The Written

by Ben Galley

  The mage slowly walked to meet them. ‘I thought it wouldn’t be long until you spotted the fire,’ said Farden quietly, regarding the destruction he had caused at the inn. It seemed like everyone had escaped the fire unharmed but sadly the Bearded Goat was no more; his favourite inn had been replaced by a smoking shell of a building, roof half gone and fallen in, now no more than a smoking mess of rubble, tiles, doors, and glass lying broken in the street. A handful of patrons, the soldier, the other men, and the innkeeper, stood shivering and confused in the snow. Every eye was fixed on the two huge dragons that had squeezed themselves into the narrow street. Their wings knocked gently against the drainpipes and the gutters.

  ‘It seems that wherever we find destruction and chaos, we find you,’ Svarta cast a glance at the smouldering inn behind her.

  ‘It’s not like I plan these things.’ said Farden. He wiped his bloody hands on his cloak and shunned the pain.

  ‘What happened here?’ asked Farfallen. In the light of the flames the dragon’s scales shimmered and glittered. The mage took a deep breath and looked him squarely in his big golden eyes. ‘It was Vice,’ he said. His words rang like cold steel.

  The Old Dragon’s spines rippled and his back arched like a cat. ‘Vice?’ the name was a dark growl in his throat.

  ‘I’ve been so blind!’ Farden cursed and clenched his cold fists. ‘It’s been him along, this whole time! Helyard, that book from Arfell, your Sirens,’ and the most painful of all, ‘the Spire, all him!’

  ‘All this time? You never even suspected him?’ Svarta’s face was the perfect picture of blame.

  ‘You’re the one who was so eager to condemn Helyard in the first place! Don’t you dare lecture me. Vice has been my friend for years!’ Farden eyed her with a dangerous look, daring her to carry on talking. The Siren queen scowled straight back at him and flicked her hair moodily.

  The mage’s fingers crept to the place where the gold disk hid in his cloak pocket. ‘I have the Weight, I can get to him before any of you and stop him,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be a fool, you wouldn’t even get close,’ scoffed Svarta.

  ‘Are you doubting me?’ snapped Farden.

  ‘That’s enough!’ snarled Farfallen impatiently. It was the first time Farden had seen the dragon so angry. ‘We have to stop him, now, and put an end to all of this once and for all. Evil such as him does not deserve to live any longer. Where is he now?’

  ‘He escaped using a Weight, probably Åddren’s,’ Farden kicked at snow and let the frustration froth inside him.

  ‘He’s gone?’ asked Towerdawn.

  Svarta was incredulous. ‘You let him go?!’ she spat.

  Farden took a few steps forward and squared up to her, mere inches from her scaly face. She was unnaturally tall up close. Her yellow eyes glared straight back at him. ‘I swear to the gods, Svarta, one more...’ he growled.

  ‘I said that’s ENOUGH! Both of you back down! How does this help us now?’ Farfallen’s voice boomed and echoed loudly, and the two slowly separated. ‘I’ll ask you again, where is this foul worm?’

  Farden sighed. ‘Carn Breagh in Albion, north of Beinnh. It seems the bastard has deceived us once again.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Svarta glared.

  ‘Don’t you realise? There is no dark elf well near Kiltyrin and Fidlarig, there never was! Vice has been planning to release his monster at Carn Breagh all along, not anywhere near to where we thought he would be. By sending the army south he’s left the Arka trapped and powerless to fight back. It would take four or five days hard march before the other Written could reach him.’

  ‘And then it would be too late, by the sounds of it,’ offered Towerdawn. His red eyes glinted in the gloom. The dragon sniffed the cold air. ‘Something doesn’t feel right,’

  ‘We have to stop him,’ Farden reminded them stubbornly. ‘He has taken everything from us. I will not let him get away!’

  Farfallen held up a patient claw. ‘But how do you know he has gone to Carn Breagh?’

  ‘He said it just before he escaped,’ replied the mage.

  The two dragons swapped glances and Svarta nodded quietly, deep in thought but still scowling, staring down at the snow. ‘It doesn’t feel right,’ repeated Towerdawn. Farfallen simply hung his head and closed his eyes and searched for the answer. They all knew what it meant. The word trap silently hung unsaid in the air around them, with more than a tinge of dread about it.

  ‘We have no other choice,’ muttered Farden.

  ‘It’s organised suicide, even with all our dragons,’ Svarta asserted quickly.

  Towerdawn’s crimson face was etched with concern. ‘We are not seriously considering this...’ his question drifted off.

  Farfallen opened his eyes and shook the snow from his spines. ‘The mage is right. We have no choice. Vice must be stopped at all costs, and even if it takes our lives we have to end this as quickly as possible.’ The Old Dragon let the words sink in before carrying on. ‘Towerdawn, assemble all our forces immediately. We have no time to warn the Arka and I doubt they would believe us anyway, not after what happened with Arkmage Helyard. Send two of our fastest, Havenhigh and another, one to Nelska and one to the rest of the dragons in Kiltyrin, we will need all the help we can get. If you want to see this through Farden then you can ride with Brightshow, her rider is in Albion with the others.’ The mage simply nodded, but Farfallen could see the zeal burning from behind his eyes and clamping his jaw tight. The mage looked crushed. Blood oozed from his hands and trickled along his knuckles. He looked like he had when they had first met after the shipwreck. Farfallen could see the little dragonscale amulet hiding under the collar of his tunic, and he wondered how much luck the mage had left.

  ‘May the gods fly alongside us tonight,’ said the Old Dragon.

  Within half an hour the dragons were tearing through the snowy skies. Their wings pounded the turbulent air and their tails swished and whistled across the cloudtops. Once they had cleared the thick snow storm they soared through the crisp air between the clouds and the stars. The bright moon shimmered across their scales and turned everything a different shade of silver, monochrome scales glistening under the stars.

  Farfallen was out in front. Both he and Svarta had their eyes fixed on the horizon with resolute determination frozen on their windswept faces. The Old Dragon felt something stirring in him he hadn’t felt in a long time. Svarta sensed it, and let her mind entwine with his, each of them mentally preparing themselves for the task ahead. Behind them almost fifty dragons wore the same expression, their riders armed to the teeth and ready to face anything that reared its ugly head. Every single one of them knew the stakes, the costs, and what might await them at Carn Breagh.

  Farden pulled himself as close to Brightshow as he could. Using only his spells to keep him warm he desperately tried to breathe through the rushing air. The sick feeling of looking down still hadn’t gone since his last flight so he had resigned himself to not looking at all, and just concentrated on conserving his strength. His eyes were sealed tight. Farden felt every single move of the dragon’s body underneath him, every sinuous dip and twitch of her wings and tail as she snaked through the skies at their breakneck speed. Farden dug his feet deeper into the saddle to try and remove the ache at the bottom of his spine.

  Doubt clouded the mage’s mind, coupled with an uneasy uncertainty about facing Vice again. Everything he had ever learned had come from Vice and that made him twice as dangerous as any other foe. And now it appeared that the Undermage was adept at the dark art of shapeshifting. Farden wondered who or what he really was. There seemed to be something different about Vice now as if he were a different person altogether. It was as if the magick he used was older, more ancient, like Farfallen’s. Farden had never known spells like his, and who knew what else he had hidden up his robe. Not to mention that the whole thing, his whole plan, seemed too precise too clockwork. Towerdawn had spoken the truth: nothing seemed right about
this. But they were bereft of choices and they had been funnelled into a lack of options with the odds stacked against them. If Jergan had been right about the manual then they were all about to face up to the most terrifying creature Emaneska had ever seen. The mage tried to force confidence into his thoughts and warmth into his fingers. He trusted in his skills, after all he was the best Written there was, and if anyone could take Vice down it was him. After the summoning the Undermage was bound to be weakened. Farden repeated that like a mantra.

  A heavy sword rattled and jangled between his shoulders, a loan from one of the other riders. To replace the vial of ice water he had lost the Sirens had given him a tiny bottle of a dark red liquid they had called syngur. The strange stuff was constantly warm and tasted of sickly spices with a strange underlying fish taste. Farden could still feel the stuff burning his stomach, but it was helping the spells to keep him warm. He counted the hours until they would arrive above Carn Breagh.

  Chapter 18

  “Let it not be said that Farden is just simply skilled; the man is far and above any mage I have yet to encounter. Despite their downfalls, he is of a powerful family, a pure breed. Whatever the Scribe wrote into his Book awoke a magick beast inside him. I’ve never seen a mage withstand such draining as he does, nor wield such huge spells with ease. It’s a shame he ruins of all it with his anger, his battle-rage if you will, the red mist that has gotten him into trouble and danger many times before. Just look at what happened in Huskar after he killed the chieftain’s son in that fist fight, all for some ridiculous wager. If Farden learnt to turn his anger into concentration, he would be greater than the Arkmages, and if that’s treason you can hang me for it.”

  Taken from the diary of Durnus Glassren

  Dawn was slowly breaking over Albion, pale shades of red, orange, and yellow smudged the skies in the east as the first hints of the winter sun dared to creep over the horizon. A slight fog hung in the morning air. Thick snow covered everything. It had moulded the landscape into a rolling white sculpture of itself, a simple mess of rolling mounds and sleight bumps hidden under a crisp blanket. The trees were heavy with snow and the weak morning light made them sparkle like clusters of countless little diamonds.

  Carn Breagh squatted quietly on its grey-white hill, unassuming and peaceful. The ruined walls were draped in snow and glistened with the icicles that hung from their ancient ramparts. Its quiet exterior belied the malicious activities deep within the castle.

  Far beneath the dripping stone, under the solid rock floors, where not even the rats would go, where the torches struggled to burn through the darkness, Vice pored over a small dragonscale book. He gripped the stone wall tightly and let the magick speak to him and echo in the dark corners of his mind. Figures scurried around behind him, hurrying around and preparing things. Dark soldiers in fire-blackened armour stood in the shadows, only the glint of their spears giving them away. Someone drummed their nails on the stone behind the Undermage and shattered his concentration.

  ‘How long Vice?’ they asked.

  Vice sighed, and closed his eyes in quiet frustration. ‘If I was left to my own devices, instead of being bothered, then I might get it done quicker’

  ‘You’re taking too l...’

  ‘Quiet! Keep yourself hidden like I said,’ shouted Vice, and the person behind him huffed in annoyance. The Undermage listened to the sound of their footsteps receding into the shadows. Vice shook his head and watched the buzz of activity around him with narrowed eyes. All was going to plan. He found himself gazing back into the thick darkness of the huge well that took up the entire centre of the room. The shadows lurking in the stone-lined pit were impossibly dark, a matte black darkness that sucked out the light. It was bottomless, unfathomably deep. Vice heard the whispering of the magick from the little black manual calling to him again and gently he ran his fingers across the spidery script without tearing his eyes from the well.

  There was an abrupt bang, and then a dull thud somewhere deep beneath them. A shout rang out. ‘Lord Vice, we’re ready!’

  ‘Good,’ he muttered to himself, and then he swept from the lectern holding the book with his thumb in the page. With his cloak billowing behind him he strode around the pillared walkway that overlooked the great well. His jaw was set proud and confident. He made his way past the others standing in their positions. Vice looked at everyone with an intense, piercing hazel gaze, watching their pale faces melt into a mixture of fear and uncertainty. Weaklings, Vice thought scornfully, quivering like children. All they had to do was stay alive, he snorted.

  The Undermage made his way to the small pulpit that perched on the far edge of the dark pit. From there he could lean over and gaze down into the depths and concentrate all the magick into one spot. Vice placed the manual on a stone lectern and let his fingers wander over the pages, peering through the shadows at the script. He took a long breath and tried to empty his mind. With his eyes closed he could hear the magick starting to shiver and pulse, the others shuffling and waiting, the heightened sense of everything around him. This was it, he thought, everything leaned on this moment. He had spent too long in hiding, too long pandering to these mere mortals.

  There was a sudden creak of a thick oak door and a yell came from the back of the hall and broke the anxious silence. ‘Undermage!’ All eyes turned to the soldier standing in the torchlight near the doorway. ‘They’re here!’ he called.

  The tiniest of smiles might have curled at the corner of Vice’s mouth, but it was too dark to see it. He simply nodded and looked around the circular room. ‘Let’s give them a welcome they’ll never forget,’ said the Undermage, and they sprang to do his bidding. Vice spread his hands across the summoning manual and put an index finger to the two keys at the corner of the page, the ones that the old Arfell scholars had pointed out to him. A shudder of excitement ran through him. Looking into the impenetrable darkness of the well beneath him he whispered the pivotal words.

  ‘Hear me,’ he hissed, and there was a faint rumble from below.

  High in the atmosphere, where the air grew thin, a swarm of dragons wheeled and circled above the snowy countryside that was spread below them like a rather realistic map. The sun was now crouching on the horizon, a pale yellow disk that peered into the morning mists. The snow sparkled even from that height.

  Farden rubbed his cold hands together furiously and battled the twists and turns of Brightshow’s body with his tired legs. He looked down through the hazy fog and scattered clouds at the tiny ruin below him and cursed to himself, suddenly regretting their decision to come. A dark feeling of dread unfurled inside him. The mage could hear Farfallen yelling to his captains, Towerdawn, Glassthorn, and a huge dragon named Clearhallow who had two riders, one of which looked like Eyrum, armoured up and holding a gigantic hammer-headed axe in one hand.

  Farfallen looked at his swarm of dragons, and Farden was sure he could see him smiling. The golden dragon rippled and shone in the dawn light, battling the air with powerful strokes of his wings to hover in one place. He took a breath to speak. ‘I will not waste our precious time with heavy-handed words and long speeches! I do no have to remind any of you how dangerous this will be, nor of how high the stakes are. All I can ask is that you remember that we are the first and the last line of defence against this beast. Not since the time of the elves and the gods have we faced such a monstrous foe, such “mouths of darkness”. Well I see plenty of mouths here today, hungry mouths filled with teeth, strong claws and wings, brave hearts and strong arms holding sharp weapons! Let us show this ancient beast that things have changed in Emaneska, that we are in charge now!’

  A mighty roar followed the Old Dragon’s words and there was a loud metallic screech of metal as scores of weapons were unsheathed and waved in the air. Farden grabbed his own sword and yanked it free. The razor-sharp blade flashed briefly in the sun’s rays as he yelled and shouted. Every dragon snarled and unhinged their jaws and spurts of flame darted from their mouths. It felt exh
ilarating.

  With another roar Farfallen folded his wings back and pointed his spiny head to the ground. His body seemed to hover in mid-air for a split second before he suddenly dropped like a stone and plummeted through the air at a frightening speed.

  ‘Hold on Farden!’ Brightshow yelled, and in one single dreadfully sickening moment every single dragon tucked their wings to their sides like falcons and plunged into the mists. Farden grabbed on for dear life. The air screamed past his ears like banshees and his heart was pounding frantically in his throat. His insides felt like they were trying to escape from his body and they lurched up and down as though his stomach was fighting his lungs. The mage pressed himself against Brightshow’s back and tried desperately to close his eyes, but something inside him couldn’t tear itself away from the terrifying ride.

  The whole room pulsated and shook with energy. The well was making a deep thrumming sound as if a hammer was striking a drum in its depths, slowly getting faster and louder and gathering momentum for its final terrifying crescendo. Vice shook with the strain of the spell and kept his eyes on the darkness below, feeling the magick swell up from his fingers to his lips as they moved and spoke silent, unfamiliar words. Something was waking up at the roots of the world.

  The Undermage was quickly reaching the end of the page, the final hurdle and the most dangerous part of the spell. He could hear the deep booming sounds getting louder. His head throbbed. The whole of Carn Breagh vibrated under the pressure and the walls groaned and bent awkwardly as if they were being squeezed by giant hands. Vice’s breath came in laboured gasps. The well pulled at him, thick darkness trying to drag him over the edge of the pulpit and down into the shadows. He braced himself against the stone with a spare hand. He could hear the final few words shouting inside his skull, yelling at him and fighting the deep pounding noise from the well. A sudden wind gusted around the room, blowing out the torches and plunging the hall into darkness. Vice strained and pushed. His heart was beating so fast that it seemed to stand still, like the wings of a hummingbird, like the seconds grinding to a halt around them. The noise was deafening.