. ‘You look like Written to me,’ said Tyrfing, keeping the fires burning in his palms.
Modren narrowed his eyes. ‘And judging by the scarred tattoos on your wrists, I’d say the same thing of you.’ He wondered if he could trust these three. He didn’t really have a choice. ‘My name is Modren, and until three days ago, I was the captain of the Written.’
‘And your friends? They might want to put those mallets and knives down if they know what’s good for them,’ warned Eyrum. Modren waved his hands at the gang of wild-eyed men and women.
‘We’re what’s left of Krauslung, the ones Vice couldn’t catch,’ shouted a man in the patchwork crowd.
Tyrfing clenched his fists and quenched his fire. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘the more the merrier.’ Modren looked at the old mage standing across from him and felt an inkling of recognition. There was something about his face that was very familiar. ‘And who might you be?’ he asked.
‘We’re running out of time, is who we are,’ said Tyrfing, not bothering with any sort of pleasantry. He had a battle to fight. Pleasantry could wait until after. ‘So, Captain, can you get us inside the Arkathedral?’
Modren looked around at the rubble-strewn street. ‘Funnily, I was about to ask you the very same thing.’
‘Well maybe we can all have a go,’ interjected a very familiar voice. All heads turned to see another mage emerge from a shattered alleyway. His black hair was slick with seawater and flecked with dust and blood, and his forearms and thighs glittered with red and gold armour. There was a tired look in his eye, and a number of ugly cuts across his face and arms. A sword was strapped between his shoulders. Farden crossed his arms and it occurred to the others that he look drained, and not particularly pleased to see them. ‘Having a family reunion, are we?’ he asked. Tyrfing went up to him and patted him on the shoulder. Farden tried a polite smile. It didn’t seem to fit, so he let it fade.
‘Ilios?’ asked his uncle, walking to greet him.
Farden pointed to the murky, smoky sky. Tyrfing nodded. ‘Durnus?’ asked Farden, and his uncle shook his head, and looked at the ground. Farden felt a wave of grief wash over him.
‘You know?’ asked Tyrfing. Farden nodded.
Tyrfing winced guiltily, eye twitching. ‘I’m sorry that we couldn’t tell you…’
‘Your excuses can wait until later. If there is a later.’
Modren piped up. ‘You two know each other?’ he asked, and they both nodded. Modren suddenly realised what had been pestering him: the older mage had been there that day he had fought Farden in the market, the one that had ridden that incredible winged beast. Now it dawned on him; the two were obviously related, Modren could see it etched into their faces and in the way they stood. This man was Farden’s uncle, the notorious, murderous madman. That was a story that could probably wait for later, he decided.
‘And you two know each other?’ rumbled Eyrum, waving his sword at the two younger Written. Farden narrowed his eyes at Modren. ‘We used to,’ muttered the mage.
‘Still do,’ returned Modren, holding out a hand.
Farden sniffed and for a moment he stood still. ‘I suppose we do,’ he replied, and grabbed his friend’s rough hand and gripped it hard. Their tattoos glowed, burning away their quarrels.
‘That’s enough talk,’ Tyrfing reminded them. He looked to his nephew. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
Farden stared into the dust. ‘Yes, let’s,’ he said.
And with that the ragged and rather eclectic group moved on towards their prize, the Arkathedral, sporting
grim faces, white knuckles wrapped around their weapons. They dodged and weaved around the houses, determined to the last. Nobody spoke.
Looking up at the pale fortress that loomed over them, Farden tried to pick out Cheska’s window, but for some reason he couldn’t find it. The mage wouldn’t have mentioned it, not in a million years, but he was suddenly quite nervous. Fear began to pluck at his heart. It pinched his gut.
General Agfrey, meanwhile, was sweating like a hog. It was not the seer breathing down her neck, nor was it the heat of the torch she carried, nor was it the thick and heavy armour that clanked and rubbed against her skin in every conceivable way; it was something else. She had no idea what it was, but for some reason she was sweating profusely. Perhaps on some level, just like a doomed farm animal, she could feel the axe dangling precariously over her neck. Little did she know it was hastening towards her as fast as she hastened down the black corridor.
She led the four soldiers, the seer, and her precious bundle a spiralling path down the worn steps of the mighty Arkathedral. Despite the thick marble of the fortress walls, deep thuds and booms echoed through the hallways and shook dust from the rafters. Every now and again, they would hear the clack clack clack of reloading ballistas, shouts, and the whoosh of passing dragons. Far above them, the twin bells Hardja and Ursufel pealed persistently.
‘Not long now,’ said Agfrey, feeling a need to say something.
‘Good,’ whispered Lilith. The child in her arms coughed and spluttered quietly, in the feeble way newborns do. The seer wiped a cloth across her little face.
