by Jen Williams
‘I know what anyone knows,’ he said. ‘The mages were powerful men and women who lived thousands of years ago. They were able to perform amazing feats with the magic they commanded, and many of them perished in a war with the old gods, which ended when the last mages trapped them inside the Citadel.’
‘That’s what happened, is it?’ Jolnir sounded amused. ‘I’m sure you know best. Tell me, Lord Aaron Frith, why do we not perform these amazing feats any longer?’
Frith’s foot slipped on a damp rock and he stumbled.
‘I don’t know,’ he snapped. ‘Because it’s gone. The magic went with the mages.’
‘But ours is a magical world, is it not?’ Jolnir gestured around at the darkening hills as if this explained everything. ‘There is a magic inherent in Ede, a strangeness that leads to mysterious places, powerful objects, yes?’
Frith remembered Fane’s glowing helm, and the unnerving atmosphere under the Citadel.
‘Yes,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘But that’s different.’
Jolnir nodded. The wooden bird mask was rapidly becoming a jagged black shape in the shadows, a sister to the rocks and hills.
‘There are two types of magic, Lord Aaron Frith. There is the Edeian, a natural force present in the world. It is in the soil, the sky, the air and sea, in the grass and rocks and flesh. And then there is Edenier, the magic of the will, a magic that comes of thought and want and personality.’ He waved his sticks airily. The objects tied to them rattled. ‘Edeian is still with us, of course, but it is largely inert, not generally a power that humans can bend to their will. And Edenier has vanished from the world. Isn’t that right?’
Frith paused.
‘Yes,’ he said eventually.
Jolnir chuckled. Overhead, Frith could hear the cries of the birds, although the sky was now so dark he could only make out their flittering movements against the clouds.
‘Edenier was the magic of the will, the magic of men, a tremendously powerful and dangerous force. We study it, here on Whittenfarne.’
The mystic’s voice had grown unusually quiet.
‘What is so special about Whittenfarne?’
‘It was their holy place, where they communed with their gods.’
‘The mages were priests?’
‘You could say that. Jumped-up priests, perhaps. Either way, they spoke to the old gods on these very rocks. Always chattering away about something, demanding this, entreating that.’ Jolnir cleared his throat, a muffled noise within the headdress. So far Frith had yet to see him take it off. ‘That was what the words were about, do you see?’
‘I don’t—’
‘Of course you don’t!’ Jolnir nodded rapidly. ‘The gods gave them the language so that they could speak to them. That is why the words are so powerful. Once, the mages were on good terms with the old gods, long before that business with the war and the Citadel. The words, with Edenier, could shape and change the world around them.’
‘Are the words so important?’
‘Words are always important,’ said Jolnir. ‘Even normal, non-magical words, in the right place, can change the world.’
Frith took a deep breath. ‘Can you tell me these words?’
Jolnir waved his spindly hands dismissively. ‘The mages learned the language of the gods, and much else besides, but eventually things turned sour. Mages were no longer content with learning from the gods, they wanted to be gods themselves.’
‘You sound as though you thought the mages fools.’
Jolnir laughed softly. ‘The stories tell us that the gods had grown cruel, but I know the truth. These men and women, the mages of Whittenfarne, were greedy.’
Frith stumbled on another rock. It was now so dark that the sky still visible through the clouds had only a bare scattering of stars to provide light. In the middle of the island, distant even from the lights of the other islands, full night was likely to be as black as ink.
‘This is ridiculous,’ said Frith. He stopped walking and crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Where are we going?’
‘I am telling you what you wish to know, am I not?’ asked Jolnir.
Frith gestured around at the island, not even certain the mystic would be able to see him do that, although he couldn’t help noticing that Jolnir hadn’t fallen in any pools or stumbled over any rocks.
‘It is too dark! We shall break our necks, or become lost. What is the point of this?’
‘Sometimes one must stumble, blind, before finding the light.’
‘Oh yes, very good. I suppose you save that up for every idiot that comes to this godforsaken island looking for enlightenment?’
The birds overhead gave a chorus of raucous cries.
‘Not everyone is worthy, Frith, not even a great lord. Perhaps you are not worthy. You have the look of a weak man, after all, one who would fail at the first obstacle and then forever complain that it was unfair.’
All at once Frith was back beneath the stones of the Citadel with the whispering voices of the long-dead mages. You are not strong enough to be what we were, little man. They had taunted him, and tortured him. Not strong enough, they had said. He remembered the rage that had carried him through, and again it began to warm his belly.
‘You do not know me, old man.’
There was a soft roar and Frith’s hands were suddenly boiling with a violent orange light. The black hills were lit up as bright as midday, and the water of the pools made flame-bright mirrors. There was a crackle, and the light ran up over Frith’s arms so that he seemed to be wearing a coat of fire. He held his hands up.
‘I have the power already, do you see? I could burn you all, everything on this ridiculous island, because I have the last of the mages’ powers.’
Jolnir hit him with his stick.
‘And now you have your light, yes?’
Frith stopped. ‘What?’
‘Here, tie this around your right hand.’ Jolnir reached inside his feathery cloak and produced a long, ragged strip of linen. He passed it to Frith, unmindful of the flames. There was a symbol written on the fabric in black ink.
Frith stared at it. ‘What?’
‘Are you deaf as well as stupid? Tie it around your hand, lad.’
Frith did so, although the rioting flames made it awkward. Once he’d wrapped the fabric around his hand like a bandage he tied a knot. Instantly the fire covering his arms and chest vanished, to be replaced with a small but fierce ball of light centred around his right hand. He held it up in front of him. It burned steadily like a tiny sun.
‘What is this?’
‘The words written on that piece of cloth are Guidance and Light. Rather useful, wouldn’t you say?’
Frith stared at the light. It was beautiful and, more than that, it was his to control. He wanted it to burn brighter, and it did. It became impossible to look at it directly. He willed it to become dimmer, and it became a soft glowing orb on the ends of his fingers.
‘The words force the magic a certain way,’ he said quietly, awestruck.
‘Yes, yes. They are channels siphoning off the raw power, sending it down certain routes. It is a fine thing to see.’
‘And I do not need to say the word?’
‘You have any gods around here you need to speak to? In time, you will learn to see the words in your head, and to write them, and that will direct the Edenier.’
Frith looked at the mystic. In the eerie light of the orb the bird headdress was a thing of deep shadows and alarming angles. There was nothing human about it at all.
‘You knew. How did you know?’
Jolnir shrugged. ‘I am the most learned mystic of Whittenfarne, the mysterious and all-knowing Jolnir. How could I not know?’
‘Being the most learned of the creatures on this island is hardly something to crow about, old man.’
Jolnir barked harsh laughter at that. Frith shook his head in annoyance.
‘Such a difficult boy.’ Jolnir made to hit him with the stick but Frith st
epped out of range. ‘Look at the words, Lord Aaron Frith, the words for Guidance and Light. They are your first.’
Frith did look. The words were of no alphabet he recognised. In fact, they barely looked like letters at all to his eye; the shapes were chaotic, swirls bisected with straight lines, circles and dots peppering elegant, curving waves. He thought he could make out where one word ended and the other began, but that was about it.
‘There are a great number of words in the mages’ language still remaining to us, Lord Aaron Frith, and you will learn to read and write every single one of them. So shut up and listen.’
51
Up close the ruins were more intact than Sebastian had initially thought. Once, this had been a temple to a forgotten god, built by someone who’d liked tall, pointed arches and graceful walls that joined one tower to another in odd, sweeping curves. The lower sections of the walls were obscured by the scruffy but virulent thorn bushes that populated so much of Relios, and the huge bricks were the same deep orange as the clay underfoot, so that even on a bright morning such as this the ruins spoke of dried blood and old fires. The shadows that lay on it were black and precise.
Sebastian approached cautiously. From a distance it appeared abandoned, but as he got closer he could see paths through the bushes that led through the last unbroken archway to the courtyard beyond. Someone had trimmed the bushes back to make it easier to move around, and they’d done it fairly recently. Who worshipped here? What did they worship? Before he could think on it further something else caught his eye. Movement.
The courtyard was ahead of him. Out of the shadows to his left something round and red rolled towards him rapidly. He stopped it with his boot half a second before he realised it was a human head, all the skin flayed from it until it was a bloody red ball. He snatched his foot away and drew his sword.
‘Greetings, sir knight!’ came a voice from the shadows. It was high and clear, the voice of a child, and after a moment a slim shape emerged from the dark. It was a girl, no more than ten years old, with long brown hair tied in a braid that fell over one skinny shoulder and large blue eyes, the colour of mountain ice. She wore a strange mixture of rags patched with pieces of leather, while her bare feet left scant markings in the orange dust. She grinned up at Sebastian, and he found he was vaguely unnerved by her teeth; they were all very small and neat and white, while the incisors looked slightly sharper than was necessary.
Sebastian glanced warily around the courtyard. He could see no one else. He sheathed his sword.
‘You know I am a knight?’
‘Of course,’ said the girl brightly. ‘You’ve come from the big group camping down the hill.’
He nodded towards the severed head.
‘And is this yours?’
Suddenly the girl’s face was very serious.
‘That belongs to Bezcavar. He is the master of wounds and broken things, big and small.’
Bezcavar.
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Ip,’ she said, no longer looking at him. Instead she went over to the head, which was swiftly turning dark and sticky under the hot sun, and placed her bare foot on its bloody cheek. She rocked it back and forth, considering. Sebastian could see blood squelching up between her toes. ‘When they are done with them, they sometimes give me bits to play with.’ She looked up and gave him that unsettling grin again. ‘I like heads best of all.’
Sebastian frowned. The smell of the blood was making his headache worse.
‘Child … Ip. I think you know why I’m here. Are your people prepared to make a trade?’
Deftly she kicked the head across the courtyard, the top of her small white foot making a very loud smacking noise on the ruined flesh. Then she looked up at him and held out her hand.
She took him across the courtyard and into a large circular room. Part of the ceiling had collapsed, so that dusty sunshine filtered through the shattered bricks down onto the tree growing in the centre. It was a thorn tree, some larger cousin of the bushes, and its unlovely branches twisted out to either side of the room like deadly welcoming arms. Fat orange fruits grew nestled within the clusters of thorns, and on the tree hung the enchanted armour. Sebastian had little time to take that in, however, as Ip’s family were watching him with bright interest.
‘So they finally sent someone, aye?’
A middle-aged woman stepped forward. Ip ran over to her and the woman enfolded her briefly in her arms.
The family, if that’s what they were, were clearly not as friendly as Ip. The woman standing with her had long freckly limbs crossed with livid scars, and a jowly face with a chin hiding in her neck somewhere. She had light grey eyes, so pale that for a moment Sebastian was sure she was blind until she met his gaze and bared a set of yellowed teeth. Beyond her, sitting on the roots of the tree, was a greatly aged man with a long white beard trailing down to his knees. He clasped the roots to either side of him with big knuckled hands, and there was a dirty bandage on his head.
More worrying were the three large men to either side of the tree. They were all uniformly enormous, one at least an inch taller than Sebastian. Two were broad across the shoulders and solid across the gut, while the other, a bald man with bright eyes, was lean and toned. They carried a collection of dirty blades at their belts.
‘I have come from the Ynnsmouth knights to make a trade,’ said Sebastian.
‘For our armour.’ The woman gestured behind her to the tree, and he took a moment to look at it properly. It was an extremely fine set: an exquisitely crafted mail shirt lay under a breastplate constructed from many small pieces of a black metal Sebastian couldn’t place. The pauldrons, greaves and rondels at the shoulders were made of a similar material, and the whole thing was covered in runes, shining blackly against the metal. The set was apparently missing its helm and gauntlets.
‘What is your name, woman?’
‘Mother Maundsley,’ piped up Ip, ‘and that’s Graffer,’ she continued, pointing at the elderly man perched on the roots, ‘and those are her little boys.’ The three burly men shot her irritated looks, and Mother Maundsley clouted the girl round the ear.
‘Enough of your cheek, Ip.’ The Maundsley woman planted her feet squarely and folded her arms across her chest. They were, Sebastian noticed, all recently wounded. The brothers, the old man – all were covered in scars and fresh cuts. Only Ip was unblemished, her skin clear and white, although her feet were still bloody from the severed head. ‘Do you even know what yer looking at here, knight?’
Sebastian felt a shiver of irritation move down his back. It was too hot, his head hurt, and the stench of the Maundsley family was scratching at the back of his throat. They smelled of blood and old sweat.
‘We are in dire need of the armour, if it can indeed do as claimed. I’m sure you’ve noticed the dragon and her army currently ravaging the land. With this armour the Ynnsmouth knights can lead an offensive against the creature and have some chance—’
‘He don’t know, he don’t care.’ The old man on the roots spoke up. His voice was a wheeze squeezed out of diseased lungs. ‘He knows nothing of Bezcavar.’
The three brothers murmured assent and patted their blades. The bald one ran a dry, pink tongue over his blistered lips.
‘What does it matter?’ Sebastian glanced up at the tree, branches black against the sky. ‘Are you willing to lend it to them, or not?’
‘Are you willing to pay the price?’ Mother Maundsley gestured at the roots that boiled up through the broken floor.
Sebastian cautiously edged towards the tree and saw that the roots were intertwined with bones; some of them bleached white, while others still had strips of gristle stuck to them. That explained the smell.
‘Bezcavar,’ intoned Mother Maundsley, ‘is the king of pain, knight. The prince of wounds and suffering. Agony is his joy, and we live to serve.’
‘That’s what your girl said, yes.’ Sebastian could feel his patience disappearing behind the fog of his
headache.
‘The armour is a work of worship, to him, crafted by his greatest pupil.’ The woman was smiling faintly now, and Sebastian suspected she didn’t often get to give this speech. ‘When gathered together the armour is an unstoppable weapon. When complete, no one can stand against he who wears it.’
The old man, Graffer, leaned back and touched one wizened finger to the metal toe cap closest to him, his eyes closed in bliss. They worship the armour as much as the demon, thought Sebastian warily. There is no way they will just lend it to the Order, not for all the coins we can drag over here. They just want to show off.
‘We, the Maundsleys, have been chosen as the keepers of armour. We honour Bezcavar by protecting it, sacrificing to it. There is no greater honour.’ The woman’s eyes flicked over to Ip, then, and Sebastian glanced at the remains amongst the roots. A number of the skulls there were small.
‘You haven’t been doing a very good job, then, have you?’ he said mildly. ‘There are pieces missing.’
Mother and Graffer shared a brief, agitated look. When the woman turned back to Sebastian her teeth were bared in a snarl.
‘It is complete! What do you know about it anyway, knight?’
Sebastian gestured to the armour. The sword on his back was feeling very heavy, and his shoulders were starting to ache. The blade would be more comfortable in his hands, no doubt.
‘Where is the helm? And the gauntlets are missing.’ He shifted his weight and rolled his neck until it clicked. ‘The armour is like a puzzle, and you must have all the pieces.’
‘You know nothing!’ spat Graffer. The old man hoisted himself off the roots and took a few shaky steps forward. He wore a pair of old knives at his belt, thickly crusted with dried blood. ‘We bleed ourselves and others for Bezcavar, and we guard the armour. It is our honour. We were chosen!’
Sebastian wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. It was getting harder to concentrate with the thundering in his head, but at the same time he found he was less concerned. He could feel their words rushing him to a certain path, channelling him to a certain action. There was no avoiding it. He flexed his hands, hoping they weren’t too sweaty to grip. Would there be more family members, hiding behind these orange walls somewhere?