The Written

by Ben Galley

  ‘I’ve asked you not to call me that before,’ said Farden in a dangerous tone. He sipped his wine again. ‘Been busy,’ he added.

  ‘Hmm, so I ‘ear,’ the man chuckled again. The sound made Farden feel uncomfortable. ‘What’s the matter?’ he grinned. ‘Nevermar’s got yer tongue?’ The beggar laughed his little snake laugh and shuffled out of his seat shakily. ‘I seen your room already, I’ll be in number nine, if ye fancy tryin’ some more.’ He tottered his way to the stairs and disappeared into the shadows of the upstairs corridor. Farden sighed. His thoughts spoke all at once, clamouring somewhere between his ears. The mage sipped at his wine, feigning calm, and simply stared into the crackling fire.

  Half an hour later, when the warmth of the wine had worked its way to his head, Farden found himself striding eagerly up the well-trodden stairs of the Bearded Goat and looking at the ascending numbers of the doors. In the dim candlelight he found the room and knocked quietly, looking down the hallway for any onlookers. The corridor was silent and empty

  There was a sound from behind the door and the click of a cheap-sounding lock. An ugly face peered from behind the door and grinned. Farden nodded silently and followed the beggar into the room. Strange that a beggar could afford to stay at the inn, he thought. Maybe he got lucky with a drunk noble. Farden shrugged. He tried not to think of the last night he had spent in a room like this.

  The room in question smelled stale, like old shoes mixed with damp, or that earthy smell of dirt. Farden watched the snowflakes outside slip-sliding down the windowpane to join their friends in the street. The city was slowly being covered in a white blanket. Maybe it was a new beginning, he thought, a blank canvas for tomorrow.

  The man toyed with a big bag of something on the bed, coughing and murmuring to himself as he rummaged. Gods the man was ugly, thought Farden. In the orange glow from outside he looked like a scrawny rat, bereft of whiskers or tail but just as twitchy. After a short while he cackled softly and produced a long pipe from the folds of his bags. Farden fidgeted.

  ‘ ‘Ere it is, knew I ‘ad it somewhere. Light the fire would yew boy?’ said the beggar with a cheeky grin. Farden bit his tongue and went to the fireplace. He crouched low and hunched over so the man couldn’t get the gratification of watching the spell. Flame trickled from his fingers and licked at the pile of dry wood. The orange flames hopped from one log to the other like a disease and slowly the fireplace began to smoke and crackle.

  The old beggar stooped beside the mage and held the end of the long leaf in the flames until it started to smoke and glow. ‘Take a seat,’ he said. Farden could smell his rotten breath. He stood up and pulled a threadbare armchair closer to the fire as the old man took a short stool. He grinned his little rodent smile as his seat wobbled unsteadily beneath him. He puffed on the pipe and the sickly-sweet smell began to tickle Farden’s nostrils.

  ‘I ‘ear yew were in Nelska, with them dragon-riders,’ said the beggar. The mage shuffled around uncomfortably in his chair. This old man knew entirely too much about his business. ‘You hear a lot, old man,’ he said.

  ‘That I do, when my ears still work, heh. Not dead yet then I see?’

  The mage gave the man a stony look. ‘No apparently not.’ This old beggar was starting to worry him a little. Farden didn’t trust him one bit, but he couldn’t help eying the pipe in the man’s claw-like hand. At that moment he shuffled forward on his little stool and pulled his patchwork cloak around his shoulders. Jabbing the air with the bowl of the pipe he pointed to Farden’s side, where something strange was happening in his pocket. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  Farden looked down, confused, and saw a dim glow coming from the inside pocket of his black cloak. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied, and reached to fish out whatever it was. It was the daemonstone and even though it was still wrapped in the thin paper it shone and sparkled with a whitish yellow glow. Farden held it in the palm of his hand and blinked slowly. It felt cold in his hand. ‘That’s odd.’

  The old beggar shook his head and sniffed loudly. ‘Don’t look safe t’ me. Put it away,’ he said with narrowed eyes. Farden pretended not to hear him and unwrapped the corner of the paper. The brassy gold rock was definitely glowing. He leaned forward and it got brighter still and each of its metallic facets sparkled with pinpricks of white light. Farden wrapped it back up again and held it tightly in his hand. The light shone from between his fingers like one of his light spells.

  The beggar sucked his teeth and leaned back on his stool. ‘Put it away mage. Ain’t natural I say. Glowin’ rocks.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said, and he couldn’t help but think how much Cheska would have liked her present. He sighed and stuffed the daemonstone back in his pocket. He kept his hand on it. Smoke curled up from the pipe as the beggar puffed on it once again. The fire crackled quietly next to them and Farden found himself staring at the smouldering nevermar. The beggar watched the mage’s eyes and smiled knowingly. He held out his hand. ‘Try some, it’s different to the last lot,’ he offered.

  Farden took the pipe in his hand and watched it burn for a little bit. Grim thoughts shouted loudly in his head. ‘You know what happens if you tell anyone about this don’t you?’ he warned the beggar. He shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. ‘I know I know for gods’ sake, won’t tell a soul.’

  The mage watched the thing hovering between his fingers. Trying to justify it was like trying to wrestle a troll. Farden sighed.

  ‘Are yew goin’ t’ smoke it or kiss it mage?’ hissed the beggar, a little impatiently.

  Farden glared at him. ‘I said don’t call me that.’

  ‘Well we ain’t got all night boy! Yew goin’ to smoke it or not?’

  ‘Fine.’ said Farden. He handed him back the pipe and eyed the man with a defiant look. With a grunt he stood up and pulled his hood over his head. ‘I think it’s time I left.’

  The beggar scowled. ‘Smoke it,’ his eyes flashed with anger.

  ‘Forget it old man,’ said Farden, he shoved the armchair out of his way and marched for the door. And then a shout stopped him dead. A shout in a voice he knew very well indeed.

  ‘Farden!’

  The mage whirled around to see a different man in the room. The beggar rose slowly from his stool, shaking and groaning as he did so as if he were fighting to keep his limbs still. The man seemed to stretch before Farden’s eyes and his black clicked and groaned audibly. His skin shimmered and warped. Years and lines fell from his face like leaves from a tree and his eyes glowed with a sudden dangerous fire. The man threw off his dirty cloak and flexed his arms and fingers. His yellow and black teeth gradually slipped to a whiter shade and they flashed with a snake’s grin. The daemonstone glowed brightly in Farden’s pocket.

  Vice threw the pipe into the fire with a contemptuous snort and watched Farden back up against the door. The mage was aghast, mouth wide open and gaping in disbelief. He stared wide-eyed at his friend of many years, the Vice he had known since his first day at the School, when he had been twelve years old. He wanted to laugh as if it were some sort of sick joke, but the humour was lost somewhere behind that lump in his throat. ‘You?’ It was all Farden could manage. His world shattered in front of him.

  The Undermage picked at something under his nails and chuckled. ‘That’s what Helyard said. You should think yourself lucky I didn’t come while you were sleeping,’ he said.

  Rage began to boil in the mage’s heart and he could feel the white heat along his spine and shoulders. ‘After all this time, you were right here under my nose?’ Farden clenched his fists until his hands went pale. His stomach churned sickeningly and realisation slowly became a knot in his heart.

  Vice clicked his fingers together. ‘I’m not here to talk Farden. But as usual you take a while to grasp the obvious.’ The smile had disappeared from Vice’s face and had been replaced by thin lips and a fiery look in his hazel eyes. ‘I suppose your stupidity knows no bounds.’

  The mage bl
inked, unused to the tears that had suddenly gathered beneath his wide eyes. ‘Neither does your treachery!’ shouted Farden and he slammed his wrists together with a loud clang. Fire swirled around his fists like a yellow hurricane, burning and hissing with a dragon’s roar. Farden cried out, all words forgotten, just pure anger and vengeance came from his throat. He lunged and opened his hands and the fireball leapt across the room. But Vice was ready for it. He threw his hands up in front of him, blade-like, and the fireball slammed into an invisible shield inches before it threatened to consumed him. The flames exploded against the Undermage’s spell with a blinding flash and a roar. The yellow fire billowed around him. Still Vice smiled confidently with his sneering grin. Farden shook with anger. He stormed across the room with his hands held high. Lightning flickered and crackled between his fingers.

  But Vice was still ready. He spun and dropped to his knees, and jabbed the air. Farden collapsed in abrupt pain and completely doubled over. He had never felt a spell like it. He stumbled against the bed and threw out a hand to steady himself, trying to find breath. The arrow wound between his ribs burned with agony and he looked up to find the Undermage towering over him. Green light shimmered over his knuckles. Farden saw what was about to happen and dove to the side just as Vice dropped his fist like a hammer. Fortunately he struck empty floor but the shockwave cracked the floorboards and the fireplace split in two.

  The brave mage was already on his feet and standing behind the Undermage. He seized his narrow opportunity and brought his knee straight up into Vice ribs, and then he grabbed him roughly by the neck. Sparks coursed along the Undermage’s body and he went rigid, crying out suddenly. Lightning shivering over his skin.

  ‘Taste of your own medicine, Vice? Like the scholars at Arfell?!’ shouted Farden.

  Vice threw an elbow in Farden’s face, forcing the mage to break his hold and stumbled backwards. He laughed, and a curved knife appeared in his hands, glinting evilly in the firelight. Farden wiped blood from his lip and backed off. He watched his opponent’s hands warily as they moved through the air. The dirty silver blade waved back and forth slowly, calculatedly. That familiar grin curled at the corner of his mouth again, the one Farden had known for over half his life. Vice spat. ‘You think you’re any different, Farden? Any better than the old men who died at my hand, better than those Siren soldiers or that old fool the Arkmage? I can dispatch you all as easily as insects.’ The two of them circled warily, each trying to force the other into a corner. ‘I have watched you systematically ruin your life ever since you uncle died. And let me tell you one thing Farden, you are no different from him whatsoever. The temper, the nevermar, the voices in your head, you’re both as bad and as useless as eachother And what about that pretty girl in the Spire? That Skölgard girl. What was she called again?’ laughed Vice.

  ‘Don’t you fucking dare speak her name!’ bellowed Farden.

  ‘That one you loved so much. Did you think nobody would notice Farden?’ The knife flashed briefly and the blade weaved through the air like a cobra. ‘She was so easy to get rid of anyway, after all the confusion of the Ritual, and the fire finished her off for me,’ said Vice with an evil sneer.

  Something inside Farden snapped. With a growl of pure animalistic fury he punched the air above his head with his hands, arms tensed and shaking, fingers bent like claws. The mage shivered and strained, as if he were pulling on the sky, feeling power he had not felt since the Sarunn. A rumbling came from below the room, slow at first, but building quickly, until the floor started to shake and rattle violently beneath their boots. Farden’s eyes burned with a vengeful fire, fixed on the Undermage, and he shook as the magick pulsed in his veins as though his blood boiled. Vice began to back away cautiously, a different expression now on his face

  Time stopped once again, just for a second, as though a moment lasted an hour. The snow froze in midair outside the window. The dust hovered in the room. Still and sparkling.

  Then a roar came, a deafening, ear-splitting scream from below them that drowned out the world. Suddenly the floor between them burst into a thousand pieces, as if a volcano had suddenly erupted in the bar. With a blinding flash of searing flame a white-hot pillar of fire tore up through the room and into the ceiling. It blasted the chairs to nothing and turned the door to splinters, ripping through the roof of the inn as if it were no more than a pile of sticks. The bed was catapulted against the wall and the broken fireplace was reduced to a pile of charred bricks in seconds. Both men flew backwards and tried desperately to escape the flames.

  The noise was terrifying. The windows exploded under the pressure and sent shards of glass spinning around the room. The mage shielded his face and eyes with his vambraces and scrambled up against the wall behind him to try and get away from the heat. The column of fire now spun like a relentless tornado and tore at the ceiling and walls with teeth made from flames and claws of blinding heat and smoke.

  But the spell was slowly waning, Farden could feel it in his hands, and the shivering power slowly began to subside. Between the gaps in his fingers he spied Vice crawling over bits of bed and broken glass towards the cold air outside. The Undermage hopped onto the windowsill and with a quick jump he disappeared into the snow-streaked sky.

  Farden gritted his teeth and got to his feet. Tiredness was trying to creep into his arms and legs once again but the rage in his chest stubbornly moved him forward. He skirted the dwindling flames and dashed to the window. The cold air slapped him hard in the face as he leant far over the window ledge and peered into the blizzard. A crowd of people had gathered outside the inn to gape at the fire that billowed from the roof and snapped at the snow-laden sky. The street had been washed of all other colours and turned a bright array of oranges and yellows. Flames dancing on snow. Bits of charred wood and cracked tiles were falling from clouds and littering the street like a strange new type of precipitation. The mage scanned the gawking faces below him and tried to steady his pounding breath. For a brief moment Farden savoured the freezing air in his lungs, but just then he spied a figure hurrying through the crowd, hood up and escaping. Farden grabbed the window frame, ignored the razor-sharp glass tearing at his palms, hoisted himself up, and with a grunt leapt from the room to the dark street below.

  The mage landed hard on the icy cobbles and rolled to avoid breaking his ankles. He was on his feet in seconds. Farden barged through the crowd amidst shouts and angry cries. Vice had already broken free of the throng and was making his way further up the street and further into the city. Farden yelled to the bewildered people in his way. ‘Get out of the way! Move!’

  Up ahead half a dozen soldiers rounded the corner and stood barring the way. Thunderstruck they stared at the fire pouring from the roof of the inn. Farden shouted to them. ‘Traitor! Stop him!’

  The armoured men broke into a run, heading towards the crowd and towards the hooded Vice. The Undermage scowled: he wasn’t about to waste any time dealing with mere soldiers. Vice skidded to a grinding halt and stamped his foot hard in the snow. A wave rippled through the cobbles as if they were marbles floating on a sea and a bubble seemed to expand outwards from him with a dull throbbing sound. The snow scattered in a sudden wind and the soldiers met an invisible brick wall. Their feet flew out from under them as they crashed to the ground with cries of shock. Panic filled the street. The crowd dispersed in all directions. Every one of them screamed and yelled at the top of their lungs.

  But a single shout rose above the rest. ‘Vice!’

  The Undermage turned slowly and carefully, eyes smiling with a confident air. Vice chuckled mockingly. ‘See you at Carn Breagh,’ he yelled and he let the words sink in. Then, as fast as lightning, the Undermage moved to grab something from inside his cloak. Farden sprinted forward but before he even got close there was a flash of bright gold and suddenly Vice was gone, leaving the air to shiver and pulse behind him as if he had folded into nothing.

  ‘No no no!’ Farden slipped and fell to the cold ground
and stared in horror at the empty air. The snowfall became gentle, the wind had died, and a strange quiet fell on the streets. The mage put his forehead to the snow for a moment, fists clenched and frustrated, cheated of his revenge once more. He rolled onto his knees and stayed there and all he could do was stare dazedly at his surroundings. Feet squelched in the wet snow as a few people ran past him, back to their homes and away from the mayhem and the fire. Ahead the soldiers slowly picked themselves up and shook the dizziness from their heads. One still lay unconscious. Farden stared blankly into space and tried to calm himself with deep breaths. Pain slowly crept back into his body and replaced the adrenaline. The deep cuts from the glass in his hands oozed. Farden watched the droplets of blood drip down his fingers and land on the white snow, making little red flowers as they seeped in and froze. He could feel people watching him, he could hear them deciding it was better to leave him be. The fury still burned in his eyes, he could feel it. His clothes were smoking and charred and his face and arms were a patchwork of old scars and fresh bruises. Farden didn’t blame them, he wouldn’t have approached him either.

  A trumpeting sound broke his reverie but still he couldn’t move, finding himself ever more numbed by shock. The sound of wings beating the air grew loud, and Farden lifted his face to the orange-smeared sky, letting the snowflakes land gently on his hot skin.

  There were a few loud thuds from behind him that shook the cobblestones under his knees, and then a scraping of scales and claws on stone. Farden watched the soldiers, eyes wide and nervous, back away and drag their unconscious friend with them. They stared at something behind Farden. A familiar booming voice called to him and echoed through the street, and the mage sighed.

  ‘Farden!’

  He rose, feeling his ribs complain to him again, grumbling and arguing that he should stay where he was in the snow. Behind him Farfallen stood with the big red dragon Towerdawn. Only Svarta was there with them. She stood with her arms folded and shaking her head as usual. Farfallen wore a concerned expression on his golden face.