by Ben Galley
‘Drink your wine Farden, don’t just stare at the fire.’ Vice smiled and leaned back into a deep armchair with a chuckle. He threw another log into the fireplace and it landed in the flames with a burst of sparks. Steaming wood cracked and spat at them.
Farden shook his head and blinked. The mage was perched on the edges of his own luxurious chair, leaning forward to be closer to the roaring fire. He grinned and sipped the steamy concoction from the silver cup in his hands. It was warm and sweet, mulled wine mixed with the infamous moonshine known as mörd or piss as it was more commonly known. It was a soldier’s drink, devastatingly strong and as clear as ice water. He had heard many of the older veterans arguing long into the night about its magick healing powers, and Farden was beginning to agree with the bunch of gap-toothed brawlers. It was like drinking fire, but the steaming liquid warmed his throat and burned in his belly like the wood crackling in front of him, and he was starting to feel better again. Farden squinted his eyes and looked around him.
Vice’s private rooms were huge, decorated in the finest styles and crammed with couches, tables, bookcases, desks, and chairs that filled almost every available space. The difference between the Undermage’s rooms and Durnus’s was startling, but they were just as warm, and Farden was just as happy to be there. They hadn’t changed much since his last visit, but he still found himself looking around. Trophies and paintings of his victories covered the walls and jostled for space between the long windows that stretched across the far wall. The sun was just about to disappear over the faraway sea, and the clouds were beginning to gather once again as the weather from Nelska travelled southwards. Farden turned his head to watch the red orb sinking into the sea behind the distant islands.
‘I knew this weather wouldn’t last,’ he said.
‘It’s been bitterly cold since you went away. Helyard’s been in a foul mood, so maybe that’s why,’ Vice shrugged.
‘What’s wrong with him now?’ Farden sighed. He remembered suspicions about Helyard, but he decided to hear what Durnus had to say first before telling Vice.
‘Your disappearance my good mage! The whole council has been in uproar over the apparent loss of the tearbook. It was only when your hawk arrived that Åddren finally managed to bring peace to the council, and I was sent to get the quickdoor ready for your arrival.’ Vice leaned back even further into the massive chair and smiled at Farden. He entwined his fingers and hummed thoughtfully.
‘Well it wasn’t all fun and games for me either, but I can assure the tearbook is safely back in the hands in the dragons, and they have promised me that within the week we will have our answers.’
‘ “Safely back in the hands of the dragons…” is that you talking Farden? I thought you said they couldn’t be trusted?’ Vice spluttered.
‘Well I wasn’t treated kindly at first, the Siren queen Svarta wanted to lock me up and throw away the key.’
‘But what about the message we sent to them warning them of your arrival?’
‘It never got there, I think it had to do something with the sorcerer on the boat.’ Farden rubbed his chin and stared into the flames again. The cup was warm in his hands.
‘Right, I’m completely lost. Start from the beginning.’ Vice scrunched up his eyes as if the confusion hurt him and rubbed his eyes slowly.
‘Sorry.’ Farden laughed and launched straight in, shuffling in his chair to face the Undermage. ‘A few days before the end of the journey I caught one of the sailors in my room trying to steal the tearbook. I thought he was just a thief, but he was a sorcerer, and a good one at that, and it turns out he had been sent by the same people who had stolen the summoning manual. I managed to fend him off but a wave hit the ship and she went down.’ Farden was glad Vice wasn’t as good as detecting lies as the dragons were. He sipped his mörd wine.
‘So how did you get to Nelska without a ship?’ asked Vice.
Farden shook his head and thought, something he had spent many hours thinking in Hjaussfen. By all rights he should have been dead. ‘By some sort of absolute miracle I was washed up on the beach near the palace and a guard found me. And let’s just say that there were some complications after that…’
‘Tell me.’ Vice said and leaned forward out his chair to listen more carefully.
Farden rolled his eyes. He had hoped to skip this particular matter entirely. ‘One of the Siren healers read my Book while I was unconscious, so they locked the poor lunatic in a cell with me. When I finally came to half a week later they dragged me in front of the dragons and interrogated me. They weren’t the least bit happy after that debacle.’
‘It was his fault, not yours, if you were unconscious. It was people like him that started the war in the first place.’ Vice scowled.
‘Either way, the queen, Svarta, was overruled and they let me stay in the palace, free to wander around and train,’ said Farden.
‘You can’t be serious,’ he scoffed, sceptical.
Farden nodded. ‘I swear to the gods. I told them the Arka finally wanted peace and after seeing the tearbook they were convinced I wasn’t there to cause any trouble. I was as surprised as you were. There’s a lot more to the dragons that we’ve come to assume, Vice.’
The Undermage scowled again, and quaffed his drink. He put the glass down on a nearby table with a sharp tap. ‘That’s another matter for another day. What will happen to the tearbook now?’ he asked.
‘It will stay with them for the time being, and within a week we will have the location of the well. They have every scribe in the city working through every old scroll and historical account they can get their claws on, and now that Svarta and the other dragons are working beside them I have no doubt. If there’s a dark elf well left in Emaneska then they’ll find it’ Farden matched Vice’s intent gaze and nodded slowly as if to reiterate his point. ‘There must be so much knowledge in Farfallen’s memories, so many lost things, places, people,’ the wine stole the mage’s words, and he sipped some more.
Vice nodded slowly. ‘That’s why Helyard never wanted it to leave Krauslung, even though it was blank, the stupid fool,’ he paused, then slapped his hand on his thigh. ‘If you can trust the Sirens, then so shall I. I just hope you know what you’re doing Farden, and so does the council.’ Vice shrugged his shoulders and leaned back into his deep chair once again.
‘I have their word,’ said Farden.
‘Fine, but if the dragons are too late, then we must be ready to fight this creature face to face. I don’t care how many men it takes, we can’t let this thing survive. Åddren and Helyard share my sentiments, and I’m sure the Sirens feel the same way about the matter.’
‘They do, and that’s why I came back,’ Farden assured him quickly.
‘Good, then by tomorrow night the whole army will be ready to march. I will leave it up to you to gather the Written, old friend. You will have all the hawks you need at your disposal, and I will send word to the Spire that you are to lead the others.’
‘The other Written, Vice…’ Farden began, but Vice held up a silencing hand and stopped him with his mouth open.
‘No, Farden I don’t want to hear another word, it’s about time you had your own command, and I can’t think of another better suited for it. It’s time to put all these rumours and gossips behind you and stop playing the hermit.’ The mage looked like he was about to protest again but Vice cast him a look that said my word is final, so Farden sighed resignedly and swilled the last of his wine around the bottom of the cup.
‘For now, you will rest Farden, I will have a room set up for you.’ Vice rubbed his hands together and stood up.
He gulped down the last of the warm drink and an idea unfurled in his head. The mage grinned. ‘Thank you friend, but there is a comfy bed in a comfy inn that has my name on it.’
‘Hah, you like the old Bearded Goat then? It’s one of the oldest taverns in the city,’ he said, and pushed himself up from the chair. Vice strode across the room and left Farden to gather his t
hings. The supplies given to him by the Sirens still threatened to burst out of his haversack, but at least he would not have to pay for dinner tonight, he thought. Farden watched the tall Undermage shuffle some scrolls on a desk and hum to himself. In a lot of ways Vice was very similar to Durnus, both of them knew him too well and cared a little too much. He was starting to realise how much he needed such friends. Farden chuckled to himself; the wine always made him think too much. Vice waved a hand at him dismissively.
‘Be gone with you then, you hooligan, be here bright and early tomorrow. I’ll inform the Arkmages later tonight and tomorrow we will speak to the council.’ Vice said and joined the mage at the door. They shook hands warmly and the Undermage looked his friend in the eye. ’It is good to have you back with us. I was worried.’
‘It’s starting to seem like you’ll never get rid of me.’ Farden winked and turned to leave.
‘I bloody hope not,’ laughed Vice. He watched the door close behind the mage, then he stretched with a yawn and went to find where the rest of the mörd had gotten to.
An hour later and true to form, the blue glassy skies above Krauslung were becoming crowded with billowing grey clouds rolling and piling on top of each other, blotting out the first stars of the evening. The city was starting to sparkle and glow with candles and torches and the cobbled streets were as cold as the early twilight. Farden wandered on through the streets towards his favourite inn. A spot of rain landed on the back of his hand and he licked it, tasting the cold water on his burning tongue. The wine had warmed his belly. He tilted his face to the turbulent sky to feel the soft cold rain on his sweaty skin. Thankfully there was no wind to chase the raindrops, and Farden found himself in good spirits. Even though he missed the dragons, it was good to be back in his city again, no longer under the untrusting eyes of Siren soldiers and just another hooded stranger in the street. He felt good, and strangely calm, whole even. However brief, his stay in Nelska had done something to him, and the mage allowed himself a small smile.
Farden quickened his pace, and strode briskly through the rain and the darkness. The gloomy puddles in the street rippled with orange light under the flickering street lamps. A few passers-by coughed and shuffled on the wet flagstones but they paid him no attention and the hooded mage continued on through the night.
The Bearded Goat was lively that evening, Farden could hear the noise echoing through the dark alleyways from at least half a mile away. At first he had thought a fight had broken out, as there were several city guards leaning on their spears in the road, but then the mage realised it was actually singing he had heard, not fighting. The guards kept leaning and laughed at the drunkards of the inn. Farden kept his hood down and passed them silently. The rain splashed in the puddles and soaked the city to the bone.
A man had collapsed in the gutter outside the inn, and he was still clutching his ale and singing random lines with little bursts of energy and volume. One of the guards tried to move him on with the butt of his spear but the drunk refused to be uprooted from the wet cobbles, and argued loudly how sober he truly was. He would probably still be there in the morning. Farden chuckled to himself, and looked through the windows at the commotion inside.
Had Farden wanted a meal and a drink in the bar he probably would have cared a lot more, but seeing as all he wanted was to get to his room, he greeted the chaos with a bemused grin. Not one, but two bards had arrived that night, and both were belting out old songs and eddas to the bustling crowd gathered at the bar. The mage managed to make it through the door and slowly squeezed past the drunken men, heading towards the stairs. He threw a sympathetic look to the inn-keeper as he passed the bar. The man looked stressed, and furiously doled out tankards of ale and wine in every directions. Silver and copper coins clinked together in his bursting pockets. At the end of the bar the two bards danced on a tabletop, getting faster and faster and louder and louder with every passing second, each trying to outdo the other with longer and louder tales of war and heroism. The noisy drunk men sang the bits they knew, and shouted the bits they didn’t, and drowned out the ljots with the banging of bottles and tankards on wooden tables. The whole inn was a deafening cacophony of noise, music, and laughter. Farden watched the mayhem with wonder and slowly shook his head.
To his right a man was trying to cook a half-eaten sausage on the roaring heat of the fireplace, while another skinny fellow was hidden under a table throwing up in a hat. The gentleman whose hat it was laughed and pointed, and then rambunctiously demanded he get another beer to compensate for the vomiting. The skinny man kept at it. A few soldiers were leaning against each other and the stairs, long off-duty but still in armour. They stank of cheap wine and sang their own songs over the chaos. They cheered as Farden nudged them aside with his elbows and told him to join them. The hooded mage ignored their offers and skipped up the steps to the second floor. They would be in for a surprise in the morning, he thought, when Vice assembled the army.
Once his door was shut and most of the noise had been drowned out Farden threw off his wet cloak, dropped his pack, and dropped into a nearby chair with a tired sigh. The music was like a muffled droning under his floorboards, and it permeated the walls and windows. Rain dripped and splashed onto his windowsill from the lofty gutters above. Farden stared at the wet night outside his room, thinking of the dragons and the last few days. It was a blur, and he wasn’t sure what had really happened. He rifled through his bag and looked at the things the Sirens had given him. Most of it was still dry. He held the vial of ice water in his hand. It was still freezing cold. The little book on flying looked interesting, even if it was in a strange dialect. The illustrations were detailed and depicted diagrams of how to hold onto a dragon, and how a dragon moves in the skies. He tossed it on the bed for later.
After a while Farden suddenly realised that he was cold and that he needed to dry his clothes, so he shuffled into a sitting position and tossed a bolt of fire at the cold hearth. The dry wood there burst into flames with a snap and a crackle and began to burn. He went to pull the window shut and clenched his cold fists to warm them. The mage stretched out his hands to feel the warmth of the sputtering logs and then threw his cloak over the chair to dry. Farden perched on the edge of the bed, near the fireplace, and wondered what the hour was. His head still swam with the warm wine, and he could feel himself growing tired. The bed and its blankets behind him looked inviting, and he contemplated melting into it. With a grunt he allowed himself to lean back and sprawl out across the mattress with his boots still on the floor.
Farden let his mind rove and wander through the dizzy sleepiness of the alcohol. Nights like this were usually spent worrying and thinking too much, and the last night he had spent at the inn he had met the grubby old man with the pipe. But Nelska had calmed his thoughts, and the idea of nevermar seemed distant and useless. Just what the dragons had done to him he had no idea, but it had worked, and he was grateful. Farden played with the dragonscale amulet around his neck, and wondered what it would feel like to lose a dragon, or a loved one. He thought of her face, and her skin, and her mountain-lake eyes. Farden sighed. He would lie there for a moment, then unpack his things, and then head to the Spire to see the girl that had been stuck in his mind ever since he had left the city. The mage smiled to himself, and stretched. He would get up in a moment, he told himself, and closed his eyes.
Suddenly there was a quiet knock at the door, and with a great amount of effort Farden shook his head, blinked, and sat up. He looked around, blearily, and then the knock came again, louder and more impatient. The mage hauled himself from the bed and went to the door. Farden lifted the latch very slowly and peered around the edge of the door.
In the dark hallway stood a very cold and very wet Cheska, her hair bedraggled and dripping, coat gripped tightly around her. She was just on the edge of shivering, but when he opened the door her eyes sparkled and she managed a polite smile.
‘Hello,’ she said.
Farden’s heart lur
ched. ‘Cheska! Come in, you look like you’re freezing,’ he said, and ushered her in. He took a moment to look up and down the corridor to see if anyone was watching and then locked the door tightly behind him.
‘Expecting someone?’ she asked quietly. Cheska pulled her thin leather coat around her shoulders. Farden turned and looked at her, and realised how much he had missed her. Her voice sounded like little bells in his ears.
Farden smiled and shook his head. ‘Definitely not you anyway’ he said. He grabbed a blanket from his bed and wrapped it around her shivering frame. They perched on the edge of his bed in silence. The mage’s eyes roved over her, and when she looked up at him he stared deep into her blue eyes. She stared back at him, waiting. ‘I was going to come see you at the Spire tonight,’ he said, with a smile, and Cheska made a face. She looked around, at the crackling fire and the book and the rumpled bedsheets. ‘I’ve been waiting for hours, Farden, ever since I heard you were back.’
The mage inwardly chided himself. ‘Vice and I had things to go over, there was wine. It’s going to be a difficult day for us tomorrow,’ he said, and reached to play with a strand of her hair. Cheska batted his hand away and started combing her wet tresses through her own pale fingers. She fixed him with a sour look. ‘My Ritual starts tomorrow,’ she said, waving her fjortla in front of him. Farden hesitated, searching for something appropriate to say, but all he could think of was to put his arm around her. She didn’t push him away, and they let the noise of the fire and the rain fill the awkward silence. For a moment she did nothing, and then she leaned her head on his shoulder. They both knew what the other was thinking, but neither wanted to voice it aloud. It had been a long time since the night in the alleyway.
‘I thought you were dead,’ she said finally, barely a whisper. She fiddled with the edge of the blanket. He rubbed her shoulder with his hand, and tried to put as much humour into his brief chuckle as he could. ‘You know me better than that,’ he said, but the awkwardness didn’t die as he’d hoped. She just stared at him, and her serious face made him look away. He stared into the bright flames and sighed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and searched for something else to say. He had always been the emotionless one, and now he struggled to put his feelings into words. She just nodded and looked away. Another moment of silence. ‘I haven’t stopped thinking about you,’ Farden told her. ‘About you and, tomorrow. I just hope you know what you’re doing Cheska.’