Heavy Lies The Crown (The Scalussen Chronicles Book 2)

by Ben Galley

  CHAPTER 8

  RIDDLES

  The great ogin once roamed the lands of Golikar and Easterealm. Nobody remembers what killed them, except that the giants vanished during one final battle, west of Dathazh. All that remained of them was their bones and their mighty swords, dug deep into the earth. The bones, of course, were pillaged for trophies and medicines, but the swords remain on their battlefield as if they would curse any that touch them.

  FROM THE DIARY OF TREASURE-HUNTER BALEO THE SQUEAKY, FOUND UPON HIS CORPSE

  If the Dawn God sought to avenge the worshippers in Lilerosk, he was a frail and ineffective deity, defeated by mere clouds.

  Fleetstar flew until the earliest hours of day before she set her passengers down upon the mountaintop. It was a scant and featureless place, an angled dustpan of broken orange shale that crunched underfoot. Not a single tree or shrub dared to grow. Here and there, stone tors and cairns had been erected. Some were huge, looming as ominous shadows between the drifting clouds.

  ‘We’ll spend the night before carrying on,’ Farden ordered quietly, as they stared across the desolate peak with listless energy. There was no wind, thank the gods, but the wet air left dew on their clothes and steel.

  The mage set a course for a larger boulder, wind-smoothed like the narrow features of a hawk. He hunkered down behind it where a hollow had been carved between rock and mountain slope, and waited for the others to join him.

  ‘Fleetstar, would you give us some heat?’ he asked, gesturing to the pile of shale before them.

  The dragon considered him for a moment, almost suspicious in the way she narrowed her great blue eyes. Her turquoise scales looked utterly out of place on the mountainside.

  Fleetstar bent her head to a nearby boulder. Flame poured from her pursed lips. The heat of the dragonfire alone drew the others closer and sat them down. After several prolonged breaths, Fleetstar withdrew, chest heaving deeply. The flat boulder glowed, giving off a mild heat that they put their hands to.

  With care, Warbringer and Aspala propped Durnus up close to the makeshift fire. The cold flight had withered him somewhat, and it took time for him to come fully awake. Farden and Mithrid handed out several of the supplies they had purchased at the market: dried mutton, good on long roads; sausages meant for proper fires; green-veined cheese; bread that looked stiff as oak and suspiciously full of seeds; hardy beetroots and sour apples; and blue lumps that the merchant had sworn, three times, were potatoes.

  Tired and shivering, they dined on dried mutton, the apples, and silence. Uninterested in the food, Warbringer disappeared beyond the great boulder to stand watch and likely quell her hunger or boredom. It was only when Durnus spoke up that the mountainside’s quiet was broken.

  ‘How far beyond the Hammer Hills did you say we were?’ the vampyre hissed. ‘Rivenplains, did you say?’

  ‘Do you need anything, Durnus?’ Aspala asked. ‘Meat, water?’

  ‘Food turns to ash in my mouth, child, but thank you,’ Durnus croaked. ‘Unless there is wine? No? Then I shall take a blanket. And that skinny, broad book of mine from my satchel.’

  As Aspala found him the book, Farden offered up his cloak and hunched over the vampyre. Within the book was a faded map spread across two pages. It was upside-down to him, but he recognised the edges of his homeland: the claws of the Spit; Emaneska’s far-flung eastern border. That was this map’s beginning, and Farden barely recognised a single island or shore beyond that. The name of Easterealm was splayed across the opposite side.

  ‘You’ve had a map this entire time?’ the mage shook his head, wondering why he hadn’t looked deeper in the satchel.

  ‘Of course I did. One of the few accurate maps of the east. For centuries, Emaneska has largely been content to keep within its own borders. Keep to its own problems. The cartographers of the east seem to be few, illiterate, or eager to overestimate their own countries,’ Durnus lectured, wheezing softly. ‘An answer to my question if you please, Farden. How far?’

  ‘Two thousand miles from Scalussen, according to Fleetstar.’ Farden looked to the dragon. She was still quietly smouldering after the escape from Lilerosk and subsequent scolding by Farden. Apparently, the lambs she had snatched and roasted in mid-air before their shepherds’ very eyes had not sated her hunger. Eyrum had always jested about a famished dragon being a dangerous dragon, and Farden saw that anger now in Fleetstar’s glowing eyes. It made him feel cold to his gut.

  She flashed a row of sharp teeth, speaking as she too disappeared into the haze. ‘Five hundred miles past Trollhammerung. Four hundred further than you said you would be, vampyre.’

  Farden’s head turned so swiftly he hurt his neck. ‘And what exactly does she mean by that, Durnus? Did you… Did you plan this?’

  The vampyre’s pale eyes avoided their eyes, tongue poking at a fang. He closed the map with a sigh.

  Mithrid spat out an apple seed. ‘You’re saying us being here wasn’t an accident? I thought it was a problem with the Weight. A lapse in concentration or something.’

  ‘From what I’m hearing, I would wager not,’ Farden spoke with jaw clenched. ‘You said in the tavern “it worked”. What exactly worked, Durnus? Talk quickly.’

  With much wincing, Durnus held his scarred hands closer to the fire. ‘It was the only way to make you come with me. When Skertrict revealed himself as Loki and snatched your Book, I knew the battle of Scalussen would not be the end of this war.’

  Mithrid held up a blade of dried mutton. ‘I’m sorry, did you say the scholar Skertrict was Loki?’

  ‘You know that name?’ Farden demanded.

  ‘A man named Loki was in Malvus’ tent. That’s what the emperor called him. Always lingering in the background. And in the battle when you rescued me. He…’

  ‘He what?’

  Mithrid just shook her head. She wore a pensive frown. ‘But the gods aren’t real, are they? I mean, in flesh and bone, at least. I thought they were all up there. Trapped in the sky for two thousand years.’ She pointed past the swirling clouds.

  Durnus nodded. ‘You are mostly correct, Mithrid. Emaneska was once a battleground of fire and ash. God and daemon, human and elf, we fought for tens of thousands of years. That was until the gods sacrificed themselves in one last grand attack, two millennia ago, and dragged the daemons from the world and Hel beneath us into the heavens. That is where most of them now remain, in their towers of shadow and light. Even Gremorin’s numbers pale in comparison to the daemons that still stare down at us. The elves, too, though I have come to believe another story, that they were banished forevermore to another plane beyond the fabric of this world, but in any case, Evernia, Njord, Jötun, the Allfather, Thron, they’re all up there—’

  ‘The short answer is, yes, they’re real, and Loki is a very dangerous specimen.’ Farden glared at the girl for causing such a tangent of discussion. ‘You were saying, Durnus?’

  The vampyre was more concerned with Mithrid’s question. He waved his hand feebly at the mage. ‘Loki was hiding amongst us in Scalussen as that stammering scholar all along in an effort to steal a copy of Farden’s Book. His tattooed spellbook.’

  Farden clenched his teeth so hard his jaw popped. He recalled the battle upon the rooftop in his mind’s eye, and Loki’s smirking face, aching to have a blade driven through it.

  Aspala and Mithrid were trading wary glances. ‘A god,’ they repeated in chorus. ‘In Scalussen?’

  ‘Yes, one that betrayed us in the Last War. A god who fell from the sky. A god who is now in possession of one of the greatest magickal artefacts known to history. With Farden’s Book, Loki can—’

  ‘DURNUS!’ Farden snapped. ‘Answer my question. Come with you where?’

  ‘Along the path to victory, King. Or so I hope.’ Durnus blinked owlishly. ‘Forgive me for my doubt, old friend, but I knew Irminsul would consume you, just as it almost did. I saw the very same thought in your eyes the last we parted. I had already chosen to disobey your orders; to
return and use the Weight to save you from yourself. Yet, with Loki’s plan revealed, I knew more had to be done than simply surviving to reclaim Krauslung. We need a weapon against him. Not just you. Not just Mithrid. And I knew that unless I forced you, Farden, you would never embark on this journey with me to find it.’

  Durnus uttered a rasping cough. He brought the cracked and warped Weight from his nearby satchel and let it fall in the shale. ‘I told Fleetstar to join us east of Trollhammerung before we left for Irminsul. But the Weight is dangerous enough without worrying about perfection. We were in the height of battle and I forced too much power into it. Broke it in doing so, unfortunately. But it worked, and despite it being to my detriment, overshooting the Hammer Hills has saved us many days of travelling. The road to finding the Spear of Gunnir will be long and no doubt arduous.’

  ‘The what?’ Mithrid piped up again.

  Farden tilted his head while the words fell into place. ‘That fucking spear, Durnus?! That is why you brought us here?’

  Durnus was trying to dig another book from his satchel, but his raw hands proved too painful. Aspala set to helping him.

  ‘If the accounts I’ve found are true, then it could be the weapon capable of defeating Loki. It is a spear of great power, made by the ancient elven clan of Ivald. A clan of fabled smiths. It is said to have been able to carve the peaks from mountains, that it shines with the light of a sun.’

  Farden was not done. ‘But “if” is not good enough, Durnus! You’ve forced me to abandon the rest of Scalussen in the time they need me most, based on a bloody hunch you found in one book! An elvish book, no less!’

  ‘Speed is of the utmost importance, Farden. We cannot wait for Loki to act. He was two steps ahead of us in Scalussen. We are now ahead of him. What Elessi and the others need most is for you to seek out the spear.’

  Farden’s mouth hung slack. ‘In all the decades I’ve known you and that vast mind between those pointed ears of yours, I’ve never once thought you a fool. This moment right here, Durnus? This is a first for me.’

  ‘Your doubt is astoundingly blind, mage. Fool, you call me? I have researched the Spear Gunnir thoroughly. I believe it is no myth, but history, the same as the armour of the Knights of the Nine. How many times did people scorn you for believing in its power? Your uncle and I included?’

  ‘Don’t talk about my armour.’

  As if Durnus noticed for the first time, his eyes examined the charred marks and scars across the mage’s armour. He reached to touch it, but Farden deflected his hand.

  ‘What has happened?’

  ‘Irminsul’s fire is what happened, Durnus,’ he snapped. He had no wish to speak of his armour now. Nor his magick. Nothing but the cursed spear. He remained stubbornly silent.

  ‘Here, General,’ Aspala said, assisting Durnus further upright.

  ‘You do not have to call me that, madam. We are not in Scalussen any more.’

  ‘Thanks to you,’ muttered Farden.

  Durnus looked around, fang over one lip and eyes twitching. ‘Do you all… Have I offended you in some way?’

  Mithrid shook her head. ‘If being here can help kill Malvus as well as this Loki, I don’t see the problem.’

  Farden found himself snarling. ‘Because you don’t understand, Mithrid. This is beyond you.’

  ‘So was magick and war when I first arrived in Scalussen. Look how that turned out.’ Mithrid might have shrugged, but there was a dangerous glint in her eyes. Her scarlet hair billowed like a fire around her stern face. ‘You aren’t the only one who wants to get back to Emaneska. I miss and fear for the others just the same as you. Same as Warbringer. Same as Durnus. And the fact that Malvus survived burns in my heart, too. I haven’t given up on my revenge. Somehow, I want it all the more. If there’s a weapon that can kill both him and Loki, who you all say is worse, then what’s wrong with finding it?’

  Farden stood. He fought to keep his finger from thrusting in the vampyre’s face. ‘Because,’ he whispered, ‘if I remember correctly, the idea of the spear was first raised to us by Scholar Skertrict. Wasn’t he the one who told you to look deeper into that elvish book? Or am I wrong about that, old friend?’

  As expected, Durnus took some time to answer. ‘Yes, he was.’

  ‘So if Skertrict was Loki in disguise, then surely it’s Loki that wants us to find that spear. This is no more than another of his lies. He conned you into coming here, thinking we’d be desperate enough to try once Malvus closed his noose. It is a trick, and you’ve fallen for it. If I were you, Durnus, I would forget about the spear and concentrate on finding us a way back to Elessi and the others.’

  Shale broke under Farden’s boots as he sought the silence of the drifting mist. To be alone with his dismay and frustration. In his mind, Loki had just landed yet another punch to Farden’s gut.

  Durnus stared at the whorl of mist where Farden had vanished. Mithrid flicked a tongue around her teeth as she watched the vampyre. His shoulders slumped, dejected. His raw hands rested on the spines of the book in his satchel.

  ‘He hasn’t been himself since we came here,’ Mithrid tried to explain.

  ‘How long have I been unconscious?’

  Aspala answered between chattering teeth. She looked interminably cold. ‘Four days, perhaps five. Warbringer carried you most of the way. There was a forest that tried to eat us. Religious bandits. Lots of sheep. It has been a strange time.’

  ‘Farden gave you some of his blood,’ added Mithrid. ‘Seemed to wake you up.’

  Durnus’ red eyes stretched wide. ‘With the magick in his blood, I do not think that was wise, but I am grateful. Did I hurt any of you? Weight magick is not the most accurate. And in the pressure of the fire—’

  ‘We’re all fine. It is simply hard being lost,’ Mithrid said.

  Durnus patted his tomes. ‘I have a path, young madam. You need not worry.’

  But Mithrid did. The name of Loki was an echo in her mind that refused to die. She watched Aspala help Durnus to his feet. The old vampyre seemed set on following the mage. He tottered something awful without his walking stick, but he managed to stay upright even though Aspala followed him with arms spread and ready to catch him.

  As the vampyre left, the minotaur rejoined them. She had found a handful of some purple tuber with tough leaves, and a kind of snake that had armour like the shale around them. Though Aspala nodded appreciatively, having the appetite of a hound and a stomach for inedible items to match, Mithrid wrinkled her lip.

  ‘Where is mage and vampyre?’ asked Warbringer. She placed the snake down on the hot rock, still roasting from the dragonfire. Mercifully she had already beheaded it.

  ‘Talking somewhere. Hopefully not killing each other.’

  The minotaur crouched in the shale. Voidaran she laid before her. Her stubby claws traced its runed surface fondly. ‘Talk is useful,’ she said. ‘Many Warbringers that come before me do not realise this. There is battle in talk. Too much talk, however, is waste. We must move soon. Wind changing.’

  The presence of the giant minotaur was calming, much like the presence of the dragons Mithrid had grown used to in the Frostsoar’s eyries. A presence that could crush any enemy that could wander from the mist.

  Mithrid felt exhaustion weighing heavy on her, but a lone thought kept her from falling into sleep. Aspala and Warbringer exhibited the same tiredness, but they were too entranced by the sizzling snake. It was hissing as if still alive. Aspala poked at it with her broken sword.

  ‘Doesn’t look poisonous, Mithrid. Don’t worry,’ Aspala assured her, noticing her furrowed brow.

  ‘It’s not that,’ Mithrid answered, looking over her shoulder for Farden and Durnus. The vampyre had also disappeared from view.

  ‘What is it then, girl?’ Warbringer asked. Mithrid found it hard to escape the minotaur’s eyes. Dark brown, almost black, but ringed and flecked with a blood red. Hot air drifted from the creature’s nostrils.

  Mithrid shook hers
elf, realising she was staring at Warbringer without answering. ‘You know the god they were talking about?’

  ‘Loki.’

  ‘He saved my life.’

  Warbringer and Aspala stared at each other for a moment. The latter spoke first.

  ‘When?’

  ‘In the battle to save you and I, and Bull. When Farden tricked Malvus. Littlest came at me with a knife. She caught me off guard. I was on my back, helpless, when Loki appeared.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He dropped a knife on my chest, did this,’ Mithrid put a finger to her lips, ‘and disappeared.’

  The mood was uneasy.

  Aspala thumbed the healing stubs of her smashed horns. ‘Why save his enemy?’

  ‘Because he not your enemy,’ Warbringer suggested.

  ‘Malvus wanted me alive for his own purposes,’ Mithrid said. ‘But if what Farden said is correct, Loki doesn’t serve Malvus. Maybe the opposite.’

  ‘Which still makes him our enemy,’ Aspala muttered.

  Mithrid wanted to speak up but knew better than to argue. It wasn’t the god who had dispatched the Arka mages to her Troughwake door. Malvus was that man. The fact that Loki meant evil was a fact passed along by hearsay. At least for the time being. It was that uncertainty that befuddled her.

  ‘Are you doubting Farden?’ asked the Paraian.

  ‘No,’ Mithrid said, shocked. ‘I don’t doubt his hatred for the god. Just Loki’s intentions. To be honest, I’m still struggling to believe gods exist in the flesh.’

  ‘If they’re flesh, they can be killed,’ Warbringer replied.

  Aspala shuffled closer, conspiratorial. ‘Where is that knife now?’

  Mithrid had barely thought about it until recently. She had tucked it into the folds of her cloak the day she returned to Scalussen. She still had it strapped to her armour, and held out its curving silver blade. Its gold and filigree handle shone even with no sun.