by Ben Galley
In Farden’s palm lay another skeleton key of the most perfectly carved white bone. The intricacy bewitched Mithrid, and she was unable to stop staring at the loops and whorls and filigree of its ornate handle. To think this was ancient made a mockery of the modern wonders she had seen. Had the world stagnated? Regressed? She was desperate to know what was to blame.
‘Mithrid!’
‘Huh?’ Mithrid had forgotten there was anything else but the key before her. Farden tore some of his tunic to wrap the key in.
‘You weren’t listening. I said you’ve got another problem to sort out. Getting out of here.’
‘Erm. I’ll bow to age and experience on this one.’
Farden narrowed his eyes in mock scowl.
It seemed Durnus had been working on such a problem. They could not swim up too far along the tunnel due to the fear of being swept away, or pounded to mush against the rock or cliffs. But before they needed to take another breath, a thick rusted hook clanged against the wall. Mithrid and Farden seized it gladly, and with the strength of an entire fishing crew, they were yanked into the fading daylight at a breakneck pace. Just in time, too.
A huge shark with a head like a black battleaxe burst the water behind them. Teeth lined the entire broad sweep of its face, from soulless eye to soulless eye, and they gnashed at Farden’s dangling leg.
‘Hurricane’s balls, that was close!’
Farden nodded towards her wounded forehead. ‘Must have tasted that blood in the water.’
Mithrid frowned, feeling the pain sting her. Within, the close shave with danger had left her shaking with guilty thrill. She spat blood that trickled into her mouth and watched it fall to the churning ocean behind them. She would wear this scar like captain’s colours.
‘Guess I better get used to scars. I’ll have a mug like yours soon.’
‘Scars mean nothing,’ the mage cackled, as if she didn’t get a joke. ‘There’s a fine line between showing you’ve stared death in the face and showing that you don’t know how to block. The scars you can’t see are what matter.’ Farden tapped his head. ‘You should know that as well as I do by now, and it’s those I regret not saving you from.’
Mithrid’s mental battlements cracked at that moment. Thoughts of Troughwake flashed across her busy mind. Of blood dripping into waxen puddles. Of dead hands still reaching for saviours that never came. Of her father. Irminsul’s fire swooped after the memories. She shook her head with a growl, bringing another stab of pain. She felt a wave of guilt again, that she had not done enough yet. As if being adrift on their quest and all their hardship so far meant nothing. It angered her, made her want to push harder, faster. To outshine herself. None of their steps so far seemed good enough.
‘You are both mad as hares!’ Durnus was already chiding them, while they still hovered over the watery abyss. More sharks had gathered now. They could see their shadows in cresting waves. The cliff-folk were so used to fish on their hooks they actually tried to use nets with long poles before Durnus chided them. With a simple swivel of the long fishing pole, Mithrid and Farden were dumped onto the warm rock and left to recover their breath.
Durnus was a persistent shadow over them, framed by a sunset sky of fire orange and strange green edges to the clouds. ‘Did you do it? What did you do?’
‘Questions, Durnus,’ Farden growled. ‘Too many of them.’
The fire of their fight to survive was fading from them both. Mithrid’s legs and lungs ached. Farden looked as though he had climbed the cliff back up. He groaned as he pushed out the bundle of tunic. ‘Here.’
The Mogacha were getting too close for Warbringer’s liking. She thumped the hammer on the rock at her hooves to make Voidaran cry out. With fearful whispers, they retreated.
‘Better,’ Warbringer said.
Durnus unwound the tunic and cradled the bone key with the utmost care. ‘A second key.’
‘Surprised?’
‘Not at all. Did another verse of the Doomriddle come with it?’ asked Durnus.
Farden and Mithrid stared at each other. She wracked her mind. ‘There was nothing,’ she replied, her tone like a question. ‘I didn’t hear or see anything. Did we miss something?’
Farden’s mirth disappeared. ‘I’m not going back down there.’
Durnus swapped his dark spectacles for others he had stashed in his satchel. ‘Luckily for you, there are words inscribed in the side of this key. Minuscule, barely legible in even this light. Firelight might do it.’
‘Then you better put that magick of yours to work and light a godsdamned fire. I thought I would have had enough of liquid by now, but somehow I’m now wondering if these Mogacha know how to brew or ferment anything. I miss Irien’s never-ending supply of wine.’
‘I bet you do,’ Mithrid smirked.
CHAPTER 23
STORMFRONT
Servaea was an island nation said to lie west of the coast of Albion. A grand nation of magick and commerce, incredibly long-lived, they rivalled the ancient Scalussen forges for their wisdom. All but in one matter: where they had chosen to build their capital, and that was unfortunately close to the volcano of Hegrabad. Its eruption was heard in what is now Essen. Those at sea survived, and as the decades since the disaster waxed, the survivors joined with the seafaring Arka. The Scribe of the Arka, inventor of the Written Book, is the last surviving Servaean known to scholars.
FROM ‘TALES FROM THE STREETS OF POWER’ BY HARGRUM OLFSSON, YEAR 880
It turned out the Mogacha did indeed have knowledge of alcohol. Too much, if Farden was to be asked. He couldn’t remember a headache such as this since the feast of Scalussen. Perhaps even years before that, when he’d drowned the sorrows of Kserak.
Wincing, trying to see which eye could focus, if either, Farden pushed himself up from his bedroll, and stared at a dawn he had never seen before. Almost everything he could see was ocean. The lands of the Mogacha curved north to disappear into sea fog, or to mountainous winter. Only one landmass sat south and west of them. Though it was some distance away, it shared the Mogacha’s white cliffs. For a moment, still in last night’s drunken haze, it looked far too similar to Albion for Farden’s comfort.
Durnus was up, poring over the old maps and the elvish tome. The inkweld was closed. The Grimsayer, too, even though Farden thought he heard its mutter as he looked at it.
‘What is that water?’
‘The Bitter Sea they call it. This stretch of it at least. The Blue Mountain Sea is all of that,’ Durnus gestured to the rest of the endless ocean. Storm-laden clouds ruled the horizon. ‘The big land over there? That is what the Mogacha called Heart. One map calls it Hartlunder. Another map calls it Hartlund.’
‘You learn all this from your Mogacha friend?’
‘His name is Evorsk, and he is a collector of words, as he puts it. Scrolls. Books. Scraps from travellers.’
‘How do you find these people?’ Farden muttered with a shake of his head.
Farden looked across the others. Warbringer was snoring like a… minotaur, he supposed. Her barrel chest rose and fell to rival the grumble of the Ossas giant.
‘Any luck with the bone key? Do we know where the third task lies?’
The last Farden remembered – somewhere between Aspala teaching the Mogacha an old Paraian war-song, Warbringer hammering stones into the dark night with Voidaran, or Durnus’ heartfelt rendition of old eddas of Emaneska heroes long dead – he had seen the vampyre holding the crystal and bone keys to the firelight. Words had shone against his face and chest as if they burned on his skin, but somehow it was the keys that cast them in firelight.
‘The riddle was in some bastardised elvish, mashed with an old dialect the cultist must have known. I hope I have translated its runes correctly using this tome. Fortunately, I brought a compendium of foreign tongues the Siren linguist Azber—’
‘Durnus.’ Farden massaged his temples. ‘What did it say?’
‘Torrid waters fail to halt you, yet the
highest price awaits. Turn where men fail to tread without sinking, with shadow in your right eye at dawn ’til roaring waters. West lies Utiru’s wrath. Scarred sister’s light burns the path, terror dark and crystal sharp. Cut the throat of your sweetest dreams or lose your mind.’
Farden sighed. ‘Well that seems… ominous. What is Utiru? A place? A person?’
‘I think we shall find out soon enough. Where men fail to tread without sinking is…’ Durnus frowned at his maps.
‘Water.’
‘The simple mind of the hungover triumph again.’ The vampyre chuckled. ‘With shadow in your right eye at dawn must mean south. We sail south.’
‘I don’t see a ship here, do you?’
‘Not here.’ Durnus pointed to a few white sails dotted across the expanse of ocean. ‘We will need a captain. We cannot continue to press Fleetstar. Carrying all of us exhausts her, and you know we may need her like we did in Vensk.’
Farden reached for some of the roast vegetables and meats the Mogacha had shared in their hospitality. ‘A ship it is. We’ll have to look down the coast, back the way we came. Or head to Hartlunder and find a ship there. I won’t go backwards. I’m not retracing my steps.’
‘How does it feel with the armour back to normal? Has it helped your magick?’
Farden used the excuse of chewing on the cold food to ignore the question. ‘Maybe I do remember a port several hours back, now that I think about it.’
‘I know you heard me, Farden.’
The mage threw a carrot back in its iron pan. ‘It’s not fixed.’
‘When were you going to tell me?’
Farden shot him a dark look. ‘You going to play that game? Because I could ask you the same question.’
‘Fine. We are fond of our secrets and loathe questions, a trait we have shared for decades. Perhaps it is time that stopped.’
‘Krugis fixed the metal, not the magick.’
‘Perhaps it will return with your own magick.’
‘If either return at all,’ Farden said. Whether it was admitting it to Mithrid the day before or the evening’s spirits, he found his tongue looser. ‘Meanwhile the years eat at me as if they’re making up for stolen time. You know what ageing means for most Written. Inwick knew it. It is why I was so determined to find this armour in the first place.’ Farden tested his aching arms and wrists. More of the colour had gone from his hands. Cracks had begun to appear between the scars.
‘Modren was one of the only mages that the madness did not take. He may have been the oldest and sanest Written ever to live.’
Farden felt his throat tensing, and not from his sour stomach. ‘I always thought Elessi was the one behind that. Rarely did I know a Written that took a husband or a wife.’
‘Since we are speaking openly, for once, I thought you would find such a thing with Lerel once upon a time.’
‘So did I.’ Farden tried lying.
‘Your magick will return, Farden. It has before. Give it, and your armour, time.’
‘Time, Durnus, is what I am running out of.’
Durnus wagged a finger. ‘We may find some better smiths in the south. Mages or wizards, perhaps.’
Farden knew it was the only advice anybody could offer, even his lifelong friend. ‘I won’t count on it. Irien told me magick is not treated with much love in the Easterealm. Golikar endured it because of the Skölgard Empire reaching so far east all those years ago.’
Durnus shook his head. ‘Faith, mage. You jumped in faith yesterday, unless I am mistaking faith for a death wish?’
‘That might be preferable at this moment,’ Farden confessed as he tried to stand up. ‘Evernia’s tits, what was that we were drinking?’
‘Fermented grain and coelo milk. Yogit, one called it.’
Farden’s stomach clenched, and he considered the edge of the black rock.
‘Do you wish to speak of my… condition, one could call it?’
Farden did not. ‘I know addiction when I see it, old friend,’ he muttered, taking steps a baby foal would have been proud of. A barrel of water sat nearby. He dunked his head into it without a thought and came up spluttering.
‘That’s more of that yogit, isn’t it?’ he wheezed.
The vampyre was trying to hide his smirk. ‘They brought that barrel for Warbringer last night. That minotaur almost drank them out of their stores. Luckily the Mogacha saw it as a challenge.’
Farden found some water and doused himself. He blew spray while he watched the grass-hatted folk go about their dawn chores or gardening their crops, weaving, salting shark meat, or tending to beasts on the plains. ‘A simple people. And I mean no disrespect. I envy them.’
Durnus nodded. ‘We will get there once Malvus and Loki are dead. We can live a simple life.’
‘No rest ’til freedom served,’ Farden replied.
With their stomachs placated and parched throats wetted, the five foreigners began to say their goodbyes to the kind Mogacha.
Farden lost count of the number of hands he patted, something that seemed their custom instead of bowing. Evorsk made sure they went on their way with all kinds of packages of salted meats, dried seaweed cakes, and berry jams. Several leather skins of yogit were handed to Farden, who swiftly passed it to somebody else to carry. Even the smell was getting to him. He wondered whether the armour had secretly shielded him from hangovers all these years. That was an extra needle in the gut he did not need.
A scream cut the morning air, and though it turned a few heads, it did not seem to disturb the throngs of Mogacha. Farden looked around. It was no yell of a child. It sounded pained.
‘What was that?’ he asked of Evorsk.
He did not break eye contact with the mage. ‘Mogacha,’ he shrugged.
Looking past him, Farden saw another crowd gathered between some of the taller flint-cone houses.
‘Farden,’ Mithrid called after him. ‘What are you…?’
The others were forced to follow as Farden kept walking. Another scream rang out. Farden walked faster. He saw stones in the hands of the mob. Stones flying through the air. The mage barged through the crowds, causing a stir amongst the straw-clad people.
It was immediately obvious what was happening. A man lay cowering against the wall of a house. He couldn’t get too far; his hands were bound to a pole. He was cut in a dozen places, and before Farden could stop them all, two more chunks of flint struck him. One in the rib, one opening up his foot. Around the man, the dust and chips of flint whirled in strange shapes and spirals.
Farden took Evorsk by the shoulder. ‘What is happening here, Evorsk?’
The Mogacha looked confused. ‘This man criminal.’
‘What’s his crime?’
‘Magus,’ he stammered. ‘Magick. It is not normal.’
Farden shoved Evorsk back into the crowds. He marched to the bleeding man while daring the crowd to throw another rock.
‘Farden! We cannot interfere.’
‘It not normal. Bad. Brings storm. Fire. Disease. This man wife stop breathing. He choke her. No touch!’
The crowd started baying for the blood they had been promised. Farden bowed his head, all affinity for the Mogacha dying a hard and sudden death.
‘He’s been born with wind magick, is all,’ Farden hissed to the others.
The vampyre looked deeply concerned by the whole debacle. ‘Magick is spreading here as it has Emaneska.’
‘We can remove his magick,’ Farden barked over to the crowd. ‘Translate, Evorsk. Tell them we can remove his magick.’
Durnus looked around. ‘We can?’
Farden continued shouting. ‘We can fix him. He’s not a criminal. What happened to his wife was an accident. Go. Tell them!’
Evorsk did as he was told. Perhaps he had noticed Farden’s hand resting on his sword. Murmurs spread through the onlookers.
The mage levelled a finger at Evorsk. ‘We fix him and you spare his life. Let him live. Agreed?’
The Moga
cha needed little discussion to decide. They nodded and patted the backs of their own hands. It seemed agreed upon.
Farden stood close to Mithrid. ‘Strangle his spells. Halt his magick. Hopefully the man will have the sense to learn to control it in the future.’
The crowd gasped as the dark shadow swirled around the girl’s fingers. She moved quickly this time, barely seeming to concentrate before flexing her strange magick. Farden watched the swirling dust wind around the man die to nothing. He touched his hands together in wonder. Tears of relief sprang to his eyes. The man tried to hug Farden, but he held him at arm’s reach. He tried hard to get the warning into the man with a look, as he would speak to Fleetstar. Somehow, he believed it worked. The man’s relatives enveloped him, and with that, the mage was finished with Ossas and its Mogacha.
Leaving the others to be as polite as they needed, Farden made for the wavering plains of grass with a deep scowl on his face.
Farden was right. A port lay several hours’ glide back down the cliffs. It seemed to owe fealty to Golikar rather than Mogacha, neither of which Farden was now impressed by.
The excuse for a port occupied a narrow gorge in the cliffs. Zigzagging steps had been carved into the limestone walls. Piers had been built over a mottled pebble beach. A small town of shacks and trading houses sat in a crescent shape around nets for mending. A flock of fishing skiffs sat between two fat cogs with barnacles up their sides.
Fleetstar landed with a tired stumble atop the cliff, barely managing to avoid squishing the passengers clenched in her front claws. Warbringer and Farden rolled across the grass. It did wonders for the mage’s unsteady stomach.
While they unpacked the saddlebags on the dragon and hoisted them onto their shoulders, Mithrid wandered across the grass, distracted by something. Farden noticed her leave, but was too busy staring at a nearby rickety sign. Its bleached wood said, ‘Sculk Cove.’ Farden didn’t know whether that was a spelling mistake or an unfortunate name.