by Ben Galley
Korrin took a hesitant step forward, his first in half an hour, towards the most familiar of the cottages. There were eight of them altogether, all in a semi-circle around a fat cluster of pig pens. The oil lanterns did their level best to light their muddy doors and porches. In the pens, mudpigs waddled to and fro, fat and glistening with the rain. Korrin could feel the kiss of cold snouts in his palms as his eyes ran over them. He could hear their snorting and snuffling against the rain.
Korrin.
He made a sour face.
Korrin could wrench a man’s arm from his socket with a simple twist of his fingers. He could run for miles across ice and rock and never fear for tiredness. He could splice a hair down its centre with a throwing knife. He could even topple the giant they called Balimuel. And yet, standing in the mud outside his father’s hut, he was frozen and clumsy. He was cloth-tongued and scrawny. He was a boy again. Just like he had expected.
He looked back the way he had come. The Pens weren’t here. They weren’t to know. With that thought in his mind, he turned to leave.
The man who shouted to him had other ideas. ‘Ho, young sir! Lad!’ Korrin grit his teeth and turned back. A man was struggling with an empty trough. His back was bent nearly double with age and the others were too busy helping themselves to aid him.
‘Lend an old farmer your young muscles, could ye?’
If his father had instilled anything useful in him, it was that Korrin didn’t have an impolite bone in his body. Even though his mind sighed and threw up its hands, Korrin trudged forward to help the old man.
‘Thank ye, lad,’ said the old man. Korrin picked up the corner of the trough. The man brandished a sack of rotten vegetables, and Korrin hefted it into his shoulder. Old practice moved his hands, untwisting the wire, spilling the pig-slop in even piles, not a spot falling on his clothes. Not that it mattered, in the mud. The man patted him on the arm. ‘You’ve done that before.’
Korrin just nodded and smiled. He turned to leave, but the old farmer caught him by the elbow and turned him into the lanternlight. ‘I know you,’ he said, squinting. There was a sword hanging from Korrin’s belt. The man tutted at that. Swords were foreigners in this place. ‘At least, I know your eyes.’
‘I think you’ve made a mistake. I’m just passing through…’ he mumbled.
‘You don’t pass through Pollokstead, lad. This here’s the end of the road. Or the start of it,’ he tapped his nose. ‘Depending on how you look at it. Does your father know you’re here, or your grandfer?’
‘I…’
The old man suddenly called out to the others bustling through the mud with rope and tackle. ‘Ho, Ust!’ he called, looking about.
One of them, standing at the door of Korrin’s old cottage, tipped back his waxed hat. ‘What?’ he yelled over the drumming of the rain.
‘This lad looks a lot like your son!’
‘Can’t be. My son done run off!’
‘Well, come and ‘ave a look!’
Boots met mud, and there he was, Korrin’s father, framed by oil-light and flecks of rain. He left his door and strode forward to confront the two. Already his arms were crossed. Already his face had creased into its stern glower. A hard man, was Ust. Korrin stood as tall as he could and folded his hands behind his back, naturally, and rather unconsciously, coming smartly to attention.
Ust stopped short, and thumbed the rain from his nose. ‘Ain’t no son of mine that wears a sword,’ he muttered. The old man felt the hard edge to Ust’s words and shuffled away.
Korrin stood alone with his father. He too could feel the jab of his words. It was that same tone that had first stoked the fires of escape and resentment several years ago. His only reply was to bow his head. Korrin stared at his boots again, feeling as though the last year had never happened.
‘So what fort-lord did ye swear fealty to? Hmm, to get that sword, boy? Which one took ye in?’
Korrin shook his head. ‘None.’ He could almost hear his father’s sea-washed face creaking as his glowering deepened.
‘Tell me you ain’t no sell-sword then.’
‘No.’
More glowering. ‘A bandit? A rogue? Is that what my son left his father for?’
‘No.’
‘Then what? What cursed life did ye run to?’
Korrin frowned at that mud. His father’s tone made him flinch from practice. Ust was as tough as his pig-wrangling hands. He had beaten fear and resentment into Korrin with more than just words.
But despite it all, Korrin couldn’t help but chuckle at the question. He hadn’t the faintest clue. He said as much as he looked up and met his father’s stern eyes, forcing himself to meet them, as he had forced himself from his bed every day for the past year. ‘I don’t know. But by Jot’s roots, I’m good at it.’
‘Well at least yer good for somethin’, I tell ye,’ said Ust. It was in that moment that something clicked for Korrin. As he looked at his father, the small, tough man with hard eyes, at the mudpigs snuffling in their pens, at the mud running between his boots, he realised none of it mattered. The world was so much bigger than this, this place, this wiry little man. He knew more of it than any of these farmers. How dare they judge, when their horizons are so small.
‘Yes,’ Korrin smiled. ‘I am.’
Chapter 18
“Do I police them or ban them? That is the question.
I once heard a tale of giant wild fires in the forests of the east, far beyond the Fool Roads. They say that these fires are not natural, but man-made. They ravage miles of land and belch smoke higher than the mountains. The tribes that set these fires shepherd them by scorching the earth in their path, guiding and leading them on. Why do they set these fires? Once the fires have died, the strangest fruits appear from the ashes. It appears that there are strange seeds buried in the eastern earth. To flower they need the scorching heat of a forest fire to wake them into sprouting. These seeds produce trees that are food, oil, husk, and wood to these tribes. Life, in seed-form.
The magick markets are like wild fires. Do I allow them to ravage this city, in the hope that they will bear fruit, corralling them as and when I can? Or do I refuse to light them at all, and go without these fruits? One thing is certain, whatever our decision, the Councils will disagree.”
Excerpt from the diary of Arkmage Durnus, dated Frostfall 899
3 days earlier
Farden cracked an eye and stared at the bowed ceiling. He tested his mouth. His lips were dry and cracked. He lay in silence, waiting to see if the panic had truly died in his sleep. Mercifully, it had. Its corpse was a numb ache right between his eyes.
Farden sat up and groaned as the headache blossomed with his movement. A hangover times a hundred. It would subside as soon as he was on the road, he told himself.
The mage swung his legs over the bed and hoisted himself upright. There it was: a bag of nevermar on the floor. Farden shot it a dark look. It had deserted him, just when he needed it most. Just when his past had come back to haunt him. Come to taint his beach. Farden looked out the window. There he was, sitting cross-legged and pensive by the fire, still wearing his strange leather coat. Ilios was nowhere to be seen. Jeasin was in the water, cleaning herself with sand and clumps of sea-grass.
It was a soft day, its edges blurred with early sea-mist. The sun was a good height above the horizon and already the air was warm, tempered only by the crisp breeze coming off the rippling water. It would be hot later. The wispy clouds hovering high overhead might have spoken of evening rain.
There was a whooshing sound as wings passed over the shack, making the roof rattle in their wake. Farden watched Ilios land softly on the beach. There was an enormous fish stuck in his beak. Loki looked up as the dripping gryphon stood over him. Ilios dropped the fish right in his lap and the god cried out. Farden couldn’t help but snigger.
Farden realised he was still shirtless and dangerous, so he cast around for his shirt and quickly put it on. His stomach growled angr
ily at him. The weakness in his limbs was still very apparent. His body had a long way to go before it was healed. Farden could feel the clamminess of last night’s sweating on his skin, and he glared at the nevermar again. That hadn’t helped matters.
How had it turned to poison? He wracked his brains, searching for some excuse or a rational explanation, anything that could save him the pain of it failing him.
Maybe it had soured.
Maybe it was a bad batch.
Maybe Bastio had tricked him.
It had worked before.
Maybe he was too tired.
That had never been an issue.
Maybe his body was too weak.
Neither had that.
Maybe Loki had poisoned it.
He couldn’t have.
Arguments and answers battled to and fro. Farden shut his eyes and silenced them. The true answer was inevitable. His body had had its fill of it. Farden clenched his fist, grit his teeth, and stamped on the little bag of traitorous weed. Once, twice, three times, and each time was more vicious than the last. When the floorboards began to splinter, he stopped, letting the headache and weakness congratulate him. The mage took a deep breath and sighed.
At least Farden still had one last crutch. Out of the corner of his eye he spied a mud-covered pillowcase leaning up against the door. His armour.
He had worn his vambraces several times since the escape from Tayn, but only for short periods during the day when Jeasin had been sleeping. The feeling of their cold caress was almost euphoric, but Farden had promised himself he would wait to don it all until he and Jeasin were completely safe.
Farden peeled back the crusty pillowcase and revealed the glittering metal underneath. He quickly slid the vambraces on, then the gauntlets, and lastly the greaves. He could feel their cold touch even through his grubby cloth trousers. The metal slithered and whispered as it hugged him. The mage stayed crouching beside the door for a little while as he savoured the strange, yet familiar, sensation spreading through his veins and tired muscles. How he’d missed it. A little smile hovered on his lips for a short while. It looked foreign on his face, given the circumstances.
When he had finished relishing the feel of the armour, Farden left the shack and strode onto the beach. The metal around his limbs glittered in the late morning sun. Loki and Ilios looked up. Jeasin was busy washing. He came to a halt by the fire, which Loki was busy trying to re-light.
Farden didn’t waste any time getting to his point.
‘Whilst I’m sure your message is utterly thrilling and of the utmost importance, Loki, I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time coming here. You too, Ilios,’ Farden stated. The gryphon growled softly. ‘I’m leaving at midday. Don’t follow me.’
Loki shrugged. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said.
That wasn’t the answer Farden had been expecting. ‘You hear me, god? You’ve wasted your time. I’m not interested in whatever message they’ve asked you to deliver.’
‘I knew you wouldn’t be,’ Loki nonchalantly replied. ‘I told them the very same thing. But they wouldn’t listen. I said you’d want to be left alone to your pitiful existence. In your shack, with your nevermar and your armour. Killing things for coin. That after all this time you wouldn’t care about her.’
Farden raised an eyebrow. ‘Who?’
But Loki held up his hands and shook his head. ‘No, no, I’ve said enough as it is. You’re not interested, Farden. I’ll save you the trouble. Wouldn’t want to add any more bad memories to your growing mound.’
The mage shot him a murderous look and sat down. Ilios took a few steps back and sat down. Farden met his eyes. ‘And you can stop looking at me like that, Ilios. My decision is final.’ Ilios warbled something and looked away.
Loki took a little knife and a grubby potato from one of his pockets. He began to slice it into chunks, making a musical thud every time they hit the bottom of the rusty stew pot. The resurrected fire slowly began to crackle and lick at its sides. ‘I think you’ve offended him,’ he said, nodding towards the gryphon.
Farden pinched his aching forehead between his fingers. ‘What do you expect from me? What do any of you expect from me?’
‘Nothing. We’re just extending a simple invitation, that’s all,’ Loki said with an innocent face.
‘Stop it. Your games aren’t going to work on me, god.’
The three sat in silence for a moment. Jeasin had escaped the icy cold of the water and was trundling slowly up the beach. Her sandy hair was even sandier than ever before, and tangled with the salt. Her face and eyes were red from where she had scrubbed them vigourously, almost like she had been crying. Almost. Her robe was wet from the sea, and barely clung about her.
She’d heard the mage’s voice. ‘You’re alive are you? Shame,’ she called.
‘Only just,’ came the muttered reply.
Jeasin shuffled forward with her arms outstretched. She stopped when she heard the thud of another chunk of potato in the pot. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Farden is leaving. Alone,’ Loki informed her. Farden glowered. He resisted the urge to punch him. Loki could see the intention in the mage’s dark eyes and got to his feet. ‘Need some water for the stew,’ he said, announcing his retreat to the water’s edge.
‘You’re leavin’ then,’ she stated, her anger simmering just under the surface. Farden could see it waiting to erupt.
‘That I am,’ he said.
‘Heartless.
‘I told you. I prac…’
‘How’d you do it? How’d you cut out bits of your heart and toss ‘em away?’
‘I…’
‘How’d you turn your back so damn coldly? It ain’t human.’
Farden didn’t reply.
Jeasin walked a little closer. ‘You told me what you left behind once, when you were drunk. Krauslung. Arkmages. Magick councils. You don’t remember it, I know you don’t. I didn’t believe you. Thought it a story for the pillow, like all the other men tell. They make ‘em up just for somethin’ to say. Make ‘emselves sound bigger and better than they really are. Sad, really. I took you for one of them.’
‘And do you believe me now?’
Jeasin spat. ‘Not in the slightest. Arkmages. Arkathedrals. What rubbish. But the bits you told me about you leaving your loved ones behind, turnin’ your back on them? I believe that bit. Now that I’m seein’ it in action.’
‘You’re still not coming. I’m a curse.’
The anger bubbled up. ‘You’re damn right you are, but you’re still takin’ me with you! I ain’t going to be another one of those,’ she waved her hand, ‘those you left ‘cross the sea, whoever they are. I’m going with you!’
Farden tried to stop the words from coming, but they forced their way out anyway. Truth always did, just like it always hurt. ‘I’ve no need for a whore any more, Jeasin. There are plenty of those in Krauslung!’ he shouted at her.
Jeasin turned away. After trilling something damning, the gryphon did too. He followed her to the shack, sitting down next to its step like an odd-shaped door. Farden punched the sand with a red-gold fist, eliciting a futile thud. He looked around for something to break. Loki was returning from the sea, bearing a pot full of water. That might do. ‘You didn’t handle that very well, did you?’
Farden got to his feet. ‘Go fuck yourself,’ he cursed.
Loki let him storm two strides before delivering his killing strike. ‘She’s getting married, Farden,’ he said, stopping the mage in his sandy tracks. Loki continued. ‘Elessi. She’s getting married. Three days from now. She thought you might want to be there.’
It took Farden a full minute to turn back around. When he did, it was with his fist. He struck Loki hard in the face, just to the right of his nose. Surprisingly, Loki didn’t stop him. He took everything the blow had to offer and more besides, landing hard on his rear. Farden may have been weak, but he was angry, and that made up for whatever his knuckles might have lacked. Loki scrunched up
his face and blinked, tasting the odd sensation the fist had left in his face.
‘I hope that was a new experience for you,’ Farden spat on him. His armour clinked as he stormed up the beach. It felt good to hit a god.
Loki simply smiled as Farden disappeared over a ridge of boulders. His message had been delivered. It would work its magick on him, slowly but surely. Like a worm gnawing through an apple. Loki rubbed his face, and then tested his nostrils and lip for blood. He needn’t have bothered. After all, shadows didn’t bleed. He couldn’t help but wonder what colour it would be if they did.
Two hours later, and Farden was still sitting under his ash tree at the lip of the hill. The bark was sturdy and warm behind his back. The wind tasted of salt. A few seagulls wheeled overhead. In the branches above him, a sparrow sang to the afternoon.
‘What do I do?’ Farden voiced the question aloud to the barren wilderness. The only answer he got was the little slap of a winged seed falling in his lap. Farden looked down at the tiny thing and picked it up. It had one solitary wing like that of a dragonfly, with brown veins running through its translucent paper. At the end of the wing was the seed itself. Again, brown, wrapped in a husk. Farden held it by the tip of the wing and looked up. From what he could remember of spring, trees needed leaves before they could sprout fruit. There were no others hanging from the branches or dangling from the brittle grey twigs. Ambitious little thing, he thought.
Farden twirled it around in his cracked fingers and watched how the sunlight shone through its wing. Spinning Jennies. The name floated up out of the misty depths of his memories, a trickle of silliness. That’s what the other children had called them. Spinning Jennies. He faintly remembered standing on a rock and tossing handfuls of them into the air. Farden could hear delighted little screams echo in his ears.
His childhood had been locked away with the other memories, though not on purpose. A memory grew mould and eroded just like every other relic. Time had done the groundwork; nevermar had finished the job.