by Ben Galley
‘What would happen?’ asked Farden, but the vampyre shrugged again. ‘Who knows? Hence the book,’ he sighed. ‘But you need rest now. It’ll be a while before I’m ready.’ Farden nodded and stood up to stretch. ‘And please heed my words Farden, as your friend. I know what your temper can be like.’
‘I shall.’ Farden walked towards the door and pulled it open. His old friend was right; there were a few people in the world that he cared about. Farden thought of one in particular, and suddenly an idea blossomed in his mind. ‘Durnus, can you send me to the quickdoor at the Spire?’
The vampyre thought for a moment and then nodded without turning. ‘I don’t see why not. If that’s what you want.’
‘It’d be good to see Manesmark before I go to the city.’ Farden left the old man to his books and turned to go. Durnus could have sworn he heard the mage whisper a thank you before he closed the door.
Elessi was wandering the corridors of the Arkabbey tower. After hearing a rumour that Farden was back, she had gone looking for him with angst in her heart, but now it was late and her search of his room and the cavernous dining hall had been fruitless. She was wandering up and down the spiral staircases of the abbey tower, peering in empty rooms and listening to the wooden doors of locked quarters and rooms home to sleeping soldiers. The earnest maid skipped up the steps to the training halls near the bell tower, holding her skirts above her shoes. A dull thudding tumbled down the stone hallway on her left and she paused in her stride. Yellow torchlight spilled from a door half-closed at the end of the corridor, and the rest of the hallway was bathed in lazy moonlight pouring from a thin arched window. Elessi crept forward, running her hand over the rough walls. Her work-worn fingers felt the cracks and pitted surface of the grey stone. The noise grew louder as she approached, like a sharp deep crack of fire against wood.
She reached the doorway and peeked through the gap into the hall. Her pupils shrank in the bright yellow torchlight. Flashes of light and fire skipped over the wooden beams of the yawning roof, and she shuffled around to get a better look at the cause of the noise. There, standing shirtless and sweating, was Farden, throwing bolt after bolt of fire at a wooden man-shaped target. The mannequin swung wildly, suspended from the wall and shackled to the floor on short iron chains. It rocked and bucked under the powerful blasts of magick. He wore nothing except a pair of black trousers, and in the dim torchlight she could see Farden’s chest heaving with deep arduous gulps of air and his shoulders were bathed in sweat. And there was something else. Elessi’s eyes were now fixated on his back. Lines and lines of thin black script covered the mage’s shoulders and lower back, punctuated by swirling elegant lines and spirals clambering over his collarbone and shoulder blades. Four symbols ran along his spine, runes with shapes and strange interwoven words. Elessi couldn’t help notice the dark faces of telling bruises running through the black lettering., and every time the magick surged through his body the words flashed and glowed, sporadically lighting up all over his skin, glittering and dancing with a bright white light. The chambermaid was transfixed: her eyes locked in a mesmerised stare. She narrowed her eyes and tried to follow the lines of script and make sense of the foreign scribbly words.
Farden threw yet another bolt of fire at the target, whose carved wooden face was now charred and smouldering. If a mannequin could look depressed, then this one did. The mage paused his onslaught for a moment and clenched his fists. A whirring, crackling sound hummed through the air, and Farden bared an open palm and sent tidal waves of sparks and lightning to wash over the wooden statue. With a crash the topmost chain melted and the mannequin fell to the floor with a burst of cinders. The mage cursed and went to find his shirt. Elessi flinched back from the door and ran back down the corridor with mixed feelings of relief and fear. That night she dreamt of wounded ghosts and hulking monsters, of deep caves and fire burning under her sheets. Sleep ran from her and Elessi awoke with red eyes and dripping with cold sweat.
Farden opened his eyes to find some more winter sunlight jabbing through his open window. He found he was lying on his front and swiftly pushed himself up and out of bed, stretching with a new-found readiness. He had rested well, in a deep dreamless sleep, and now he felt fit and eager to get going. Whatever the old vampyre had done had worked, and Farden resolved to ask him about it another time. He finished stretching and went to find his scattered clothes and armour. He ran a wet cloth over his grimy face and neck and began to wipe the dirt away. One of his teeth was loose, probably from the fight, and Farden tongued it in an investigative way. He pushed a finger to his jaw and muttered something, and the tooth settled back into its place. It didn’t move again.
He moved to the window and felt the cold breeze of the morning on his face. The winter sun was still hovering near the horizon behind the trees, hiding behind the leafless branches of the Forest of Durn. A lonely bird sang somewhere below in the Arkabbey grounds. The smell of baking bread hovered in the air, from the kitchens below. The mage carried on washing until he looked relatively acceptable to society, and then tried smoothing out the folds and creases in his clothes with his warm hand. He put on his tunic, his boots, and his armour, and strode out of his room.
When he reached the vampyre’s room the door was unlocked and Farden went straight in. Magick throbbed and hummed in the air. The fire had long burned out and only the candles now lit the dim room. In the corner the archway of black stone and steel was filled with a haze, as if a silk veil quivered constantly and violently in the centre of the tall doorway. The quickdoor seemed to be finished and already thrumming with energy.
Durnus reposed in a wooden chair near a desk, eyes closed and dozing. Farden walked quietly up to him and put a gentle hand on the old man’s shoulder. The vampyre stirred and his eyelids fluttered.
‘Farden…hmm, what time is it?’ asked Durnus hoarsely.
‘Just before noon, it’ll be afternoon in Manesmark by now. It’s time for me to go.’
‘Right!’ Durnus slapped his knees and stood up, all tiredness instantly forgotten, and headed to the lectern to check on the vibrating quickdoor. ‘It’s ready, it took me a while to do for some reason, the Albion magick seems to be weaker than normal. The quickdoor in Manesmark is a powerful one though, so it wasn’t impossible,’ the vampyre rambled away as he leafed through the pages, preparing the next spell.
‘You know I don’t understand this time and space magick my old friend, that’s your area of expertise not mine.’ Farden smiled warmly.
‘It’s all about patience my good mage.’ Durnus squinted at the hazy surface of the quickdoor and ran his hand over the archway, careful not to stray too close to the buzzing threshold. The obsidian surface of the stone blocks felt alarmingly hot to the touch. ‘Think of it as trying to open and close a window a thousand miles away, with no more than a rope and a long pole.’
‘That doesn’t really help.’
Durnus thought for a moment, looking at the ceiling. ‘No it doesn’t does it? Well, all seems like it’s in order Farden, time to go through. Now, remember hold your breath before you step in, and watch your feet. It looks like it’s snowing on the other side,’ Durnus pointed.
Farden watched as little flecks of snow tumbled through the portal, settling in a little patch on the top step of the quickdoor. ‘Great.’ He grinned. The snow in Krauslung was the best way to see the busy city. He had always felt a little more at home when he was there in the winter.
‘See you soon old friend.’ Farden shook the vampyre’s hand and stepped closer to the portal. Durnus flipped through pages of his book.
‘Try and remember every single detail and be sure in your opinions before you voice them to the Arkmages. You have a meeting with them this evening in the great hall,’ Durnus looked at the sword on the mage’s back and sniffed. ‘And Farden?’
The mage turned.
The vampyre narrowed his pale eyes. ‘I can smell the blood on your sword… who else did you fight besides Jergan?’
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br /> Farden lingered for a moment on the best excuse. ‘Some people just don’t listen,’ he said abruptly, with a shrug, eyes searching the wooden floor for an escape from the reprimand he knew was coming.
But the vampyre merely sighed. ‘Don’t get sloppy Farden, there are rules and there are consequences. Bear them in mind next time you draw your sword. I watched your uncle go down this violent path a long time ago, and look where it got him. This is the last time I’ll tell you.’ Durnus’ gaze was grave, and more disappointed that angry, and it stung the mage all the more. There was no need to bring up his uncle, he thought. ‘I will,’ he muttered in low voice, and stepped up to the doorway. Farden felt the icy blast of the quickdoor on his skin and ran his hands over the tingling threshold. As he lifted his foot the door suddenly grabbed him in a vice-like grip and dragged him forwards into a blinding white tunnel of light and noise. Wind tried to rip the breath from his lungs and freezing gales attacked his watering eyes as he plummeted through the doorway. And in a second, it was over.
Farden stumbled onto the wet frozen grass of the Manesmark hillside and put a hand in a patch of snow to steady himself. Behind him the quickdoor fizzled shut and the mage shook his head free from the stomach-churning dizziness. He rose shakily to find a soldier standing guard beside him. The early afternoon sunlight glinted off his steel breastplate and made the emblem of the Arka, a gold set of scales, shine and glitter. Farden nodded to the man, who dipped his helmet in response, and quickly wiped the amused smirk from his face. The mage threw him a narrowed look as he wiped himself down. ‘I’d like to see you try and land more gracefully,’ he said, and the soldier made an effort to stand a little straighter, clearing his throat timidly.
The dizzy mage said no more and walked forward to look out across the stunning countryside that he had known as a boy. The landscape was still as breathtaking as he remembered. The tall Össfen mountains stretched out for miles and miles in all directions, as far as the eye could see, puncturing the wintry sky with their snow-capped summits and scraping at the heavy grey clouds with their rocky teeth. Beneath the jagged peaks and down in the snow-locked valleys waterfalls played amongst rocks and fjords of ice and farmhouses. To the south he could see the deadly slopes of Lokki, the tallest mountain in Emaneska, towering over the vista. Below him on the steep hillsides villages sat wreathed in wood smoke, peeking out of the snowdrifts. Farden looked down the hill at Manesmark, the traditional home of the Arka’s fighting forces, perched on the slope, a cluster of townhouses, inns, and barracks. The buildings were tall and proud, elegantly built from grey stone and pine and topped with tall arched wooden roofs of slate. Chimneys belched grey haze and the sounds of a busy afternoon in the market floated across the cold mountain air to Farden’s wind-bitten ears.
Scattered memories ran like rabbits through the fields of the mage’s mind as he walked across the hillside. Manesmark was the long-established home of the Written, and of the School where every mage studied, where Farden had studied as a child. He could still smell the strange, ever-present burning smell of the place, feel the rough wood of the floors, the beds, and taste the watery yellow gruel. The School of the Written had been a cruel world of bullying, spells, and of constant fear. Many of his classmates had died along the way: victims of an “accidental” knife thrust or perhaps caught by a wayward spell. Vicious competition plagued the prestigious School, and Farden was sure nothing had changed. His class of prospective Written had been whittled down to just three exhausted candidates, and Farden had barely made it into the final cut. He remembered standing before the elders, beaten and bruised, pulsating with magick on his final day, feeling the blood run down his brow and hearing his name on their stern lips. It had been torture, every moment, but it had made him a man, taught him the true face of magick, and shown him the wild nature behind Emaneska. Farden could still feel the Scribe’s whalebone needle carving the words into his back.
The mage strode up the slippery hillside towards the Spire, a huge tower that perched on the summit of the Manesmark hillside and climbed hundreds of feet into the sky. Here the Written lived, trained, and slept when they had the chance. As he approached he could feel the power thrumming through the walls of the tall building, emanating from the countless parapets and walkways hanging from the Spire. Guards and soldiers swarmed around the base of the tower like ants, and Farden spotted a few Written amongst them, hooded and cloaked like he was. The magick council had been rebuilding the ranks of the Written ever since the war, and now, even after the problems in Efjar, their numbers were greater than ever before. From what he had gathered from Durnus there were now almost two hundred mages training in the Spire, and just over half of them carried the Book.
Farden reached the foot of the Spire and made for the entrance. As he walked closer to the door a deep vibration could be heard, like a large bell tolling under a hill.
‘ ‘Fraid you can’t go in sire, too many already in there,’ said a short man in uniform who stood at the doorway. He pointed inside with his thumb. Farden peered through the doorway into the enormous atrium of the Spire, a cavernous hall filled with stairs and corridors running in every imaginable direction. Hanging in the middle of the atrium was a colossal dragon scale suspended in the air by great steel chains. It quivered with energy and was making a deep whining sound. Too many Written mages in the Spire at one time could send the other men mad from the pure power of raw magick. The beaten dragon scale was like a warning bell for the Spire, ringing whenever the magick grew to dangerous levels. It was annoying, but necessary.
Farden nodded in reluctant acquiescence and withdrew to a nearby rock. He watched several people rub at brief headaches and listened to the scale slowly become quiet again. The mage shrugged to himself: Krauslung could wait for a little while.
Cheska was standing in her room watching the messenger hawk flutter around her windowsill; the poor bird was trying to find a place to land somewhere amidst the frozen snow on the stone ledge, flapping and mewing and being altogether unsuccessful. As soon as it came close enough she quickly untied the wooden canister from its leg and the bird flew off, probably in search of food. She snapped the tube and took out the scrap of yellow parchment. Three hastily scribbled words was all she needed to read. Cheska held the note in her hand and concentrated hard with muttering lips. There was a brief flash of light and the paper note became ash in her hand. She winced and sucked her singed finger. The sound of the scale below her reached her ears and she immediately turned to leave her modest room. The young woman quickly checked herself in a polished bronze mirror and opened the door.
‘Afternoon Cheska.’ Brim smiled a toothy smile, and winked at her. It didn’t suit him, and made him look like he had a twitch. Her only friend from the School stood in her doorway, hand poised to knock on her door.
‘Oh, Brim, I was just leaving,’ Cheska said.
‘Well I’m going to the market, we can walk if you want?’ He said.
She nodded, sighed inwardly, and let him walk her to the stairs.
Farden was quickly getting bored. Some sunlight had broken through the heavy clouds so he had thrown his hood back to soak up the rare warmth, feeling the mountain breeze toy with his dark hair. A few soldiers he recognised acknowledged him in passing with silent nods. The other Written were mostly courteous, but curious of Farden. The solitary mage had always been quiet around most of the others, preferring his own company, and it was no secret in the Spire that people thought him dangerous and wild. The mage’s eyes scanned the throngs of people milling around, looking for someone in particular. She must have heard the scale ring, Farden thought. Then he saw her.
She never ceased to make his mouth hang slightly ajar. Cheska looked as stunning as ever. From his rock he watched her weave through the crowds with all the grace of a cat, letting her piercing blue eyes rove over the multitude of faces, obviously looking for someone. Her long blonde hair escaped from the edges of her hood and swayed hypnotically in the breeze. She always
seemed to be smiling too, ever since he had first seen her wandering the halls of the Spire, nothing more than a scared little girl. Her skin was paler than most, and like her hair it betrayed her Skölgard ancestry. Her royal breeding was obvious in her gait and posture. Like him, she wore a dark cloak, with a tight-fitting black tunic that did nothing to hide the tantalising and untouchable curvature of her body.
It was common knowledge that Cheska was the daughter of Bane, the King of the powerful Skölgard empire in the north east. And that made her a princess. For her to be even living with the Arka, not to mention practising their dangerous magick, had been a massive political step for both countries, and a tough one. She had been supervised by a veritable horde of Skölgard minders, every step of the way, through every year at the School, until one by one she had shrugged them off and immersed herself in the brutal world of magick. Farden had to admit, she was good, better than any he had seen so far, and it had made their little affair even more exciting and dangerous.
He let his eyes take in every inch of her. It had been a few months since he had seen her, and a warm, if not slightly unexpected, feeling spread itself across his chest. He spied that friend of hers Birn, or Bridd, or whatever his name was, following her like a loyal dog, hoping to be thrown a treat. Farden set his jaw with an inkling of jealousy. As her deep mountain-lake eyes caught his he got to his feet and grinned.
‘Well well! Look what the gryphon dragged in!’ Cheska smiled as the two came close in a firm embrace. She stood on her tiptoes and threw her arms around Farden’s neck. He dared to give her a small quick kiss on the cheek and she stepped backwards with a coy look. A rare smile crept over the mage’s lips, and he held her eyes a moment longer than was necessary.