Dead Stars - Part One (The Emaneska Series)

by Ben Galley

  Beyond and below her the city was spread out like a long bed of yellow coals. She had stared at the view for what felt like an hour, and now that her eyes had glazed over with deep thought, the scenery had melted into a single blur of black, bespattered with glowing whites and shades of gold.

  Ilios slumbered behind her. As a creature of the desert, he was used to sleeping outside. He loved the fresh air. The Nest was perfect for him.

  At first, Elessi had been petrified of the beast, but Tyrfing had shown her how gentle and calm he could be, and she had grown to trust him. In fact, she had grown to treat him like a big and clumsy cat, often scolding him for leaving feathers and fur all over the place, or getting claw marks on the marble, or generally getting in the way. Only Elessi could treat a gryphon like that. Only harmless Elessi could get away with it.

  Harmless. That word was so closely tied to pushover. She pulled a face at that. Elessi had come up to the roof to be alone with her thoughts. She had many of them to keep her company.

  Another hour of staring and cold wind passed, and finally Elessi turned to leave. As she left, she patted the big beast on the ridge of his dangerous beak, making his tufted ears twitch. Silently, the maid descended the cold steps to the tower beneath, and then down into the silent, dark, and apparently empty great hall. It was not as empty as she thought.

  As she paused by the Underthrone to wipe a patch of dust from its marble arm, a hoarse voice startled her.

  ‘For most maids, I would say it is a little late for cleaning duties, but I know you better than that,’ said Durnus. He was slumped in his throne. His head rested sleepily in his hand and his eyes were closed. He was wearing a thin tunic that was unbuttoned to the middle of his chest, and a pair of soft cloth trousers and sandals. Chamber wear, hardly befitting an Arkmage upon his throne. But nobody was around to care. It was his throne, after all.

  Elessi would have smiled, had she been in the mood to, had it been anybody else but Durnus. He was one of the reasons behind tonight’s staring contest with the city. She hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to say, wondering whether to simply walk off. ‘Why now?’ she sighed, finally.

  ‘A very good question, Elessi.’

  ‘I was just forgettin’ about him.’

  Durnus looked a little pained by that, as if it were almost an insult. ‘The rest of us have not. Cannot, even. He is like a son to me, and he is Tyrfing’s nephew.’

  ‘He’s also a deserter, and the reason we’re all ‘ere today.’

  ‘Considering you and Modren, I would hardly say that was a terrible thing.’

  Elessi flapped her hands impatiently. Her shawl fell to the floor around her bare feet, forgotten. ‘No, you know that’s not what I meant. Stop tryin’ to play your word games with me, Durnus. I’ve known you too long for that.’

  Durnus sighed. He leant forward. ‘I know what you mean, Elessi. I’m sorry.’

  The maid crossed her arms. ‘So. Why’d you do it? Why now, when we’ve just announced the wedding?’ she demanded.

  ‘Because of that very reason, Elessi. Your wedding could be the only thing that brings Farden out of his stubborn exile. Ilios refuses to tell us where he is, as does Heimdall. None of our messengers or emissaries have been successful. We need him, Elessi. Krauslung needs him. Tyrfing needs him, and now I need him,’ confessed the old Arkmage. He had always needed Farden, he had just never admitted it. The loss of that mage was more painful than the loss of his eyes.

  Elessi took a breath to try to calm herself down. ‘Well I don’t want him there.’

  ‘He does not have to be there, as long as he is here, finally back with us, after all these years,’ Durnus said, sounding wistful. ‘Don’t you miss him, Elessi? For all his faults? Don’t you worry about him?’

  ‘No,’ replied Elessi, without even a hint of a lie. ‘He hurt me.’

  ‘It’s been sixteen years, Elessi…’

  ‘And it still hurts, Durnus. Modren may have agreed to this, but I ‘aven’t. And as usual, my opinions are ignored. Even when it’s my wedding. I’m just a maid.’

  Durnus nodded, and the conversation died. ‘I am sorry,’ he muttered, as she paced away. Before she left for good, he called out to her. ‘Have you and Modren set a date yet?’

  Elessi opened one of the giant doors with a heave. The guards behind it came to attention, even despite her maid’s attire. They knew exactly who she was. ‘Three weeks from today,’ she said over her shoulder. She knew he would hear him. Durnus waved, and she left.

  ‘I hope that’s not too late,’ he muttered to himself. The door shut behind her, and the Arkmage was left alone to ponder his own thoughts. There seemed to be so many of them lately. Guilt swam between them like tendrils of dark smoke, the guilt of an Arkmage’s decisions. Damn those gods and their counsel, he inwardly cursed, slapping his palm on the throne’s arm.

  Counsel like using a certain wedding as bait.

  Bait for a monster.

  The door slammed, and Modren came awake with a start. He had been asleep, and dribbling apparently, if the dark topography of wet blotches on his pillow was to be believed. He blinked blearily at the wall, and wondered where on earth he was.

  ‘Bloody old vampyre, pale king, Arkmage… bastard,’ somebody was cursing in the next room. The sort of hissing one does when in private. Modren winced as he rolled over, making the bed creak. He heard the angry slapping of slippers on stone pause, then somebody called his name.

  ‘Modren?’ said a female voice.

  He had no choice but to answer.

  ‘Here,’ he croaked, voice thick with sleep. ‘Bedroom.’ Gods, he needed some water.

  Elessi came to stand in the doorway. Her face was dyed a faint red by the sleepy coals in the cooling fireplace. It made her look even more angry than she already was.

  ‘Something up?’ Modren punched a pillow into a headrest. For some ungodly reason he was still wearing most of his armour. He must have been tired indeed.

  ‘Somethin’s up alright,’ she snapped, coming to perch on the side of the bed. If it was possible to perch angrily, Elessi managed it. Modren put his cold metal hand on her back, saying nothing. Better to just let it come out naturally. He’d learnt that.

  It took a while, but once she had begun, there was no slowing her down. Modren nodded along, his frown ever-deepening with every sentence that tumbled from her lips. ‘…and all he had to say was sorry. After all these years, all these bloody years, he has the bright idea to go draggin’ him back now, on the cusp of our wedding. Finally happy, finally got us a date set, and who does he want to invite? Him. Bah, invite, as if he’s a long lost nephew, or something. If he does ever rear his ugly head, he’ll probably find a way to burn the whole place to the ground, or appear with a pack of ravin’ bandits on his heels. Cursed, he is. And Durnus and the rest of you lot want him at my wedding.’

  Modren suddenly found himself a target, just as he was about to remind her that it was in fact ‘their’ wedding. ‘And you, you of all people, Modren, agreed to this madness!’ She turned on him, slapping his hand away. She soon regretted it, and sucked the back of her hand, where it had connected with his steel.

  ‘If he does come back, I will make sure he behaves, I promise you.’

  Elessi strangled the air with her hands. ‘I don’t care if he behaves, I don’t want him there at all! He hurt me, us, everyone. Why should he get to waltz back in when it suits him, sittin’ in the front row, probably in a bloody cloak as well…’ she trailed off, ending in an unladylike, ‘Shit.’

  ‘Did Durnus tell you we need him?’

  Elessi nodded.

  ‘Well…’ Modren said. ‘She’s out there, Elessi. She will come. When she does…’ It was a conversation Elessi had heard many times, he could see it in her face. He could tell she was bored of it. His wife-to-be sniffed, wiping her nose with a hand. The light glinted off a pale, polished, ring of whalebone on her finger. A promise, set in bone. It had cost him a pretty pile of coi
n.

  ‘He asked me if I missed him. Durnus. He asked me.’

  Modren pulled a face. ‘And do you?’ he asked, tentatively. He had never wanted to ask himself.

  ‘Damn him for asking. And damn you as well. Should know better than that.’

  ‘He broke your heart.’

  ‘And then stamped on it.’

  Modren stared at the blankets trying to smother him. His armour glimmered softly. ‘The way you talk of him sometimes. So much hatred. So many years…’ he was trying to get his words in order but his tired brain wasn’t helping.’

  ‘Sounds like I still love him. Go on. Say it!’

  ‘Do you blame me?’ Modren shrugged.

  Elessi looked as though she was about to storm out, but she shook her head instead, and shuffled further on to the bed. ‘There’s only one mage for me. I just wish I’d met you first.’

  Modren closed his eyes as she rested her cheek on his cold breastplate. Gods, he was tired. He felt like the air was trying to drown him. Eyelids heavy…

  ‘Are you lookin’ forward to it?’

  ‘More than you can know,’ he mumbled off a reply.

  Silence for a moment. Light flickered softly. ‘Are they planning something? Durnus and Tyrfing? Those… gods?’ They gave her the shivers, he knew that. ‘Planning something for our wedding?’

  Modren rocked his head from side to side. Sleep was tugging at him. ‘No,’ he lied. So easy. So terrible.

  Before he slipped away into nothingness, he heard Elessi mumbling to herself. ‘Don’t care if they are. Nothing’s going to stop me. I’m having this wedding…’ and so it went, until Modren fell into a deep, guilty sleep.

  Chapter 14

  “Revenge is a dish best served cold, they say. I disagree. Revenge is a boiling vat of oil, ready to be poured onto the skins of those who trifle with it.”

  Words of Skölgard King Jarripick, in the year 687

  Rain. It had come slowly at first, almost gentle, soft. But then, anticipating the night of darkness and dark doings to come, it had turned hard and brutal. It hammered and pounded until it became a deluge, borne by dark clouds and landslide skies. The earth was now a washed-out flagstone for the rain to have its wicked way with. Only the trees seemed to be appreciative of it, waving their new leaves and green buds to the wet wind. The trees, and one lone mage.

  Creeping along the edge of a swollen canal, Farden hovered by a sturdy old oak, peering into the pouring sheets of rain. It battered him, but he didn’t care. He found the feel of its incessant drumming on his back, shoulders, and head almost soothing. It was cold, but the air was warm from the last few days of sun. Day was teetering on the edge of night. By the time he reached Tayn’s watchtowers, it would be dark.

  Farden peered through the haze at a huddle of figures that were approaching. He slipped behind the thick trunk of the oak and waited for them to pass. Two men, one woman, and a motley dog, all hurrying along in silence with their heads down and their patchwork hoods up. No spears or armour, just humble townsfolk. Farden let them pass, and released his grip on his knife.

  It had taken him over a week to walk from the Fleahurst moors to Tayn. Weak, shaky, and suspicious of every passing stranger, Farden had resorted to travelling mostly at night, avoiding the open roads. His body was still recovering, and over the last twenty miles it had begun to scream out to him, begging him to lie down and rest. His wounds were barely healed. His chest still oozed and burnt every time he crouched or jerked. His head pounded like the rain.

  Farden put his head against the slimy, gnarled skin of the oak and rested for a moment. He had come too far now. He let the fiery desire for revenge tug at him. It lured him on with mental images of Kint and Forluss and Kiltyrin in varying stages of dying. It enticed him with thoughts of the feeling of cold metal around his wrists.

  The mage peeked out behind the oak tree. He could just about glimpse the edges of the big town in the distance, its gates, and the dark shadow of the castle beyond.

  When it came to defending Tayn, the Duke’s purse-strings had grown very tight. Tayn was at the heart of his Duchy, why did he need to encircle it with stone and mortar, when a simple wooden palisade would do? Farden stared at it now. About twenty feet high, it was made from sharpened tree-trunks and bound with copper straps. Its points bristled with iron nails and wire. Ahead of him, the palisade had been cut away to make room for a thick oaken gate and an iron portcullis, hanging in a lopsided gatehouse of thatch and wood. It squatted over the road like a grinning wolf. Two wooden watchtowers sat on each of its shoulders.

  Farden stepped out from behind the oak tree and crept along the road towards the town. The gate would be open until nightfall. He would have to time this right. His hood was down and low and his posture hunched like a beggar. His red cloak helped a little to hide his identity; its crimson red was very different from his trademark black. His face, however, although a little more gaunt, a little paler, was still the same, and the guards would want to see it. In his pocket, he squeezed the little mistfrond thing that Loki had given him.

  ‘This better work, Loki,’ he muttered to himself as he trudged. Rain was dripping through the hole in his hood and running down his face in a little rivulet. He didn’t mind. It was cold, and by tilting his head he could let the water run into his mouth and wet his nervous tongue. Why was he so anxious? Was it how weak he felt? Or was it his desire for revenge, making him eager. He had no idea, but he didn’t like it. And gods, he needed to piss.

  He hugged the woods until the very last tree. Then, crouching behind it and wiping the rain from his face, he examined the gates.

  Teeming, was one word that described them. Teeming with guards. There were almost as many spears as there were sharpened stakes in the walls. Thirty men, at the very least, patrolled the gate and the gravelled courtyard behind it. Did he trust the mistfrond that much? ‘Hah,’ he snorted, grimacing. That was a no.

  As he hid by the tree and pondered his next move, he noticed a smudge of brown creeping its way along the rain-dappled canal. It was a narrowboat, and an incredibly long one at that, piled high with barrels, boxes, and other things, all wrapped in tarpaulins. A lonely ox stood amidships, dripping wet and miserable. At each end of the boat stood a group of people, about ten or so, and each of them wielded a long oar. Instead of rowing with them, they were using them to push against the bottom of the canal.

  Farden heard the metallic clank of a winch being turned. He shuffled around and stared at the palisade. There was a wooden frame suspended under the bridge; a sort of rudimentary gate for the canal. He had never noticed it before, but there it was. And it was being raised for the boat, with no questions asked. Farden was suddenly struck with an idea. It was so sudden it almost stung him.

  He quickly fished the little mistfrond from his pocket and looked at it closely. He couldn’t quite decide whether it was a fruit or a seed. It was odd, whatever it was, and it smelled faintly of almonds. Farden grimaced. The narrowboat was drawing level with his hiding spot now. The forward team were busy steering the boat, while the aft team left their job up to momentum, and set about gathering mooring ropes. They were wearing waxed yellow coats to keep the rain at bay.

  Farden readied himself to run. His body groaned at the very thought of running anywhere, but Farden brusquely told it to be quiet. There was knife-work to be done. He lifted the mistfrond to his lips and, with a wince, he took a bite and began to chew.

  To his surprise, it tasted sweet like a pear, but its pink flesh had a rough, sandy texture that wasn’t all that pleasant. It grated against his teeth as he tried to chew it into pieces he could swallow. Purple juice ran down his chin, mingling with the rain. But he need not have hurried, as the strange little fruit was already beginning to take effect.

  It was a feeling that was beyond strange, and a sight that was slightly terrifying. His hands seemed to evaporate like mist on a sunny morning. Farden clenched his fist and was relieved to find he could still feel them. If
he looked hard enough, he could see a faint outline of them against the rain, but only because of the droplets that clung to them. Farden swallowed his mouthful and watched as his shoulders and chest began to fade away. The mage couldn’t help but gasp as the tingly feeling spread to his legs and feet. He got to his feet, but stumbled, immediately disorientated by his apparent lack of feet. He could feel them, but they were just trails of mist and rain.

  Farden was just about to make a dash for it when Loki’s words came crashing into his head. Something about being violently ill…

  No sooner had he remembered them did his stomach lurch and bile begin fill his throat. Farden retched, but somehow managed to keep it down. The narrowboat was about to pass him, and he was running out of time before it reached the gate. He didn’t know how long the fruit would last.

  Fighting back the vomit, Farden sprinted to the edge of the canal, weak, invisible legs flying. As the ground fell away, he leapt as far and as hard as he could. The mage had aimed it perfectly. Arms wind-milling, he soared through the rain. The jump was perfect, it was just a shame about the landing. Having invisible legs tends to do that to a landing.

  Farden crumpled to a painful heap beside the miserable ox, and slammed his head into the animal’s leg. The poor ox, wide-eyed and more than a little scared, lowed gruffly and stamped its hooves, utterly confused. Farden winced as one hoof grazed his arm. He was still fighting against the powerful urge to empty his stomach.

  He clamped his hand over his mouth and hid behind a crate as a shout rang out from the rear of the narrowboat. ‘Easy girl!’ it cried, but the ox kept stamping. One of the men began to climb over a mound of cargo to see what the problem was, but he needn’t have bothered. The ox had fallen silent, relaxed by a misty hand calmly stroking its bedraggled flanks.