The Written

by Ben Galley

  Surrounded by his light the stranger began to investigate the old castle, poking around in holes and long-lost underground chambers. Cavernous halls and old rooms spread out like a warren left and right as the explorer went deeper and deeper into the castle. Everything was rotting and damp. Old curtains decayed where they had been thrown, chests and furniture had been smashed against walls and lay in dark heaps and broken postures. In old abandoned barracks benches and tables were pushed up against splintered doors. Rusty swords hid under the rubble.

  For hours he searched the dank castle and found nothing except darkness and ruin. In a tiny room deep underground, the cloaked man carefully took a seat on one of the less broken chairs and rested his feet for a moment. He was beginning to get a little tired from keeping up his light spell, but he was sure there had to be something inside the old castle. Absently he picked up a small piece of rubble and toyed with it for a few moments before tossing it across the room in boredom. To his surprise the stone sailed straight through a frayed tapestry and disappeared, landing with a clang somewhere far behind it. The man clenched his fist again and a fresh wave of light penetrated the gloom. Eagerly he tore the tapestry from its rusted hangings and threw it on the dusty floor. Hidden behind it was a staircase that spiralled down into the dark shadows. Curiosity sparked in his mind he jogged down the steps, his footsteps echoing against the narrow walls.

  All of a sudden the stairs came to a halt and a long hallway snaked around a corner. Sconces holding long torches poked out from recesses in the walls. The man moved to the nearest one and felt the oil-soaked wick between his finger and thumb. It was dry enough so the man clicked his fingers over the torch. Sparks flew from his fingers and sent flame curling up the wall.

  Dousing his light spell he continued down the corridor lighting each torch as he went, and it was not long before he came across a huge door set deep into the stonework, held by thick hinges and a massive bolt that seemed to be fused to the metal bracing it. Eyes closed, the man ran his hand over the wood, searching for the right spell to use, but when he threw a wave of magick at it the door didn’t even move an inch. Irritated, he tried again and the air hummed as he hit the wood with another spell. Nothing happened. He rubbed his stubbled chin and thought for a moment, adjusting the red scarf around his neck. All of a sudden a deep boom rang out somewhere below his feet and made the torches shiver in their sconces. The man slowly, and gently, drew his sword from its scabbard as a few specks of dust fell from the ceiling. He squinted at the torches as something caught his eye. The flames were shifting and leaning far out from the wall as if blown by a stiff breeze. It was time to leave.

  The stranger turned and sheathed his sword with a loud metallic ringing noise. He swiftly climbed the stairs, turning left, then right, then left again, running up more stairs, retracing his steps as something trembled the paving stones beneath him. Suddenly he was out in the snow once more and the bright morning sun was stinging his eyes. He slammed the small door behind him and stepped out into the icy glare. He listened and watched, ready for anything. Nothing came, and all was silent again in the castle.

  ‘Hmm,’ mused the cloaked figure. He bent to pick up a handful of snow and rubbed it between his fingers to wipe off the dust from the castle. As he moved to pick up another handful a shadow passed over him without a sound, a flitting shape momentarily darkening the snow. The man sighed and stood up straight, throwing off his cloak and drawing his sword with a flourish. Spinning his blade in his right hand he surveyed the peaceful countryside calmly. Steel glinted in the sunlight.

  ‘It’s not even noon yet and a man has to deal with dragons,’ muttered the stranger to himself as he let his eyes rove over the horizon.

  A huge screeching roar came from the skies above him and the man darted sideways with a running leap, narrowly missing a massive shape that plummeted into the snow behind him with a huge crash and a shower of snow. The man got to his feet and disdainfully brushed the white powder from his armour. He looked up. Out of the white haze there was a snarl and a creature reared its ugly blue head, shaking its horns with a rattling shiver and spreading stunted turquoise wings. A ridge of sharp brown spikes ran from its head to the tip of its serpentine tail. The monster’s claws dragged at the snow, razor sharp and curved like a cat’s, and its eyes were like black pools of jet. The wyrm let out a deafening hornlike scream and took one step forward, hissing at the man in the snow and rattling its aquamarine scales.

  It had been a while since the man had seen such a large wild dragon, and even though it was a juvenile, no more than a wild wyrm, it still towered above him. The creature stank of old meat and a musky reptilian scent. The stranger began to circle the creature, holding his sword out straight towards it.

  ‘Leave now, or this will end badly for you,’ said the man in a measured tone, still treading sideways through the deep snow. The dragon snarled, obviously not understanding him, and stamped its enormous feet menacingly like an impatient bull. It roared an ear-splitting roar and foul spit flew into the man’s face.

  ‘I will take that as a no then, shall I?’ he said, and before the words had left his mouth the beast charged at the man with frightening speed. But the man was more than ready, and swiftly dropping to one knee he dug his blade into the snow with a wet thud. A solid wall of magick tore through the snow like a rippling earthquake and knocked the terrifying reptile flat with a low and somewhat disappointed whine. The man jumped up and swung his sword at the surprised beast and the blade cut a long path across its scaly back. Blue blood splashed the snow. But then, seemingly out of nowhere, the beast’s whip-like tail lashed out and struck him hard in the chest. He flew into a nearby drift with a crunch of armour and before he had time to take a breath the hungry dragon was already running at him again. It snarled and spat and it scratched and dug, furiously lashing out at the snow and at the man with its razor-like claws. He waved his sword wildly in front of him to keep the claws at bay, but a stray talon scraped across his armour and found the soft pale skin underneath. With a pained wince he rolled sideways and managed to escape the long claws. Red blood stained the dirty snow beneath him.

  Getting swiftly to his feet the man smacked his vambraces together and a massive blast of flame pierced the air. The fireball hit the dragon in the chest and sent the creature reeling backwards. It roared with pain and frantically shook its front legs, but the man was quickly after it. His blue-stained sword burst into flame and it flew from his hand like a spear while he ran. Like a bolt of fiery lightning it buried itself in the dragon’s ribcage with a sharp thud and a blast of scorching fire. The beast uttered a last mournful whistle and toppled over against a nearby tree with a crash. The man slowed to a calm walk and strode forward to wrench his blade from the ribs of the smoking dead reptile. He put a hand to his side and winced once more, feeling the wet blood seeping from the long cut. Retrieving his cold cloak he sighed and began to slowly follow his footprints back in the direction he had come from.

  Chapter 2

  “The long winter started gradually during the years of our long war with the Sirens. The heat was slowly taken from our days, one by one, and the sun from our sky, until our seventy-sixth year, the year of our last summer. The snow storms gathered and the ice fields grew, creeping inexorably south until they almost threatened to cover Nelska, and ever since the end of the war our weather has remained cold and bitter, and the proud mountains of Össfen stay covered by the eternal snow.”

  From writings found in the libraries of Arfell

  The hooded stranger travelled without rest for two days, heading south through field and forest and river and hill. By the second day the man crested a muddy knoll and took a moment to catch his breath. Before him in the valley lay a small village called Leath, built on a rocky crag that overlooked a metallic-looking river and muddy fields. He narrowed his eyes at the tiny town. Its inhabitants had always been wary of strangers, and feared his kind especially. They were a superstitious lot, concerned only wit
h their farming and their drinking. The cloaked man decided to give the village his usual wide berth and take the winding route back to the Arkabbey. He hopped over a few rocks and slid over some shale, and then headed west around the town, sticking to the wilder roads and the copses.

  A few hours later the man was treading through the thick loam of the Forest of Durn, a shady wood south of Leath that was seldom entered or explored by the villagers. Rumour had it that a fierce vampyre lived somewhere amongst the dark trees, feeding off the blood of any Albion soul that would trespass in his woods. The stranger obviously didn’t believe in any such rumour, and paid attention only to the surrounding forest that was still deep in the clutches of winter. The trees were alive with the breath of a light wind, whispering branches and creaking bark. A few animals scuttled around in the frozen loam. Somewhere a bird cried out. The stranger kept walking.

  Soon the hooded man made it to his destination, and found a small winding trail in between a path of bushes and pine trees. Brown needles crunched under his feet as he picked his way under branches and around rocks. After a while he spotted the light of a hidden clearing ahead and he walked towards it, still careful to follow the almost indistinguishable trail through the undergrowth. All of a sudden the trees gave way, revealing a small glade and a tall brick building that had been completely concealed by the forest. This was the Arkabbey, one of many like it that had been quietly built around the lands of Albion and Emaneska. Smoke rose from the windows of the kitchen and the noise of wood chopping and other work echoed over the grounds. The tall bell tower rose high above the trees, with glass windows and balconies punctuating its thick granite walls. The bell had been silent for decades, and the man couldn’t remember the last time he had heard its doleful pealing. Workers and other people were milling around the gardens and taking in the brisk air. The man nodded to a few familiar faces as he walked across the lawn towards an open doorway. The cold grass underneath his boots was slippery and looked well tended to, clipped short and tidy, if not a little brown. There were a few beehives to his left amongst the trees. They seemed lifeless and quiet. There was a calmness floating on the chill breeze. An armoured soldier standing by the door saluted him with his spear while staring straight ahead.

  The man strode inside the arch and felt the warmth of the busy building on his cold skin. He rubbed his hands and shook the mud and ice from his boots and listened to the sounds of cooking and working echoing on the stone walls. With a tired sigh the man walked on, up a few flights of stairs, down a few corridors, and around a few corners until he came to a simple oak door. He pushed it open with a bang.

  A woman jumped and dropped the bundle of tunics she was carrying and put her hand to her chest in fright. ‘Oh! Farden, it’s you,’ she flapped her hand like a fan.

  ‘Same old.’ The man threw his hood back and smiled at the girl. Elessi was his maid and somewhat of a friend to him, and had done a bit more than just picking up after him over the years. She always seemed to be wearing a cherubic smile or a concerned frown, and her deep brown eyes were always wide, as if she had just been handed the juiciest tidbit of gossip. Farden would never had admitted it, but Elessi’s stubbornness had kept him on track more than once in the last few years.

  Blowing her curly brown hair from her round and blushing cheeks, the maid started to pick up the dropped clothes. ‘You could have knocked,’ she said, flustered.

  ‘To my own room? You shouldn’t be sneaking around in here.’ Farden threw her a quick smile to melt her icy stare. He threw his cloak on the small bed and sat on the windowsill, watching the trees shiver outside.

  ‘Gods know someone needs to look after you magick lot. Where’ve you been to this time? Oh! Is that blood on your side?’ Her face instantly creased up with worry and she rushed to the window to see.

  Farden glanced down at the roughly-bandaged gash that the dragon had given him along the right side of his ribs. He waved Elessi away as she tried to see the damage. ‘Don’t worry about it, you know it will heal… Elessi calm down it’s fine!’ He shooed her away gently and covered it up with a shred of tunic.

  ‘Well what was it this time? Another minotaur? It was a bandit wasn’t it, I knew it.’ Elessi stood there with her hands on her hips like a scolding mother. Farden looked at her.

  ‘Elessi, we’ve known each other a long while, and you’ve seen me heal from worse wounds before,’ he said. She just raised her eyebrows at him. He stretched and grimaced as he moved around. ‘I’ll be fine in a day,’ he said, then closed his eyes and leaned back against the stone to end the matter. ‘It was a wild dragon. They hunt magick.’

  ‘Well no matter what it was, it looks bad to me. At least let me put a poultice on it to bring out any poison,’ Elessi asked. ‘You’re not indestructible, Farden and gods know I’ve told you before, jus’ like his lordship in the bell tower!’

  ‘A thousand times,’ muttered Farden, listening to her earnest rustling. She moved to a nearby jug of water and brought back a wet cloth. The chambermaid dabbed the crusted blood from his ribs and Farden clenched his teeth. There was a moment of silence. ‘Sometimes I think you like throwing yourself into danger all the time,’ she said.

  Farden didn’t answer. Instead he opened his eyes and stared at the leafless trees waving at him outside. Her hands were cold and so was the water but it felt good on the burning skin, dry and dusty from the long walk south. He felt her hands stray to his back and the silence became a little too awkward. The mage spun around and deftly caught her wrist. ‘How many times do I have to tell you?’ asked Farden in a low voice, with more than a hint of severity. He stared into her chestnut eyes, and slowly and gently let go of her arms.

  Elessi looked upset. ‘I’m sorry, I just wanted to s…’ she began, but Farden held up a hand. He rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes again.

  ‘Enough,’ he said, and the maid backed away. She picked up his cloak and some other clothes and turned to leave. ‘Durnus is waiting for you upstairs,’ she said.

  Farden nodded and heard the wooden door click shut. With a sigh he held the wet cloth to his side. Elessi was a kind soul and she looked after him well, but her curiosity was dangerous. It might have seemed harsh keeping her at arm’s length but it had to be done, and her feelings had to be sacrificed in the process for her safety. There were rules, and even though she was his friend, rules and the Arka came first. It was refreshing though, to be treated with respect, as opposed to the usual uncertainty and fear he received from most of the population of Albion. Farden was usually treated with a mild neglect here, as more of a dark omen than a blessing, stared at with wary melancholy eyes, at a lone foreign soldier passing through. Farden didn’t really like people. People were rude, people were ignorant, oblivious to how the real world worked and moved, like ants.

  He grunted and scratched at his back and bloodied side. His vambraces felt heavy and he could feel weariness slowly creeping over him, but with resolve he made for the door. Time to see Durnus.

  A thin old man sat with his back to the door, watching the flames crackle and pop in the fireplace. Drapes hung thick and heavy over the windows, making the huge room dim and full of flickering shadows. Candles dotted the floors and walls, ensconced in holders and perching on tall piles of books. A massive map of Albion hung on the far wall, showing the distant shores of Nelska, and the cliff cities of Halôrn to the south east. Farden quietly closed the door behind him, completely silent. His bare feet slowly crept across the cold stone floor towards the old man in his comfy chair.

  ‘You’re late,’ said the old man in a raspy voice. The noise made Farden flinch. The travel-weary mage laughed and moved forward to an empty chair by the fire. ‘For gods’ sake, Durnus how do you do that?’ The man laughed a whispering cackle, and grinned widely, baring sharp fangs. Farden slumped into the comfy armchair and sighed, wincing as his wound scraped against his tunic.

  ‘You never remember that I have the hearing to rival that of a bat Farden
, whereas you have the footfall of a work-horse.’ Durnus chuckled again and poked at the fire with a long metal rod. ‘The sun is still up then I take it?’

  Farden nodded, and stared into the fire in silence. The old figure in the chair next to him was one of his oldest friends, and one of Emaneska’s sharpest historical minds. Durnus’s eyes were a blue so pale that they almost bordered on white, and his skin was like white paper stretched over a thin frame. His features were sharp and bony and his greying hair was swept back and slicked down, neatly curled behind his tall ears and stopping just short of his shoulders. His fangs peeked from behind pale lips when he laughed. Farden had often wondered how old he truly was.

  ‘Good,’ he said. The vampyre settled back in his chair and closed his eyes. ‘Report,’ he whispered.

  Farden went to it with a will, recalling every detail of his journey to Carn Breagh, telling Durnus of the strange corridor inside the bowels of the castle and his fight with the wild wyrm. The vampyre merely nodded along, musing at the appropriate points, occasionally clearing his throat and stroking his sharp chin with a frail hand. After a while, Farden ran out of information and Durnus opened his eyes. ‘I shall send a full account to the Arkathedral in the morning, but Carn Breagh can wait for now. Something terrible has happened in Arfell,’ he said, and his face turned very grave.

  Farden looked confused. ‘The library?’