by Ben Galley
The vampyre snarled through the door with a sibilant hiss. ‘Leave this place before I kill you all!’
Laughter came from the corridor outside. ‘We just want to talk, old man, let us in!’
‘I am no man!’ Durnus cursed and spat blood through the gap in the door. His lips and face were covered in dried crimson and the look in his pale eyes was as frosty as the ice fields. He licked his deadly fangs and felt the sharp nails at his fingertips with a thumb. The door pounded and shook but Durnus steeled himself to wait for his friend. This was the fight he had waited decades for, and he wasn’t about to let anyone down.
Durnus slammed his fist on the door frame and hissed with pure animal rage, baring his sharp teeth. Elessi hid behind the armchair with fright and closed her eyes tightly.
‘Let us in old man!’ came the taunts from outside.
‘So be it,’ he hissed. With a burst of inhuman strength the old vampyre suddenly ripped the door from its hinges and dove into the group of men with a vicious snarl. A knife raked his arm and fists collided with his body but Durnus felt strength and speed he hadn’t known in years flowing through his dusty veins. He dodged and moved like a shadow, claws striking and ripping through cloth and flesh. He was a blur of animal rage, whirling in circles and sinking his fangs into anything that moved.
The men slowly started to back off and tried to surround the vampyre. Durnus breathed in hissing gasps like a cornered swan. He bled from a dozen scratches and cuts, painted in blood that wasn’t all his own. His keen eyes could pierce the darkness better than his enemies, and he waited for them to pounce.
‘Durnus!’ A shout echoed down the narrow corridor just as a fireball ripped through the group and burst against the wall. Chaos erupted in the hallway. Durnus jumped on the nearest hooded figure and sank his fangs deep into the soft place under his chin. ‘Get him off me!’ cried the man, convulsing and stumbling under the old vampyre’s weight.
Farden was suddenly amongst them, striking left and right with his knife, hacking ruthlessly at arms and legs. Men fell awkwardly crying out in pain all around. One man landed a blow on Farden’s shoulder, but he darted sideways and stabbed backwards, catching the man in the groin. His face crunched up in pain as Farden quickly grabbed his throat and sent a river of lightning through his bones. The man shook like a rag doll and then went limp and lifeless when the spell stopped his heart.
‘Farden!’ Durnus called out from behind him. He was pinned to the floor and was trying to stop a dagger from being pressed any closer to his throat. The man on top of him snarled as he pushed his entire weight in the handle, locked in slow battle with the old vampyre. Durnus’ eyes were wide. The blackened steel tip began to tickle the papery skin of his neck.
Farden leapt forward and kicked the attacker squarely in the ribs with the thick toe of his right boot. The crack of bone was an audible snap and the man instantly collapsed by the vampyre’s side in a ball. Farden kicked the dagger aside and slammed him up against the nearest wall. He tore away the face cloth, but it wasn’t a face he recognised. Furious anger bubbled up inside him, building and building in his chest like one the volcanic springs at Hjaussfen. Farden shook with rage and a deep growl burned the back of his throat. Fists clenched white, the rumbling became a guttural roar of fury and he struck the man hard in the jaw with a sickening thud. He slumped to the cold floor unconscious and silent. There were none left in the corridor to kill. The bells had fallen silent.
‘Agh!’ The mage pulled at his hair in exasperation.
‘Farden, let’s get out of here while we still can! Come on!’ The vampyre tugged at the mage’s cloak as he ran limping back through the broken door frame to his room. Durnus hobbled into the centre of the room and paused.
‘Elessi? Elessi!’ he shouted. The damn maid was nowhere to be seen.
‘Can we go now?’ said a voice, and a shaking hand emerged from behind one of the huge armchairs.
‘Yes, now get up and come here!’ The vampyre snapped impatiently. He rushed to the pedestal standing in front of the quickdoor and flipped through the pages, murmuring the incantations and spells.
‘Farden?’ Elessi warily crept from behind the chair and looked around for the mage. Standing outside in the corridor in the dark Farden was silently fuming and staring at the unconscious stranger on floor. His mind racked every possibility, went over every piece of information, and still nothing seemed to offer an explanation. He felt useless in the face of such deep treachery, confused and bewildered. Farden flinched as a hand alighted softly on his shoulder. It was Elessi, her eyes wide and fearful.
‘Durnus is making his door thing work, it’s time to leave,’ she said softly.
Farden nodded and looked at the fallen bodies around them. Some were still groaning with pain. He wanted to dig a blade into every single one of them, just to teach them a lesson.
A raspy shout came from the vampyre’s room. ‘Farden I swear to the gods I will carry you through this door myself if you don’t hurry up! It’s almost ready!’ With a grunt the mage hopped over the splintered mess of door and helped Elessi do the same. The air in the room crackled with the quickdoor’s energy and there was a low familiar humming. Durnus whispered words to his pages as he flipped each one. Farden led the maid forward and stood her next to the vampyre. ‘Keep your arms and legs tucked in, close your eyes, and try not to think too much,’ he said, speaking in what he assumed to be a calming voice. Elessi was shaking already and she began to bite her nails with agitation.
‘And hold your breath too,’ Durnus slammed the heavy book shut with a forced grin. ‘You’ll be absolutely fine dear, do not worry. Now come, you first.’
‘But...’ She raised a finger to protest but Durnus ushered her forward to the steps. The wavering translucent surface hissed at her and she flinched. The cold wind from the other side was already starting to blow through the room. It ruffled the curtains and pulled at the fire.
‘No buts Elessi, we need to go now,’ said Farden.
‘Does it hurt?’ she asked and the vampyre sighed loudly with impatience. Shouts echoed along the corridor outside.
‘Not as much as I will if you don’t move that ample backside of yours and get through that door!’ Durnus shouted and she darted forward with fright, half-stepping half-tripping through the fizzing surface. Her scream trailed off like a distant echo.
‘Was that a bit much?’ the vampyre looked to Farden.
‘Maybe. You’ll find out on the other side,’ the mage shrugged and winked. He looked behind him as he heard the sound of a blade on stone.
Durnus put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Thank you Farden, for coming for us. I don’t think I would have...’he began.
‘Nonsense old friend, you finally got the chance you were looking for,’ Farden smiled. ‘This is a conversation for later Durnus, go, before it closes!’ The vampyre moved forward and waited on the steps of the quickdoor, watching his bold friend. The mage kicked an armchair aside and stood in front of the broken doorway with fire starting to wander over his fingers.
‘You have time!’ cried Durnus. ‘Farden! There’s no shame in running to fight another day!’
‘They can follow us! Go! Before it’s too late and we’re both stuck here!’ Farden met Durnus’s gaze, and the look in his pale eyes was grave. They both understood the situation and Farden knew what had to be done. The vampyre nodded and jumped into the quickdoor. Just as he disappeared the arches shook and with a gurgling whine the portal vanished. Farden gritted his teeth and smiled from the corner of his mouth. He relished a good fight.
The first man through the door received a face full of flame and ran around the room screaming. The mage ducked an ambitious sword swing from the next and a punch to the stomach winded the man. Farden’s skull smashing into his nose made him drop his weapon. Before the men could recover he had already disappeared down the corridor.
The mage careened around corners and flew down stairs, jumping entire flights in
windmilling leaps. Screams and shouts now came from every corner of the abbey and bodies were piling up in the corridors and doorways. Righteous anger pounded in Farden’s chest as he ran to where the sounds of battle were loudest.
‘Jus’ tell us where ‘e is an’ we won’t af to ‘urt you, will we my pretty?’ The thug’s leering grin made the young maid shiver even more. Half a dozen other servants sat kneeling around the statue of Evernia in the main hall, cowering and frightened. A score of men stood around them holding blades and eying the shadows, bedecked in scruffy armour and raggedy clothes. The flickering candlelight threw grotesque shadows across their faces.
‘Where is ‘e?’ asked the man again. The servant girl shook her head and her lip quivered as he ran dirty fingers along her chin. The thug was hideous, bald with a scar on his brow and a recently broken nose. His hand moved down across her breasts and down to grip her thigh, but a hooded figure whacked him hard on the shoulder.
‘Control yourself. There’ll be time for that later,’ he said and the ugly man retreated to stand with the others.
Moving slowly between the scared prisoners the stranger looked at each one of them in turn, choosing his victim. He grabbed a young soldier with a black eye and a nasty cut along his forehead. He lifted him up by the throat and a strange green light started to move across his gloved hands. ‘Where is Farden?’ he whispered from behind his mask.
The boy panicked and tried to wriggle out of the man’s strong grasp. ‘I... I told you I don’t know, he comes and goes, we never see him!’ he choked.
With a snarl he threw him back on the floor and pointed his finger at the others. ‘If I don’t start hearing the answers I want to hear, people are going to start dying all over again, understand?’ Renewed crying and sobbing broke out amongst the terrified captives.
The ugly man spoke up again. ‘One of yer must ‘ave seen the bastard! Eh?’ When nobody answered he shook his head. ‘By the tits of Evernia this is useless,’ he cursed.
The hooded man sighed. ‘Be patient. He’ll come to us.’
‘You’d better ‘ope so, mage, my men are gettin’ restless...’ His voice trailed off as the other man turned on him.
‘Is that a threat? Because if it is then I can always leave you and your men to explain to my employer why you came back without Farden’s head in a bag.’ He let the words sink in for a moment. The other men muttered and whispered in the candlelight ‘No? I thought not. Now get the fuck out of my way and do what you’re paid to do.’ He barged him aside and walked off towards the main door, leaving the thug to clear his throat and try to to save face in front of his men.
The hooded figure strode through the shadows towards the doors, cursing the Albion reprobates he had been forced to work with. Give him a handful of mages and this Farden would have been trussed up and stuffed like a boar by now, if only he...
But a sword suddenly wove its way between the man’s ribs with a crunch. He looked down in amazement at the black steel poking from his chest. He could hear the blood pooling in his lungs, and as the blade twisted and moved the shadows leapt up to greet him. The hooded man was dead before he hit the floor. Farden hauled the body further into the shadows and pulled the cloak up to see the man’s back. In the dim candlelight the mage could see the black script etched into the pale skin, weaving across his shoulders between bloodstained runes and symbols. Two runes meant new blood. Farden didn’t recognise the man, but he was Written, Arka born and bred, and that made the mage’s blood boil.
He gritted his teeth and strode boldly into the middle of the hall where a single shaft of moonlight pierced the shadows. ‘Hey!’ he yelled and all eyes were suddenly upon him. Farden grinned and shouted at the top of his voice. ‘If you want me, then come and get me!’
The ugly man went purple with rage and waved his sword in wide circles. ‘After ‘im!’ he shouted and with a snarl he broke into an ungainly run with the rest of his crew behind him baying like a pack of wild animals. With lightning swiftness Farden spun on his heel and dashed off in the opposite direction, leading the hooded attackers away from the prisoners and out into the cold night.
Part Four
And it Ends with Fire
Chapter 15
“Beware the monster behind the door, watch out for the spiders all over the floor.
Be brave like your father, proud warrior and all,
Something is gnawing at bones in the hall.
Maybe you’ll run, or maybe you’ll fight,
Or maybe you’ll sleep soundly all through the night.
Never you mind, now close your eyes,
Pray you sleep well, not be food for the flies.”
Skölgard nursery rhyme
Someone was screaming in the locked room at the top of the Spire. The cries of pain were chilling, accompanied by the howling wind that pawed at the windows and battlements of the tower. Two soldiers holding spears stood guard at the top of a tall set of stairs. Their gold and white ceremonial armour glittered in the light of the flickering torches and they stared straight ahead silent and still, seemingly oblivious to the sounds coming from the door behind them.
Behind that door was a small chamber and another door, and through that was a small circular room, windowless and plain, with nothing but two wooden stools and a bench for decoration. The walls had been painted pure white like a new canvas waiting for an artist. Scores of candles in glass jars were spread over the floor, making the room and the walls dazzlingly bright, perfect for keeping a candidate conscious through a Ritual. Dotted all around the room in little piles were tiny bottles of thick black ink sealed with cloth and wooden stoppers.
In the centre of the room were the two stools, and on one stool sat a wizened man white with age and with a beard so long it was wrapped around his belt. His head was bald and freckled while his shoulders were hunched like the wings of a wet crow. On his pointy nose balanced a set of intricate lenses made of stacked slices of crystal. They made his dark beady eyes look ridiculously massive. The old Scribe was fixated on his work, watching his wrinkled skeleton hands wave to and fro, pricking the pale skin in front of him with a long and delicate sliver of whale-bone. The ancient-looking Scribe hummed in a deep drone as he worked, singing forgotten tunes and songs of magick to help the ink settle around the needle’s point.
Opposite him, on the other little stool, sat Cheska. Tears rolled down her face and dripped onto a floor that was already soaking wet from two days worth of crying. She was hunched over and shaking, and her knuckles had turned an unnatural whitish purple colour from gripping her knees so hard. Her arms and legs shook uncontrollably, as if she had just been pulled from a frozen lake.
Cheska had that sort of look in her eyes, when somebody isn’t listening, when they’re lost in their own private thoughts as though their mind had wandered off for a moment. She stared vacantly at a spot on the floor and tried to cling onto the place where the pain could be kept at bay. Cheska willed herself to feel the cold breeze of the shore near her fathers palace, the smell of the pines by the lake, the sound of the waterfalls roaring past her window, but the needle kept dragging her swiftly back to the white room. Her back stung in a thousand places and after two straight days of sitting in the same position the needle felt like a burning knife point. Sweat streamed into her eyes but she blinked it away, allowing herself one merciful look at the hourglass at the end of the room slowly dripping sand through its tiny waist. Couldn’t be long now, she prayed, to whichever god that would hear her. Her face scrunched up with another shrill cry.
Outside the Scribe’s room, in the first chamber, Brimm sat on a low wooden bench between two servants. They wore robes bearing the rare symbol of the tattooing art of the Written, the scales of the Arka weighing a feather quill. The two men seemed almost as old as the Scribe himself with long flowing beards and calm eyes, silent and still. Shadows from the torches danced across their still and wrinkled faces.
The servants were the only people ever allowed near the
Scribe at any time. They were his eyes, his ears, and his mouth in the outside world, and they were often charged with passing messages to the Arkmages in measures of absolute secrecy. No one knew where the Scribe or his servants had come from, or even how old they truly were. There were some who whispered that the Scribe was a daemon from the old times, or perhaps a man of Servaea who had escaped before it sank into the sea. But whatever he was the withered old man was an ancient mystery shrouded in deep secrecy, and the hidden treasure of the Arka.
Brimm was trembling. He wished he could put his hands to his ears and block the sounds of his friend crying and screaming. He chewed anxiously at his lip while fear squeezed his stomach. The young mage smoothed his white and gold ceremonial tunic for the hundredth time that day and ran his dry tongue along the back of his teeth. ‘May I have some water, before I go in...?’ he asked, looking to the old men on either side of him. They didn’t move a muscle and continued to stare at the opposite wall. Brimm sighed, and tasted blood coming from his lip.
Outside the door, back on the stairs, the two soldiers exchanged concerned glances as they heard loud footsteps coming up the stairs below them. They shuffled forward and peered down the steep flight of curving steps and waited to see who came round the corner. One of them lowered his spear just to be ready. The Ritual was not to be interrupted for any reason.
Soon a tall man in a long black and green robe appeared on the tall steps and strode purposefully up the stairs towards the soldiers. At his hip was a long knife in an ornate golden scabbard. As he noticed the two men ahead of him he smiled amiably and held up a hand. ‘Evening gentlemen!’ he said. His dark brown eyes were warm and welcoming.