by Ben Galley
Inch by agonising inch the six men slowly closed the gap between them and their prey. Their orders long forgotten, this was now a personal feud with the bastard mage. The ugly man from the Arkabbey ran with the wind snapping at his heels. His six cronies slavered and grunted at his side like rabid hunting dogs. His eyes were wide and red, starved of sleep, and now he was hungry for Farden’s blood. A rasping shout ripped from his throat, ‘Come on lads! ‘E’s got nowhere t’ hide now! I want ‘is head on a stick!’ Cries went up from the rest of them and they redoubled their efforts, feet pounding across the frozen moors.
Farden could hear their baying and yelling. Rocks and shrubs flew past him. Nothing offered anything that even resembled a hiding place. Ahead the moors stretched out for miles and miles, barren and painfully open. He could feel his lungs sticking to the inside of his ribs. They were starting to seize up and slow him down. Specks of colour gathered at the corners of his eyes, and Farden could feel fatigue trying to drown him.
A heavy object banged against his side and made him wince. The Weight, he suddenly realised, Helyard’s Weight. Farden skidded to a halt and turned to face his pursuers. He grabbed the gold disk from his cloak pocket and looked at the symbols and lettering on its surface. The mage thumbed the raised lettering and tried to think straight, eying the shapes of running men that were slowly getting bigger and bigger. The Weight was warm, and felt hot in his sweaty palm. Farden’s heart pounded and his mind raced over options. He had to get back to Cheska, and warn Åddren or Farfallen. And Durnus, and Elessi, he had to protect them too. But this thing in his hand was dangerous and he would be no use to the others if he was dead.
Farden gritted his teeth and clenched his fingers around the gold Weight. He couldn’t hear a single thought amongst the fear shouting and bellowing inside his head. He tried to remember everything Vice had ever told him about the Weights, everything that Durnus had ever tried to teach him about quickdoors, how they were like liquid, you just have to pour in the right direction. The Weight was burning his hand. The old vampyre said it was about connection, drawing a picture, where you could be at one second is where you can also be in another place. Hot tears sprung to Farden’s eyes and he pushed the Weight in front of him. The gold thing shook and buckled, sending waves rippling through the air, cracks splitting the icy air of Dunwold as though it were a broken mirror. An arrow whistled past his ear like a falcon. The mage planted his tired feet into the ground and tried to bend all his being in to seeing one place. No thoughts no distractions. The Weight glowed and fractured the air, searing his hand and splitting the sky.
Everything stopped.
An arrow poised motionless in the air in front of him, dangling and hovering, slowly moving forward like a dagger through treacle.
The sound of their feet pounding on the grass and armour clanking rolled on forever, repeating and looping like a dull drone. A shout caught on the wind.
The mage watched it all for a split second, frozen like the ice fields, a painting that seems all too familiar and real. All of sudden there was a deafening crack and the air split in two, dragging Farden into the darkness and into oblivion.
The mage vanished into the shivering air and the arrow dug into the cold grass with a useless thud. In pure shock, the bald thug came to a grinding halt, breathless and stunned while the others kept running and looking around frantically with wide eyes. His mouth hung open with sort of a confused yet pained look, as if a ghost had just punched him in the stomach. It took a few moments for him to sink to all fours. Slowly, very slowly, his face began to turn a shade of purple, and he shook with frustration. The surrounding men quietly backed away.
With a guttural scream he slammed his knife into the grass. ‘Aaaaagh! Curse you Farden! Curse yer t’ all the gods!’
Hundreds of miles to the east the air cracked like a whip and split in two like a jagged gap in a window pane. There was a rushing, whooshing sound and then the shape of a bedraggled man appeared out of nothing. The figure flew through the air and crashed into a nearby wall with a terrible crunching sound.
Farden gasped for breath and tried to ignore the pain that had set his body on fire. What genius had put a wall here, he asked himself, nursing bruised ribs and a sizeable lump on his head. His arm throbbed with a numbing pain and he panted as he tried to lift himself to all fours. Farden scrabbled around at the base of the wall. It was getting difficult to breathe through the pain and the fatigue. He slumped to the warm grass and rolled onto his back. He opened his eyes and stared at the horizon. A nauseating dread suddenly gripped his heart when he couldn’t make sense of the upside-down mountains, but he quickly managed to steady his eyes and he found himself looking at the familiar countryside of Manesmark. Farden breathed the biggest sigh of relief of his life. He rolled over and lay spreadeagled. Blearily he watched the flakes of ash land on his cheek and open hand. He watched the flickering orange and yellow glow paint the ground a strange set of colours and wondered where Cheska was.
Ash.
Farden abruptly realised something was amiss and pushed himself to his shaky feet. He collapsed and fell once but the second time he found his balance and made it to his knees. A roaring and snapping sound became loud in his ears and he rocked back on his heels to look up at the orange sky.
Flames leapt from beam to beam, licking at the stonework and battlements of the Spire. They tore at the night sky with orange and red fingers, bursting through walls and stone like paper, a huge column of fire erupting from what was left of the blackened tower. With an enormous crash a section of beams fell inwards and sent a cloud of sparks and ash belching into the sky.
Farden rolled onto his side and dragged himself away from the blistering heat. He covered his face with his hands and crawled as far as he could before running out of breath. Above him dragons circled the tower, hauling blocks of ice and huge barrels of water into the sky and dropping them onto the burning wreckage. The clouds behind them were black and ominous and thick with smoke. It rained ash.
The mage stood aghast. Hot tears stung his eyes. The shouts of countless men could be heard from all around as survivors and bystanders were hauled out of the way. Farden could see water and ice mages standing in a long line near where the main atrium used to be, where the fire seemed to be fiercest and howled like an army of daemons. The mages were painted black with smoke yet they battled on stubbornly and threw spell after spell at the inferno. Somewhere under the blackened skeleton of the once-great Spire, amidst the flames, the dragon-scale bell clanged and shook mournfully like a death rattle. The mage stood silent and disbelieving, and he watched in horror as another floor crashed inwards and collapsed. A young soldier ran past him with a leather bucket of water and Farden grabbed him roughly before he could get away. The boy, barely old enough to be in the army by the look of him, froze as the bloodied and bruised stranger seized him by the neck. He looked into the man’s red-rimmed eyes.
‘What happened here?’ bellowed Farden.
The boy looked confused and stuttered nervously. ‘Er, the... fire, sir?’ he managed.
Farden shook him again. ‘Tell me what happened gods damn it!’
‘No one knows sir! It started last night... at the top of the Spire!’ Words escaped him and he stared fearfully at the man’s ripped clothes and wild face.
Farden’s heart froze with icy fear. ‘Was there anyone inside? Quickly boy!
‘E.. Everyone sir! All those who didn’t go to Albion with the others!’
The mage slowly let the young soldier go and sank to his knees once again. The boy looked confused and hesitated for a moment before running off towards the fire with his water, leaving Farden alone and silent on the hillside. Farden watched the blaze and let the orange and yellow flames burn into his eyes and the prickly heat wash over him, as if it would cure him of the pain that suddenly ached inside his chest. Cheska would have been in the very top room. Where Farden had been all those years ago for his Ritual. Where every Written went.
/> The mage felt tears run down his cheek. He put his head to the scorched grass and began to sob uncontrollably. Images of her trapped in a burning room and surrounded by fire sprang unbidden into his head. They taunted him cruelly with sick reality. Farden could see her beautiful blonde hair, scorched and charred like her face, could hear her smoke-choked screams. He felt a lump in his chest.
To his left he saw a small group of people that had been pulled from the fire. Their skin and clothes were black from smoke but healers were amongst them, going to and fro tending burns and handing out pitchers of ice water to stop the coughing. A desperate urgency grabbed him and lifted him from the ground. Farden broke into a limping run and hauled himself towards the pitiful group. He went from person to person and peered into their faces, trying to find a hint of cascading blonde hair. There was nobody, not a single one that even resembled her in the slightest. He circled the entire tower until he went back on himself. There was still no sign of Cheska. Defeated, the mage slumped to the grass. The roar of the fire seemed to die in his ears as sadness gripped him with cold hands.
High above him the dragons swooped and dove in and out of the plumes of smoke. Farden watched the flames dance over their iridescent scales, making the huge beasts sparkle and shine with oranges, reds, and bright, bright yellows. He saw Farfallen dive to drop an immense block of ice onto the towering pyre. The mage watched it crash through the blackened beams as it sent beams, bricks, and planks spinning. The Old Dragon shone like liquid gold in the light. Farden looked on as a mage nearer to the Spire was suddenly engulfed and swallowed by the flames. A handful of others dashed to the man’s aid, beating him with wet and steaming cloths. Another mage showered them all with a waterfall spell and kept the raging inferno at bay while they dragged his smoking body from the fire.
Even though he was surrounded by people Farden felt useless and isolated, like an island in a boiling sea. Grief and rage tore at his heart mercilessly. His only reason to keep going had been cruelly taken away, scorched to nothing, and left as ash in his hands. Farden shook with breathless sobs and put his face in the grass.
It was a grey morning when Farden awoke. It was freezing, and he felt like his limbs had been fused together at the joints, unable to move and painfully numb. The mage could feel the wet, and dewy ash covering his skin, so he moved a cold hand to wipe his face.
‘I didn’t think you would wake up for a few more hours,’ said a deep female voice from somewhere near him. Farden jumped slightly, but he opened his bloodshot eyes to find Brightshow staring down at him with a very concerned look. She was sat like a cat with her wings folded back neatly and her thick tail wrapped around her clawed feet. The spines running down her neck and back were now limp and leaned to the side like the branches of a willow.
‘At least I did wake up...’ he muttered darkly, and the dragon pretended not to hear. She looked away and up at the sky. Farden pushed himself up from the dirty grass and sat straight, feeling his spine and back crack in all sorts of places. The wound between his ribs momentarily flared with pain. ‘How long have you watched me?’ he asked.
‘Since we found you last night,’ replied Brightshow. She did not look at him.
The Spire was now a smouldering skeleton of its former glory. Barely a single floor high, the tower walls had fallen in and the wood had burned away to nothing, leaving the dead husk of a once-proud building. Cracked and blackened stones littered the hillside, and the bigger bits of burnt wood and charcoal were slowly being piled up by tired workers. Somewhere under the rubble the fires were still burning, and the tell tale wisps of smoke still rose into the overcast sky. The mage watched the people mill around. Some absently picked up burnt artefacts as if they would bring back those who had perished in the fire. Others scattered mountain flowers. Everyone looked the same: covered in soot and burns, tears running in rivers down ashen skin.
A dragon had died in the flames, perhaps caught in the collapsing tower, or suffocated by the thick smoke, Farden didn’t know. The green beast lay still and silent amongst a pile of rubble, where he noticed that a few people had laid flowers and wreaths for the Sirens. A rider lay prostrate on the ground next to him, a single hand pressed against the faded emerald scales of his cold dragon.
Farden looked to Brightshow, who eyes were wide and huge, gold flecked orbs of sadness and solemnity. ‘Did you know... Anyone? In the tower I mean?’ she asked.
The mage didn’t have any more tears to shed. ‘The only person I cared for,’ he replied hoarsely. Brightshow looked at the people gathered around the smoking ruin, ‘They could still be...’
‘She’s gone, I’ve looked.’ The reply was stony and cold, so she let the matter drop. Farden cast a look at the dead dragon lying amongst the stones. ‘I’m sorry...’ was all he managed to say.
‘We’re all angry Farden, and some of us lost more than others,’ she said, and the mage looked at the lonely rider kneeling by his dragon’s side. Farden nodded, and tried to understand, but all he could see in his mind was Cheska. His love trapped in a burning room at the top of a tall tower. Sorrow got caught in his throat for a moment, but he stubbornly swallowed the pain and got to his feet with resilience he didn’t know he had. Something gold caught his eye and he turned to see Farfallen and a smaller black dragon striding across the grass towards them. The Old Dragon wore a sombre look.
‘Grave times are upon us mage, and it is with a heavy heart that I greet you.’ He bowed his golden head for a moment, eyes closed, and then he sighed. ‘I sense a deep sadness in you Farden. I wish I could help,’ he said. The mage said nothing in reply and looked down at the ash-covered grass. Farfallen looked to Brightshow and she shook her head. If a dragon could shrug, then Farfallen did. He lifted a claw to point to the lithe dragon at his side. ‘This is Havenhigh, one of our youngest,’ he said.
The mage nodded to the lizard and turned to Farfallen. ‘What happened here?’
‘She will tell you, if you can stand to listen. There is an ill will behind the cause of the fire.’
Alarm bells rang in Farden’s head again, and he looked to Havenhigh. The black dragon had scales like mottled silk, sleek and dangerous. Her back was dotted with many curved spines and two long black barbels hung from her chin like a carp. Her forked tail swished back and forth restlessly. As she spoke Farden could see rows of teeth lining the inside of her narrow jaw.
‘This morning I saw two bodies piled near the other side of the Spire. They were scorched and burned with something more than just fire, the holes in their breastplates told me as much. I spoke to one of your men, a soldier, and he said they had been pulled from the tower, but by who he didn’t say,’ Havenhigh said. Her voice was sibilant, and her words rattled strangely.
Brightshow looked confused. ‘What does this mean?’ she asked.
‘It means...’ the Old Dragon started. But Farden was already speaking.
‘It means that somebody started this fire,’ the mage said, eyes downcast and searching the grass. His cold words were like rocks dropped from a tall cliff. ‘Are you sure about what you saw?’ he asked, fixing the black dragon with an intent stare.
Havenhigh nodded eagerly and her spines wobbled. ‘The bodies of the two men should still be there, your townspeople haven’t cleared anything away yet.’
The mage was already leaving. He marched across the wet grass towards the other side of the Spire. Storm clouds of dark thoughts and blame gathered in his mind as he walked. He could hear the dragons following close at his heels. They were as silent as he was and just as purposeful. Brightshow and Farfallen swapped glances.
Within minutes they came upon the first pile of bodies, heaped shoulder-high and in grotesque positions at the base of what used to be the Spire. Their pace, even Farden’s, slowed a little as they saw the piles. The mage looked at the collection of figures. Some were charred beyond recognition, others seemed wax-like, with their eyes open and faces painted black and grey. Even his battle-hardened stomach twitched a bit
; the smell was sickening when it mingled with the acidic charcoal taste that lingered in the air.
‘Havenhigh! Where are they?’ he called to her.
The lithe dragon scanned the repulsive scene with her grey eyes and pursed her lips in annoyance. She took a few moments to move around the piles, looking for a glint of armour. Something gold and white caught her keen eyes and she shouted to the others.
‘Here!’ she hissed.
Farden was first to reach her. Part of him hoped the fire had just been some terrible accident, but the other part, the darker part, boiled with frustration. This was no accident, it was the next notch on the mysterious blade behind all of this. Farden just wanted to find the invisible hand that wielded it. He stood by the dragon’s side, looking at the two bodies on the ground. They barely resembled men at all, but Farden only saw the jagged holes in their armour. Kneeling, he ran a finger across the scarred and molten surface of the breastplates and looked at how the gold was puckered and cracked. He stood up and sighed.
‘This one on the left was hit by a fire bolt. The other there, see how the hole is less charred and smaller? That’s spark magick,’ Farden said quietly.
‘Then this was murder, and the fire was no accident,’ Farfallen voiced what all the others were thinking. The great dragon sighed. ‘We must take this to Åddren immediately.’
Farden looked at the dead guards lying in the wet grass. Their wide eyes were frozen in their last seconds. He thought only of Cheska. ‘I think I know someone that could tell us what happened here, if we asked him right,’ he growled. Keep an eye on the weather he thought. He would do more than just keep an eye on it. The mage let a moody flame burn in his palm for a moment before extinguishing it in a clenched fist with a hiss. Farden looked Farfallen in the eye. ‘You go see the Arkmage, I’m going to pay someone little visit.’