Pale Kings (Emaneska Series)

by Ben Galley

  Farden fell to his knees. He put his hand on the wet sheets. All words had been ripped from his throat and the only thing left was a ragged sob. His eyes itched with abrasive tears. The mage stared at her white stomach, swollen but now empty, and the only solace he could find was that there were no wounds in the skin. Elessi had failed, but the child was gone. He was too late.

  Trembling, Farden reached forward and tugged her stained nightdress over her stomach and her shaking thighs, and gently lowered her legs. She winced as if his gauntlets were made of flame. Farden, his knees too weak to hold him, gave way and he slumped to the floor beside her limp hand. Tearing his gaze from the bloody sheets, he stared into her ice-blue, mountain-lake eyes and waited for her to say something.

  ‘It’s a girl…’ she gasped, and Farden’s heart convulsed.

  ‘Where?’ was all the mage could manage. He touched her finger, and the tiniest of glows flitted across the key-shaped tattoo on her wrist, weak as the smouldering wick of a dead candle.

  ‘Vice, he took her, sent her away.’

  Farden clenched his teeth to keep from roaring or crying.

  ‘Farden…’ she began. Her voice was almost lost. She breathed in gasps and hoarse sobs.

  The mage held her fingers in both his hands. He could feel the dry blood crackling on her skin. He had imagined a hundred different ways of seeing her for the last time and every single one was mercifully far away from this. He knew if he closed his eyes it would go away, but when he opened them again it would be no different. He tried anyway, out of pure desperate hope, but when he opened his eyes she was still staring back at him with that same wet, miserable shine to her eyes. The nightmarish reality stuck fast and stabbed him hard in the chest.

  Farden put her fingers to his lips. ‘I can get you out of here.’

  But she shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No.’

  ‘Let me save you…’

  Again she shook her head, and winced, as if that was too painful. ‘Give me my baby.’

  Farden didn’t know what to say. He squeezed his eyes but the tears burst through and he winced as they burnt his cheek. He could taste their saltiness in his mouth.

  ‘Farden, what will happen when I die?’ she breathed, eyes glazing. Farden squeezed her fingers tighter. He had asked himself the same question countless times.

  ‘You’ll go to the other side like all the rest of us, far away from this world where it’s still and quiet and endless.’ Cheska nodded almost imperceptibly. Farden leant closer. ‘And when it’s my time, I’ll meet you there, and we’ll drift through the stars together for the rest of time, with nothing in our way to stop us,’ he said.

  Cheska gasped then, under a wave of pain, and pushed his hand away with her last ounce of strength. Each word was a chore for her. ‘Go, stubborn man, find him… kill him for… us.’

  ‘I promise,’ muttered Farden, refusing to let go.

  ‘Farden,’ she gasped, barely a sound. He leant over the bed and held his ear close to her cracked lips. She breathed her final words and fresh tears sprang to his eyes, burning and stinging. He choked on them. With trembling hands, he closed her mountain-lake eyes and pulled the bloody sheets over her face. It was over. She was dead. He had been cheated.

  Farden stood there for a moment. Rage began to boil inside him, a rage he knew very well indeed. His uncle walked forward, treading on glass, and reached out to put a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. ‘Farden…’ he started to say, but he shrugged him off, and roared at the top of his voice. The mage seized the bloody sheets with both hands and strangled them. Flames burst from his fingers and suddenly the whole bed was alight. The fire leapt across the sheets as if they were oily paper. The room filled with smoke. Wordlessly, his eyes like furnaces, Farden marched out of the room, his uncle running after him.

  Tyrfing tried to slow him down, but his nephew would not be touched. ‘Farden, calm yourself!’

  But Farden would not be calmed either. His uncle grabbed his hand and Farden wrenched away. ‘Leave me alone!’

  ‘Where is the child, Farden? Where is it?’

  His nephew snapped and whirled around. Tyrfing found Farden’s armoured hands, sizzling with flames, encircling his throat. Tyrfing didn’t blink. He didn’t move. The fire didn’t burn his skin. He simply stared back at his nephew, challenging him with his eyes. Farden suddenly saw a very familiar fury bubbling behind his uncle’s eyes. He almost took comfort in it. Snivelling, he looked away, and wiped away the tears with his free hand. ‘She…’ Farden growled.

  ‘What?’

  ‘She. You said it,’ muttered Farden. ‘I have a daughter.’ His voice rumbled like an avalanche.

  Tyrfing sighed, and spoke in a quiet voice. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  Farden choked on more tears. ‘No, Tyrfing, you’re not,’ he said, hoarsely.

  ‘Where is she, Farden?’

  ‘Vice took her, sent her away.’

  Tyrfing’s face went ashen. ‘Where?’

  Farden looked down the corridor. ‘I don’t know, but I know exactly who to ask.’

  Another emotion took over Tyrfing’s eyes then, and his fury cracked. Farden knew this one too. Fear. ‘No, Farden. We can’t face Vice without Durnus!’ panicked Tyrfing.

  ‘I can.’ Farden stormed off down the corridor, wet boots squeaking and thudding on the marble, flames still trailing around his wrists. Tyrfing tried to grab his arm but he shrugged him off. ‘I want to kill him, uncle. I want to rip his heart out while he’s still alive and make him watch as I crush it under my boot.’

  ‘So do I, Farden,’ replied Tyrfing. ‘But we need Durnus to kill Vice!’

  Before his uncle could make any other excuses, the mage dug into his cloak pocket and withdrew a small brass-coloured rock. It sparkled, catching the flames. ‘No we don’t. We have a daemonstone instead.’

  ‘A what? Where did you get it?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’

  ‘And how exactly are you going to kill Vice with just a simple rock?’

  Farden squeezed the daemonstone so hard that his gauntlets rattled. ‘I don’t know, but I’m going to try smashing his head in with it first. Stranger things have happened.’

  Tyrfing pulled at his hair in frustration. ‘This is ridiculous, Farden. We still need Durnus!’

  Farden shook his head. ‘And for all we know he’s dead!’

  Tyrfing could only hope his nephew wrong.

  The mages sprinted up a last flight of steps and quickly made their way to the thick doors of the great hall. They were unlocked and unguarded. All was quiet at the top of the Arkathedral, the air fragile and teetering. Only the twin bells dared make a sound.

  ‘Feels like a trap,’ said Tyrfing. Fear was creeping into his veins like ice water.

  ‘We don’t have a choice.’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Remember what you said to me in the desert? That Vice designed us to be perfect, not flawed, and that it will be his undoing? You were right, uncle.’

  Tyrfing put a hand to his chest and nodded, trying to push his heart back into its proper place. It felt as though it was trying to escape. Years had been spent dreaming of this moment. Years had been spent dreading it. He was torn. Farden, on the other hand, wore a rage that blinded all else. He stamped his way down the corridor as if he were trying to crack the marble floor with every step. Tyrfing put his hand on his nephew’s shoulder. ‘I should have done this a long time ago.’

  ‘I could have told you that,’ growled Farden.

  ‘You did. I didn’t listen.’

  ‘Then it that case I’m glad Ilios threatened to bite you,’ Farden said, brushing away his uncle’s rough hand. They stopped in front of the ornate doors. Farden lifted his sword and touched the point to the gilded wood. By his side, Tyrfing was staring at the door as if it were Vice itself. ‘Whatever happens, Farden, I just want to say…’

  ‘You can say it afterwards,’ Farden grunted, and without ano
ther word, he grabbed the handles of the great doors, wrenched them open, and marched into the breathtaking hall.

  Snow-white and solid marble, lines of pillars stood like ancient trees around the edges of the hall, masterfully carved so that their branches wrapped and coiled themselves around the golden beams of the cavernous roof. Their marble roots meandered across the marble floors, pestering benches and curling into strange shapes between the tiles. At the zenith of the ivory ceiling hovered a wide skylight, now sealed with coloured glass instead of open to the sky as it once was. The skylight glass matched the walls perfectly, where floor-to-ceiling windows filled the gaps between yet more pillars. History filled the rainbow panes. Glass faces stared inwards, wide-eyed and curious. Dawn light and firelight played together in their facets. They cast kaleidoscopic shades on the marble floor, making puddles and rivulets of sunset yellow, iceberg blue, artery red, and dragonscale green between the roots of the pillars.

  There was only one thing amiss in the great hall, and she lay broken and in pieces in the centre of the hall. The great marble statue of Evernia had been thrown from her pedestal and left as a disfigured alabaster mess. She lay on the floor surrounded by a herd of old candles, her amputated limbs smashed, her stern face hacked apart. Her golden scales had been twisted and bent. The sight made Farden’s blood boil even more.

  Behind the broken goddess, at the end of the hall, the twin thrones of the Arkmages rose out of the flagstones. There, surrounded by half-dozen Arka guards whose faces were obscured by gold helmets with green feathers, stood a tall, victorious-looking man wrapped in a polished suit of copper-coloured armour, with dirty blonde hair and a furious hazel gaze. Vice.

  Farden walked forward slowly, sword low and wary, eying the hateful man. Tyrfing lingered behind him.

  ‘Finally,’ said the Arkmage, in a smooth and slick voice that slithered around the marble hall. ‘You’ve arrived at last.’ He turned around and it was then that he caught sight of the old mage standing behind Farden, and his sneering expression faltered for the briefest of moments. ‘I must say, I’m surprised at your company, Farden. You seem to have roused a dead man from his grave.’

  Tyrfing waved his sword at him. The older mage tried to ignore the feeling of stark fear the sight of Vice evoked in him. He felt exposed. Old whispers scurried through his head. The corner of his mouth twitched, and he sniffed. ‘Not dead, despite the rumours and your best efforts, Vice.’

  Vice looked to the open doors. There was nobody else, just a broken goddess and an empty corridor. No sign of any vampyre then, he thought, and grinned. ‘Just the two of you? I’m almost insulted,’ he said.

  Farden scowled. ‘Just the two of us, Vice.’

  ‘Excellent. Two birds with one Arkmage then, so to speak.’

  ‘Where is she?’ demanded Farden.

  Vice shook his head and took a step forward. ‘Always with the questions, Farden, never with the pleasantries. Where is she? What have you done with her? Who are you? I told you once before how blind you were and it seems you have not improved.’ His voice suddenly became low and threatening. ‘I expected more from you.’

  ‘My daughter, where is she?’ repeated the mage. Spittle flew from his lips as he spoke.

  Vice shook his head. ‘Didn’t Cheska tell you? That child is probably halfway across the bay of Rós by now, escaping as we speak,’ the Arkmage informed them. The mages tried to hide it, but they sagged in the face of the shocking news. They had lost already. Farden’s head dropped.

  ‘All this effort for nothing, hmm?’ cooed Vice. ‘As always, you are one step behind me.’

  Farden stayed silent, and slowly swayed back and forth, rocking on his feet. He felt numb. His face was turning slowly purple with rage. Tyrfing tapped the end of his sword on the floor. The blade chimed. ‘A step behind are we?’ he asked.

  Vice smiled again, flashing his white teeth. Tyrfing could feel the Arkmage’s magick vibrating the very air around them, pushing and suffocating. Tyrfing had never felt magick like it. The old mage pointed his sword at Vice and began to recite the Dust Song in a low and rhythmic voice. ‘ “Speaks, ‘Once the final seed is sown, it must rear its head to face alone, what furrows left by earthly fathers, for ‘tis greeted by unearthly laughter. And One more terrible than Three shall come, One to which the Stars succumb. To bring holy war back down to Earth, and leave all to bask in unholy birth.” ’ The hall was silent as Tyrfing paused. The guards swapped confused glances. Vice glared. Tyrfing continued. ‘We know exactly what you’re doing, Vice, and what your cunning plan is. It was obvious from the start. Emaneska calls it Ragnarök, the Paraians call it armaggedon, the minotaurs call it götterdämmerung, but whatever you want to call it, it’s never going to happen.’

  Vice shook his head. ‘But you’ve already lost, do you not realise that? Even if your army takes this city, it matters not. The stone is already rolling. With the child safe and sound and far away, there’s nothing to stop me.’

  ‘There’s us,’ Farden said. Vice laughed, but Farden raised his head and held up a small glittering rock. It glowed brightly in his palm. ‘And this, you deluded bastard. How I wish I’d known that night at the inn, and put an end to you then. Your first mistake was not killing me when you had the chance,’ added the mage.

  It was Vice’s turn to sag. This, a tiny voice inside the Arkmage’s head grudgingly admitted, the seer had not mentioned. He snarled and pushed his guards forward. ‘Cut them down to size for me!’ he shouted.

  The air began to crackle with energy. Farden and Tyrfing held their swords in front of their faces as they moved apart. Fire shimmered around their clenched hands. Tyrfing’s shield began to spin with a click and a whir. Blades emerged from its edge and they spun and danced along its rim. Farden grit his teeth, and let his rage fill every inch of his body. A familiar red mist descended over his eyes.

  The guards surged forward in two groups, spell-proof shields held in front of their faces. They reached Farden first. Vicious spears thrusted and jabbed but Farden backed away and fended each of them off, his blade ringing like a bell. One caught him on the arm, slicing through his cloak and skin. Farden winced. It only made him angrier. With an impatient yell, he slammed his wrists together and a wall of magick drove the men backwards. Their boots scraped against the marble as they braced themselves. The mage kicked at the legs of the nearest guard and as he stumbled, Farden grabbed the back of the helmet and yanked the guard’s head down whilst driving his sword upwards, straight into the narrow gap in the man’s visor. Blood spurted like a fountain. The man screamed. Farden wasted no time watching him bleed. He wrenched his sword free and spun around and his sword blade found a knee and a helmet to smash, quickly dispatching another guard. A spear darted dangerously close to the mage’s face and, lightning-fast, he grabbed it and sent sparks surging down its steel shaft. The guard yelped and dropped it, lowering his shield. He stared in shock and horror as he watched a razor-sharp sword swinging upwards into his groin, easily finding the unprotected joints between the steel plates. Farden left him on the floor. The last remaining guard wisely backed away, only to trip on the body of his comrade. He fell back with a yell and Farden leapt forward to swiftly clamp his hand over the guard’s visor. Boiling fire billowed from his palm and filled the man’s helmet and the yelling stopped instantly.

  Farden left the men to die and strode forward to confront Vice. Tyrfing was still busy with his own guards. Out of the corner of Farden’s eye, he spotted his uncle cutting a man into rough halves with his shield. The screeching of blades cutting through steel and bone was piercing, and the guard’s screams were even worse. Sparks sprayed from the shield’s edge like a fountain.

  Vice, meanwhile, stood his ground at the end of the hall, looking on with a calm nonchalance. Slivers of electricity coiled around his fingers like frenzied glow-worms. His magick made the air hum and quiver. Farden could feel the pressure of it washing over him in waves. ‘Come and get your revenge then, mage,’ said Vic
e. ‘If you can.’

  Farden held his sword high. Fire began to climb the blade. ‘I’ve been waiting a long time for this,’ he grinned, clenching his teeth so hard they hurt.

  Vice matched the mage’s smile. ‘So have I.’

  ‘Farden, wait!’ shouted Tyrfing from behind him, but it was too late; Vice’s spell was already at full swing. Thunder rocked the hall as a snarling river of lightning flew from Vice’s hands. The air wobbled in the heat. Farden braced himself to deflect it but even with all of his strength it was not enough. He was tired, and Vice was so strong. The spell tossed him backwards like a soiled rag, and he crashed to the floor next to the dead guards. He slid through their blood, and coughed up some of his own. His veins were on fire. He had never felt a spell like it.

  Tyrfing ran to his side and wrenched him to his feet. Smoke escaped from Farden’s mouth. The mage winced. ‘Together. We can only hope to take him if we work together,’ whispered his uncle, and he nodded. He cracked his knuckles and as one they marched forward, Farden limping ever so slightly.

  Tyrfing was the first to strike. He punched the air and a wall of magick pushed Vice back against the steps of his stolen throne. Vice just laughed, but Tyrfing was only warming up. Farden watched his uncle grow like a storm cloud. Shadows slithered in his wake. His entire being seemed to grow. Farden remembered his lessons and he too began to feel the power surge through his veins. Fire swelled in his chest and billowed between his shaking hands. Tyrfing cast his shield aside and held his hands high above his head. Tendrils of fire began to spin around him. The great hall rumbled.