by Ben Galley
‘You dragons never cease to amaze me,’ he confessed.
‘We are an ancient race blessed by the gods Farden, but it is you men who will inherit Emaneska when we are gone.’ She smiled and stretched a patchy wing. ‘But not yet,’ added the dragon.
Farden smiled politely. ‘So,’ he said, as he finished off the last of his meal. ‘What now?’
‘For now we let the scholars do their work, and we can get you a hawk to send a message to the Arka with all speed. Unless, of course, you can read dragonscript and feel like helping?’ Brightshow smiled.
‘Hah, not me, I can barely read my own writing.’ Farden laughed.
‘Then allow me to fetch one of the scribes to get a messenger bird ready for you,’ she beckoned to a few soldiers near to them and the armoured men clattered off into the corridors to do the dragon’s bidding.
Farden watched the hustle and bustle of the great hall with amazement. At the end of every desk and table piles of useless and unhelpful scrolls were slowly growing. Pages and parchments covered every surface and rustled like the sound of a forest during a gale. Every scholar was hard at work, and even some of the soldiers were trying to make sense of the spidery dragonscript lettering covering the thousands and thousands of pages. Somewhere in the forest of tables and scrolls, was Farfallen’s tearbook, slowly revealing its lost knowledge, the mage hoped. A splash of colour caught his eyes.
Decorating the smooth granite walls between the dragon nests and the many archways and corridors leading from the hall were little frescoes and wall paintings that were dotted around the hall at ground level. Farden wondered how he hadn’t noticed them the first time. Most were faded with age and sunlight, but some were still perfectly coloured, beautifully chiselled and painted murals depicting great battles, heroic-looking dragons, strange ancient beasts, some of which Farden had never seen before, and great landscapes of ice and snow that seemed as real as looking out of a window.
The mage left his plate on a nearby stool and made his way through the few tables between him and the nearest painting and ran his hands over its cold dusty surface. Huge grey and brown beasts moved across a frozen landscape, tusks and long trunks towering over the tiny specks of men at their huge feet. Farden had remembered seeing such creatures during a voyage to the south long ago. The men in that foreign land had called them bastions, and their feet had shaken the ground like thunder.
In the next painting sabre-cats, long wingless worms, daemons, giant manticores, and huge rats were locked in an eternal battle, frozen with faces snarling and claws reaching, while in yet another Farden saw gryphons, titans, minotaurs, and even more dragons. They were swarming across a field and battling against gangly grey men-like creatures with long black swords. As he walked the beautiful epic scenes seemed to fade and grow older, illimitable years stretched over rock. Durnus would have given anything to study these pictures. Brightshow rejoined him and stared over the mage’s shoulder.
‘It’s been a long time since I talked with a gryphon,’ said Farden.
‘There are still some, in the northern wastes, or in the east I hear, but like most of the others on these walls they have long abandoned Emaneska.’ A hint of wistfulness had crept into the dragon’s voice.
Farden pointed at a picture of a long sea serpent with horns and ridges of spikes sprouting from its head. It was blue in colour, like the waves, and covered in barnacles. In the mural its gigantic tail was drowning a boatfull of the same tall grey men, and there was a hungry look in its row of eyes. ‘I saw one of these once in the Bern sea. It sunk a ship in seconds and then just disappeared under the waves,’ he said.
‘Leviathans. Good meat if you can get at them. Now these are, or were, phoenixes, distant cousin to the dragon. They were the first of us all to learn how to breath and live with fire, but the dark elves hunted them all down in the name of sport.’ Brightshow showed him a flock of red and orange bird-like creatures. This mural seemed to be one of the older ones, and the bright fiery colours of their wings had dimmed long ago, but Farden could still see flames trailing through the sky in their wake.
The mage contemplated the history of the world spread out on the wall before him, picture by picture, one mural at a time. After one short walk along the wall Farden had travelled at least two thousand years back in time, long before the ice had started to creep across the lands and while simple man was just a nomadic and pathetic race. Unlike the Sirens the Arka had always hid their histories in libraries and temples, away from the commoner and only for the enjoyment of scholars and the education of the upper classes. But here in front of him he could see the old days, the great days of magick and monsters, where the elves ruled and the Arka were no more than an idea in the back of somebody’s mind. Brightshow was right: men would inherit the earth, but only long after the last of these ancient creatures had left or died.
Suddenly Farden was filled with a deep sadness. The world he now knew seemed like a faded painting, a consolation prize, a leftover from a greatness and power that had now faded and been lost. His fingers traced the chiselled grooves of the mural thoughtfully and tried to imagine the older days. The dragon broke his silence.
‘Nothing has changed Farden,’ said Brightshow in a soft voice. He could barely hear her over the roar of activity in the hall. ‘In another thousand years it will all have changed again, and another like you will be standing here looking at pictures of ancient men and lost dragons. The world moves on. It is the way of things.’ Farden nodded, vaguely recalling Farfallen saying something very similar. Emaneska had been here longer than anyone could remember, and it would still be here a thousand years from now. Farden wondered idly if anyone would ever paint a picture of him on a wall, and why. Shadows clouded his mind.
‘Come, let us send your message.’ Brightshow put a huge paw surprisingly gently on his shoulder and nodded towards a large doorway across the hall. Farden shook himself from his trance and smiled briefly.
They walked out of the hall and up a spiralling set of lofty stairs that led into a tall pinnacle of rock high above the busy hall. Light and snow streamed into the room through long windows carved into the rock. Their ledges were wide and strewn with comfy-looking pillows. Brightshow barely fitted into the small space, so she crouched by the bigger stairwell murmuring uncomfortably. Arranged in a big circle were about a score of cages on high stilts. Birds of prey, all shapes and types, preened and screeched between themselves. They wore little leather hoods with bells on that covered their eyes and kept them calm. Feathers covered the stone floor, and so did little patches of white mess here and there. Farden wrinkled his nose at the smell.
A greying Siren with a wide-gapped grin emerged from behind a tall desk at the back of the room. He looked Farden up and down and tried a lopsided smile. Farden wondered how long he had been left alone, but smiled warmly, and bowed back. His wispy grey hair was like a wild shrub and seemed to explode in all directions. He never seemed to stop moving, not even for a second. He nodded to Brightshow. ‘Well met, friends! The guards said you might be coming up to my office, so I have prepared a hawk for you,’ said the greying Siren. He seemed very excitable and rushed back and forth with a hobbling gait. He beckoned Farden to follow, and he did. He shooed a few tame sparrows that were perched on a table, and the small birds jumped into the air with annoyed chirping. The old man grabbed a small piece of parchment and a long hawk-feather quill from his cluttered desk, handing it to Farden and tapping the top of the table.
‘It’s been a while since we sent a message to your kind, sire. Been a long time indeed.’ The man’s eyes constantly flicked about the room.
Brightshow nodded and looked at the hooded birds of prey in the cages. They had become quiet and shuffled nervously as they caught her reptilian scent on the breeze.
The mage voiced a question. ‘Is there a quickdoor in Hjaussfen?’
With a vigourous nod the old Siren pointed out of the window and to somewhere beyond the rocky foothills. ‘Down by th
e south docks, there’s an old one. But I hear it still works.’
‘That is, if you don’t want to fly.’ Brightshow smirked, revealing rows of pointy teeth.
‘Maybe one day.’ Farden returned the smile. He spread the small bit of rough paper between finger and thumb and dipped the quill. He scratched a brief message in red ink and tiny letters. It stained his fingers as he wrote.
Arkmages,
Safe and well in the north, Sirens peaceful, searching for the well now, returning today or tomorrow by quickdoor with news. Beware spies in midst, Sarunn was destroyed by a dark sorcerer and all hands were lost. Trust no one.
Farden.
There was no time for ceremony or formality in the message, thought Farden. The Arkmages would understand and hopefully get the quickdoor ready for his arrival. Farden purposefully left out the bit about Farfallen still being alive, as he had decided to tell Vice in private rather than in front of the entire council. He didn’t want his friend’s reputation to be tarnished.
‘These birds will get your message there fast, sire, have no worries. They’re a lot faster than your southern hawks I can tell you that,’ the grey Siren winked at him. His scales hung from his jaw line like dark brown lichen on a tree.
‘Is that so?’ Farden humoured the funny old man.
He nodded quickly. ‘They’re fed on a strict diet of rabbit meat and lightning, makes them fast you see,’ The Siren grinned at his own little joke. The mage handed him the scrap of parchment and with a deft little movement the grey man coiled it up into a small tube and twisted the ends tightly. He dipped each end in a pot of green wax that bubbled above a nearby candle. Each end of the scroll was stamped with an ivory signet ring on his finger, in the shape of a feathered wing, and then he whistled piercingly to his birds. Like an arthritic hunting cat he prowled along the front of the cages and looked for one bird in particular. He stopped when he came to a very still and composed hawk that was calmly preening its feathers.
‘Aha, here she is, finest and fastest of the lot.’ Without any gloves or braces at all the man thrust his skinny arm into the wooden enclosure and reached for his bird. The bell on her hood jangled as she latched onto the scaly arm with her talons and flapped her wings for balance. Her plumage was a soft russet brown flecked with dark spots, with snowy white feathers on her underside that shone in the daylight.
‘Come here then, come on.’ He talked softly to the hawk and brought her out into the light. ‘If you don’t mind I have to face her away from you madam, in case she get scared,’ said the man to Brightshow, and she simply smiled and nodded.
Farden looked at the proud bird of prey that was perched so gently on the old man’s arm despite her razor-sharp talons. The hawk sat tall and still while the man took off her hood and then she shrugged her wings and looked around. Her deep yellow eyes blinked in the sunlight, and then she stared at the mage with an indifferent look. Two long feathers like that of a heron stood out behind her head, and when she spread her wings, the mage could see the long dark pinion feathers shaking as if she were eager to get going already.
With a slender piece of twine the old man fastened the waxy scroll to the birds yellow leg and wrapped it over and over in a criss-cross pattern until it was secured safely. The man made sure that the scroll was tight enough yet not causing the hawk any trouble.
The last thing he did was to whisper in the feathery place where the hawk’s ears were and then fling her from his arm towards the window. The bird screeched with a thin piercing wail and then disappeared into the grey sky.
‘Thank you,’ said Farden.
The jumpy man bowed. ‘My pleasure sire, always nice to be of service,’ then he bowed again and Farden shook his wrinkled hand.
‘Please let us know if and when a reply comes from the Arka,’ said Brightshow.
‘I will madam, good wishes to the two of you,’ the grey man dipped his head once more and then fidgeted with his hands as if he were unsure of what to do with himself.
Brightshow and Farden went back to the hall, where Farfallen, Svarta, Eyrum, and a few other dragons had gathered in the centre of the huge mass of tables. Svarta seemed angry, but then again Farden had never seen her be any different, and Farfallen looked disappointed and pensive. As they emerged into the light of the great hall the Old Dragon beckoned them closer with a silent wave of his great claws. The mage listened to the loud conversation between his rider and one of the scholars.
‘What do you mean weeks?’ Svarta asked. The man opposite her was tall and clean shaven, and had obviously drawn the short piece of straw. He was clearly nervous in front of the Siren queen, and her demanding expression and posture frightened him. He blushed through purple scales and he kept smoothing his blonde hair to his forehead anxiously. ‘Even the oldest of our tearbooks don’t go back as far as the Old Dragon’s. As far as we can…er, ascertain your highness, none of the scrolls or parchments here have hinted at a well, therefore it must be...’ he faltered.
‘What?’ Svarta asked quickly. Her hands were fixed to her hips.
‘It must be in your dragon’s memories,’ the young scholar added quickly, ‘and that’s the problem, it is taking far longer than we expected...’ he gave up again, and pulled at his fringe some more.
‘And you’re telling me it would take weeks to search Farfallen’s memories?’
The man looked behind him to his cluster of colleagues, who all bobbed and nodded frantically. One held up a hand. ‘It seems so, majesty. The older his memories are the more ancient the translation, and the more difficult it is to read. It is taking us a long time, and so far we haven’t found anything at all.’
Svarta huffed, but Farfallen spoke up in his deep booming voice. ‘If it will take weeks, then it will take weeks. These men are trying their hardest and we must give them the time to finish their task.’ The blonde man relaxed visibly. ‘However!’ Farfallen held up a claw and flashed a look to Farden. ‘Understand that we are all in great danger, and your lives depend on finding this well before it is too late. Do you hear me?’ Farfallen looked around with a raised brow and every single scribe and scholar and Siren in the room shouted loudly in agreement and scrabbled to get back to work. The hubbub began again. The Old Dragon turned to leave, and the blonde man was left looking relieved and shaky. He turned back to his little gang and breathed a heavy sigh, with a few pats on his back for good measure.
Farden followed the group of dragons and people as they left the hall, and Farfallen led them down yet another wide corridor to a long room that was missing a wall and open to the sky on one side. The cold wind swirled around the bare space, and the dragons gathered in a little group at the end of the room.
‘Well what now?’ Farden asked loudly as he walked towards them, arms spread questioningly.
Farfallen looked at him, and cocked his head on one side like a giant cat. ‘Now, Farden, you go home. We will continue to search through my memories and find this elf well. You can have my word that we will send our fastest dragons to you when we have success.’ Farfallen said.
Farden shook his head. ‘But you said yourself that will take weeks,’ he objected.
‘Maybe so, but if I and Svarta and the others help them search,’ he said with a confident air, ‘then you shall have your answer within a week.’ The other dragons rumbled in agreement and looked at the mage, their colourful placid eyes gazing down at the man standing before them. ‘My memories are flowing slowly back to me, like a brook, but soon I can feel they will be a great torrent in my mind. We can’t rush this Farden, and we need to be careful,’ and as if reading Farden’s thoughts once again, he added, ‘and yes mage, we are aware of the lack of time. We want this as much as you do.’
Farden looked down at the stone floor and fought a long sigh. ‘Then I will return to Krauslung. The Arka will need to be ready just in case,’ he said.
The Old Dragon smiled. ‘Hopefully it will not come to a fight, my good mage. But if it must, then the Sirens will sta
nd beside you.’ He looked for a moment to the other dragons before continuing. ‘And tell your Arkmages that they can once again call us friends. The war ended a long time ago, and I think it is once again time for us to open our gates.’ Svarta shot Farfallen a shocked glance and then, catching herself, she turned to face the mage with an expression of badly hidden anxiety.
Farden smiled and crossed his arms across a chest swelling with pride. ‘Thank you Farfallen.’
‘Towerdawn here will take you anywhere you want to go.’ Farfallen nodded to a stocky red dragon on his right, and the muscular beast bowed his chin to the floor with a long blink. His scarlet scales rippled in the sunlight and the dark wine-coloured crest running along his spine wobbled.
Farden bowed in return but shook his head. ‘Again thank you, but Brightshow has told me there is a quickdoor at the docks that I can use to get back to Krauslung.’
Farfallen nodded. ‘Of course. It is ancient, but I know it still works. I will have one of the wizards open it immediately.’
‘Then I will need to go pack.’ Farden smiled. Brightshow chuckled behind him.
‘Svarta will have some provisions brought up to your room.’ Farfallen said, and Svarta nodded tiresomely. Farden bowed and Brightshow followed him out of the door. When they had left the room and were walking back down the corridor, the dragon sighed mockingly. ‘Well! It seems we’ve only just met and you’re already leaving.’
‘It is a shame!’ Farden laughed and shrugged. ‘But sadly I have to be getting back to the Arkmages as soon as possible.’ He had decided that he would miss Nelska and its dragons.
‘I’ve heard one of your elders has spells that control the weather?’ The dragon asked.