by Ben Galley
‘Lord Vice, an unexpected honour!’ said one soldier. He saluted with his spear and the other quickly followed suit. ‘Your Mage, the first candidate should be almost finished,’ added the second soldier, not wishing to be to left out.
‘Good, good,’ replied the Undermage. Vice made it to the top of the stairs and smiled. He folded his arms behind his back and paused. The soldier asked a question. ‘To, er what do we owe the pleasure sire...?’
The words had barely left his lips when the Undermage grabbed the knife from his belt buried it hilt-deep in the man’s neck. The soldier sank to the floor with a loud crash and choked on steel. Vice finished him off with a bolt of fire that shattered his armour like molten glass.
‘Murder!’ The other soldier shouted, aghast and shocked. He made to run but in a blur Vice kicked out behind him and caught him squarely in the breastplate. The soldier staggered backwards and tried to bring his spear level to fend off the murderous mage. A firebolt ricocheted from his shield and Vice spat, cursing the magick in the gold metal. He dodged and ducked the jabbing spearpoint like a cat. The look in the soldier’s eyes was of pure panic and confusion. Vice grinned and winked at his prey and the man visibly swallowed. The Undermage took a step forward and lightning exploded from his fingers. The blinding flash struck the man in the hip and with a despairing cry he was catapulted into the wall behind him. Vice was quickly after him, hands still buzzing with sparks.
The soldier hauled himself up but he soon found hot iron hands circling his neck. Vice slammed the poor man back against the wall and the crunching sound of bricks and bone cracking was nauseating. Vice shocked him again and the man went limp in his grip.
Behind the door Brimm nervously wrung his hands, desperately wondering what the loud bangs and crashes had been. The two old men swapped concerned glances, and the young mage felt like burying his head in his hands. All was silent now, no shouts, even Cheska’s screams had died. Brimm’s fingers twitched nervously.
Inside the white room Cheska lifted shaking hands to her face and wiped away the tears for the final time. Her back was on fire, and the smell of fear and sweat made her gag. The pain was starting to recede from the edges of her eyes, and the pounding in her head seemed to soften slightly.
The Scribe had finally stopped humming and he turned his head to watch the door behind him. His needle was on his lap, wiped clean and unmoving now, the first time it had rested in three days. Sniffing like a rat, he wrinkled his freckled nose and squinted through his thick glasses.
Behind him the young mage was blinking dizziness from her eyes. The bright room stung her vision. Cheska tried to stretch her back and sit upright but the sensation of her skin moving and contracting felt as though she were lying in a pit of burning coals, so she stayed put and tried to stop her heart from racing.
Brimm cried out as the door suddenly burst into a thousand fragments. He fell to the floor and frantically waved his arms to keep the wooden shards from his eyes. The other two old men rose sombrely as if they hadn’t even noticed the door exploding. As one they moved aside their white robes and drew long swords from hidden scabbards. Their blades were etched with unknown words and old symbols. They stood tall, silent and ready, with their swords held in front of their faces. Brimm cowered at their feet and tried to remember his spells.
There was a short moment of uneasy silence before a man in full ceremonial armour flew through the smoking door frame and crashed to the stone floor. Brimm frantically tried to cast a shadow spell but his hands were shaking too much. The incantation bounced around his head uselessly.
A tall figure appeared through the haze in the doorway and without a sound the two old servants walked forward to meet him. As they raised their sword above their heads the figure began to laugh contemptuously. Fire danced in the stranger’s hands, a deep red and orange flame that crackled and popped angrily.
The two men never had a chance. The flames jumped from the man’s hands and consumed the old servants with a flash of fire and black smoke. They crumpled to the floor like burnt paper and lay there smouldering, their swords forgotten in their hands. The room was quickly filling with thick smoke and smothering the candles. Brimm crouched down to try to keep from choking.
It was suddenly deathly silent, but slowly, like out of some sort of hazy nightmare, a tall figure emerged from the smoke with vicious eyes and an evil grin. With abject horror Brimm recognised the black Undermage’s robe. Vice strode calmly towards him, a long knife held low at his side. Brimm slowly backed up against the wall and tried to invoke any spell he could think of that would save him.
‘Any profound words in your last moments mage?’ The Undermage sneered wickedly.
Brimm couldn’t even speak, he just gaped and stuttered. The cold steel pressed against his throat and he stared into Vice’s evil eyes with utter disbelief.
Cheska tried not to vomit for the third time and focused on not letting the room spin round again. The throbbing in her head had now turned into nauseating pain, and it felt like her stomach was trying to punch its way out. And now she could smell smoke. Through bleary eyes she could see the the blurred Scribe packing away his tools. He sounded agitated, and Cheska dazedly wondered if there was a fire.
Suddenly there was a bang from somewhere. It sounded like it was outside. Cheska swallowed bile and fell to her knees. Her back burned with excruciating pain and the sound of her stool hitting the floor sent shockwaves across her skull.
The Scribe dashed to her aid and quickly pulled her aside. He pushed her nearer to the bench at the side of the round room. Glass jars scattered under her shaking limbs and candles hissed but the Scribe urged her on, making her crawl as far under the bench as she could go. The look in his beady eyes was urgent and serious. Cheska’s head swam. Wearily she put her forehead to the cold stone floor and watched the Scribe from the corner of her eye. He was rushing around the room blowing out the candles. The room slowly plunged into darkness, candle by candle, and Cheska wondered what was going on.
At that moment there was a huge crash and the Scribe spun around to see the door fly inward under a shower of sparks. A man strode through the splintered doorway and stood in the dim candlelight with his arms crossed defiantly, ignoring the orange flames that licked at his boots and black robe.
There was a moment of silence before the man took a few steps forward and spoke. His tone was cold and formal, and there was an odd familiarity to it, thought Cheska.
‘I take it all is in order?’ he asked quietly.
The wizened old Scribe sighed and clicked his neck to one side, then he removed his spectacles and polished them slowly with the sleeve of his tunic in small circular motions. ‘Hmm, just as you required,’ he paused and then sighed with a soft wheezing sound. ‘I never thought it would be you,’ he said. His voice was like the rasp of files on glass, hoarse as though he had spent an age in silence. The dark newcomer nodded slowly. Their eyes were now locked in a strange embrace and both seemed to be waiting for the other to move. The etiquette before the first strike.
But it never came. Cheska waited and blinked, shivering in her hiding place. She tried to make out the face of the tall man but it was now too dark in the room, and too hot. She squirmed and tried to calm her writhing stomach. It was too quiet.
‘Which one of us have you come for then Vice?’ asked the Scribe suddenly.
Cheska could have sworn she heard the name of the Undermage.
‘Which do you think?’
The old Scribe slowly turned his head to look at the figure cowering under the bench. ‘After your last experiment, I would say her, but the look in your eyes speaks differently,’ he said, cocking his head on one side like an inquisitive bird. Vice lifted his knife and casually examined the blood-smeared blade. ‘It’s a shame that you have worn out your usefulness...’ he offered with a shrug.
The Scribe shook his head, and anger flashed briefly behind his black eyes. ‘The sons of Orion will get what is coming to them in the
end.’
‘I beg to differ,’ began Vice, but the Scribe turned his back and snorted.
‘It matters not, the decision it seems, is already made,’ he said. The Scribe seemed to let go of a heavy weight, and his shoulders sagged a little. Cheska held her breath. Fire licked at the walls.
The Undermage lowered his knife again and slowly moved forward, closer to the old Scribe. ‘I take no pleasure in doing this,’ he whispered.
‘You can’t fool me mage, I have spent a thousand years listening to you lie,’ he said with closed eyes.
Vice sneered and grabbed the back of the Scribe’s neck. ‘That you have,’ he replied, in a voice as cold as ice. There was a quick metallic crunch and the wizened old man slumped to the floor at Vice’s feet. Cheska tried to melt into the shadows of her hiding place, but she already knew what was coming. When she opened her eyes again the figure was already standing over her. He looked down and smiled at her wickedly, and he brandished a dripping knife in his hands.
Chapter 16
“The mage Farden is to be commended for his outstanding efforts in the battle of Efjar. Without the aid of this brave soldier our men would surely still be deep in the marshes fighting the minotaur clans. It has been a long time since I have seen such a skilled mage in our proud ranks, not since the days of his unfortunate uncle. Let us hope he does not follow the same path as Tyrfing.”
Letter to Arkmage Åddren from Lord Vice in the year 884
Nothing lived on the Dunwold moors. Nothing. If one were to find themselves standing on the rolling hills and downs of Albion’s eastern coast they would find nothing but rocks and wet grass with no living thing to accompany them. Dunwold was bare, cold, and agonisingly empty, stretching on for miles and miles around as far as the human eye could see. Here and there a few stunted trees stood amongst the rocky crags and boulders, clinging to whatever life their geriatric roots could find between the grey stone and pale lichen.
After running for two days straight he had finally collapsed between two boulders in the shadow of a low hill. His heat spells had worn off and now the cold was slowly seeping into his bones. Farden had slept fitfully. The dreams hadn’t returned and no voices had spoken to him, and the mage wondered if they had left him for good. He threw a cursory look at the grey skies. Nothing. Farden shifted and winced with pain. He could feel the barbed tip of the arrow in his side working its way deeper into his flesh. Blood covered the wet grass beneath him and caked his hands and clothes. The exhausted mage put a tentative hand to his ribs, not daring to even touch the broken arrow shaft. Pushing with his elbow and grunting he managed to prop himself up to peer over the edge of the boulder at the grim countryside.
Dawn was slowly creeping across the edges of the moors. The cold wind toyed with the frost-choked grass, flipping it this way and that like a cat with a dead mouse. Farden’s tired eyes roved over his surroundings and watched for movement. His followers were nowhere to be seen. After halving their numbers the day before he had outran the men at some point during the night, and now it was daylight once again. The mage had intended to circle back on himself but after losing his sword, his way, and his temper in the southern marshes he had lost all hope of making it back to the Arkabbey. Farden hadn’t seen or heard anything of the men since nightfall; their parting gift was still stuck in his ribs.
His heart was heavy and his head pounded and since he had left his supplies at the Arkabbey he was now also ravenously hungry. With shaking fingers he tried to peel some of the moss and lichen from the boulder and chew it. The taste was like bitter grass but he hoped the foul stuff would stop his stomach from complaining. Farden kept his eyes on the horizon while he nibbled. His instincts told him he hadn’t seen the last of Ridda’s cronies, and the only way to get back to the Arka was going back the way he had come, or... he quickly pushed that thought away but his hand strayed to the circular object hidden safely inside his cloak. It was Helyard’s Weight.
Farden had contemplated using it that morning, shortly before he had collapsed in a heap between his two rocks. But for anyone except an Arkmage, using the Weight was almost as good as suicide. He had heard the stories. Without the necessary power or skill a user could easily end up crushed inside a mountain or at the bottom of the Bern Sea and Farden wasn’t willing to take that chance just yet.
The mage forced himself to his feet with more willpower than he knew he had. He swayed and the world did a little spin, but he swallowed and blinked the nausea away. Farden’s hands were shaking and he could feel the blood seeping down his leg. He longed for the comfort of the Bearded Goat. The warmth of a fire, hot wine in a cup, a sip of mörd with Vice in his opulent chambers. The brisk wind tussled with his hair and made him squint.
Next to him a little pool of water had been trapped in the rock, so he bent down to look at his haggard reflection. Red eyes and thick stubble greeted him like those of a stranger. Maybe it was the clouds hanging overhead or maybe it was the rock under the almost-freezing water, Farden’s skin looked pale and grey and wan like a ghost’s. His face and neck were covered in scratches from the claws of trees and branches, now red and blistered, and his dark hair hung in thick dirty locks over his hollow green eyes. Farden decided he looked like hell. He looked down at the thick arrowshaft sticking out of his ribs. He had snapped off the feathered end of the arrow last night but it still protruded a good few inches from his skin. The wyrm wound from all those weeks ago was now a silvery scar across his right side. He touched the arrow gingerly and a spark of pain made him twitch. Farden tried to get his thoughts in order. Without a healer the arrow would work its way into his lungs or stomach sooner or later, and no amount of magick could save him from that.
‘Fuck this,’ he cursed, and put the thick collar of his black cloak between his teeth. With a deep and heavy breath his fingers wrapped tightly around the blood-caked arrowshaft and yanked. Hard.
Light exploded behind his eyes. He choked on the utter pain and fell heavily to the wet grass. But the arrow was out and lying beside him. Blood flowed freely from the horrible wound like a swollen red river. The mage groaned and clamped a hand to his ribs. He summoned the last of his energy for a healing spell and then darkness swallowed him once again.
When next he woke, the sun was just passing its zenith and peeking out from between the thick clouds that covered Dunwold and its moors. Farden’s breath suddenly caught in his throat and he coughed violently. He quickly realised his painful error as his ribs screamed in fresh agony.
It took an hour to summon the energy and strength to even sit up. The arrow wound looked as ugly as sin, and even though Farden had escaped the arrow moving any deeper he had seen wounds like his catch the rot and fester in a day. He sighed and scanned the moors with tired eyes. Even armed with his spells he was still heavily wounded and an easy target for his pursuers, if the bastards were still around, he thought grimly. A little instinctive voice told him they were. Farden nibbled at some more lichen with another heavy sigh.
In the mage’s mind it was like all sense of control had flown quickly out of the window and disappeared beyond the gloomy horizon once again. Whatever semblance of order and purpose he had felt on leaving Krauslung had now crumbled. Helyard was a puppet, he thought. There was no doubt. But now, whoever they were, they were after him. Ridda had been a loyal and respectable mage, so what had made him turn so readily? Whatever it was he knew there was a great evil behind all of this, and Farden could feel he was getting close to an answer. He just hoped that Durnus and Elessi were safe at Kiltyrin. Farden’s heart clenched as he remembered the last time he had seen Cheska, touching the edges of sleep, her face covered by her golden hair, glowing in the dying embers of the fireplace. Farden had ran his rough hands over her skin and marvelled at the soft skin underneath his fingertips, had thought how much he didn’t deserve her. He remembered the three little words he had whispered to her that night while she slept. She would be finishing the Ritual by now, he thought, or she....
&nbs
p; He left that thought to trail off and hide like a coward. A sudden determination flushed through his veins. Whatever it took, he had to get back to Krauslung and find Cheska, and, even if it killed him, he would see an end to this betrayal once and for all.
Farden glanced down and looked at his reflection, still covered in a myriad of scratches and bruises. The image shattered like broken glass as he dashed the water away and hauled himself up with a defiant grunt. The stubborn mage took a few deep breaths and stretched his muscles with new-found resolve. Durnus might have been right, though, it seemed that only he could get into these ridiculous situations. Such is the life of a Written, he smirked, and broke into a limping jog.
An hour later Farden was leaning against a mossy boulder in a narrow gully and trying to catch his breath. The wind moaned and cried through the rocky culvert and blew Farden’s sweat-soaked hair into his eyes like tiny whips. He was breathing steadier now, but the wound on his side felt like a cat was gnawing at his ribs. His lungs burned like hot tar.
The mage froze as the wind moaned again, blowing in the direction he was heading. A faint call hung on the stiff breeze, and fell. Another, louder this time. Like a shout.
Farden turned and started to run again. There was no time to waste. He knew that as soon as he was out of the gully he would be in open view and, with the wind, in range of their deadly bows. But then again, he grimly surmised, he didn’t really have a mountain of options. His tired feet pounded the frozen earth below him. Better to be caught running then hiding.
Soon he reached the end of the gully and was abruptly in plain sight again, hobbling and skipping his way across the moor like a wounded stag. He heard the angry shouts on the wind and sneaked a brief look behind him. Six men were charging towards him over the hills and waving various sharp objects in the air. They were still about half a mile behind him, but Farden’s keen eyes could see they were catching up, covered in mud and furious. Spending the night in the marshes looking for an invisible mage would probably make you feel that way, he decided. Farden tried to speed up but his ribs cried out painfully.