Dead Stars - Part One (The Emaneska Series)

by Ben Galley

  ‘Look lively, lads. Bringlin, wake up! Another one for you,’ came the muttered order from a nearby sergeant, a gruff man with a scar across his lip like a makeshift moustache. Bringlin turned around and spotted another young girl amongst the line of passers-by. She had her hooded head down and was busy helping an old, frail woman navigate the pebbles lodged in the dusty road. Bringlin stepped forward with his hand outstretched.

  ‘Ladies, if I might have a moment of your precious time,’ he announced, making them halt in their tracks.

  The old woman looked up first. She too wore a hood. She seemed to be nursing her arm, as though it had been recently broken. They didn’t look like beggars; their clothes were well-stitched, all silk and wool, reasonably fine for the crowd they travelled with.

  ‘What’s the problem, mage?’ asked the woman, with a yellow smile.

  ‘A few questions, if you don’t mind,’ Bringlin gestured to the side of the road. He could feel a few of the mages moving behind him. Cautionary procedure.

  ‘Questions?’ asked the girl. She lifted her head and Bringlin assessed her face. She was young indeed, but older than the last few. Fifteen maybe, and strikingly beautiful for her age. She had pitch-black hair that flowed like oil down her neck and chest. Her eyes were a swirled mix of blue-green that never seemed to settle on one hue. Bringlin found himself staring. ‘Surely that’s not necessary. We’re just going to the wedding,’ she said, quietly. The mages edged closer. She certainly fit the description.

  ‘Why don’t you just let us pass, hmm?’ added the woman by her side.

  ‘It will only take a moment, then you can be on your way,’ Bringlin shook his head. ‘We can’t be too careful.’ As he spoke, he let his magick begin to creep outwards, probing the girl and the old woman for any sign or hint of power. He opened his mouth to ask his first question, but instead he flinched, and gasped. His magick hit a brick wall. He couldn’t help but recoil from it, flinching as though he’d been slapped. He blinked at the girl, who stared straight back at him. He went to reach for his sword, but it felt as though his arm were made of ice.

  ‘Sh… she…!’ Bringlin choked, jabbing a finger at them. The other mages began to shout. Spells flickered. It was then that a familiar-looking man, utterly dishevelled and covered in what appeared to be a mixture of broken glass and vomit, barrelled through the line of people on the road, and flew straight into the girl and the old woman.

  If a soldier had covered their eyes against the sun, and squinted as hard as humanly possible, he might have just been able to make out Heimdall, standing like a guardian over the city. He was a speck on the white canvas of the Arkathedral, framed against the powder-blue sky. Beside him stood a slightly larger speck; a speck with feathers, wind-ruffled wings, and a beak that glinted like iron in the sun. Ilios was leaning out over the railing, claws grating on the marble, the sort of sound that makes a spine shiver. He whistled questioningly.

  ‘Not a sign,’ he replied, surveying the lines of people drawn out over the Manesmark hill. ‘Not yet.’

  Another whistle.

  ‘If she is here, her magick is shrouded from my sight.’ He closed his tawny eyes for a moment and pulled a face of concentration, of strain. A world of whispers flooded his ears, thoughts mumbled to an empty room. Asides and mutterings. An ocean of tongues.

  Where is my brooch? I could have sworn I left it beside the box…

  How dare she wear gold to a wedding! Estice should know better after last year.

  If I get sat next to one of these screaming children, I’m going to have to plug my ears with that wig of yours.

  Be my guest.

  You don’t want any of that wedding slop they dole out. It’s watered down I tell you. That’s why I always bring my own mörd to these sorts of things.

  She’s a maid, I hear, a simple maid.

  Yes, but he’s the Undermage.

  And a handsome one at that.

  Dangerous, I hear.

  They all are. Malvus was right.

  And how much did he pay Gondty for you to say that, Helsin?

  Enough.

  The god winced as he delved too deep. He was almost deafened. He opened his eyes and took in the sky. There was a smattering of clouds swimming in the high atmosphere. Heimdall put his hands on the railing and took a slow breath. Weakness was starting to seep into him, like spilt oil into the cracks of a flagstone. He had been at this too long. ‘There are too many whispers in that crowd, not enough shouts.’

  Heimdall turned to face the glittering sea. It was a blue blanket strewn with white jewels. A ring of fishing ships toiled on it. Heimdall let the sounds of the waves drown out the city for a moment.

  And for a moment he almost missed it.

  A shout.

  It’s her! The girl is here!

  Let her go, Bringlin!

  Now, Samara!

  Stay down, Lilith.

  Heimdall swung his gaze north to the hill. Colours were popping and exploding from the grass, colours no human could ever see nor understand. They whirled and fountained from the dirt. The god narrowed his eyes at the hill and saw people fleeing, no, flying in all directions. Guards where lying on their backs with their armour ripped open. A thunderclap echoed over the city. Heimdall slapped his hand on the marble. He uttered one word to the gryphon, and one word only. ‘Go.’

  And go the gryphon did. Ilios leapt from the railing before the word had even left the god’s lips. He swooped down, plummeting like a stone until his wings flared and he was skimming the rooftops with inches to spare. He flew north with the speed of a lightning bolt, leaving Heimdall to stare and watch as something hellish unveiled itself on the hill. As the twin bells began to ring, he couldn’t help but wonder what the strange, tight feeling was in his chest.

  The mage was iron-clad, running through a trough of jellyfish. That’s what it felt like. Every movement was a conscious battle. Every step rewarded him with a sting, but he kept on running. He was running out of time, and he knew it. Somehow, deep in his bones, he knew. He felt as though a giant thumb was pressing down on the back of his neck, harder and harder with every passing moment.

  The road was clogged with people, the sun hot, and the guards numerous. Farden’s hood was yanked low over his face. Exactly how he had made it through the main gates unchallenged, he would never know, but he was on borrowed luck. It wouldn’t be long until they stopped him. Every step brought him more guards and more soldiers, more finery for him to clash with. He stole a quick glance down at his wretched clothes. He looked as though a sewer had spat him out.

  Farden wove in and out of the crowds as fast as his legs would let him. His body was drained. Using the magick had set his muscles and organs aflame. Every fraction of his being wanted to simply fall into the grass and watch the sun fly overhead, to let Elessi have her day and leave them to their chances. But no. He couldn’t. Farden looked at every face he raced past, trying to imagine what she would look like. She was here. He was positive. How? He didn’t know. Perhaps it was the blood-tie between them. Perhaps he knew the same thirst for blood, that if it were him they were hunting, how he wouldn’t resist a chance like this, army or no army.

  A soldier stood in the centre of the road, arms crossed and eyes keen. Farden ducked down and tried to go around, but he had already seen him. Something about him must have caught the man’s attention, maybe his pace, his hood, maybe his cloak spattered with vomit, who knows. Whatever it was, he stamped his foot and cupped a hand around his mouth. ‘You there! Halt!’ he yelled. Unfortunately, his words had the complete opposite effect. Farden doubled his pace, much to his body’s outrage. He darted away from the soldier, breaking away from the road and ploughing through the long grass.

  ‘Stop that man!’ came the cries.

  If people are good at anything, it is getting in the way. The chase was quickly noted by the line of people sauntering up the hill. As more soldiers peeled out from the crowd and gave chase to this sweating, filthy vagabond,
up ahead a selection of try-hard, silk-clad heroes stepped out from the crowd with their hands held forward and bravery on their face. Their spouses and daughters and mothers looked on, glowing with pride for just a tantalising sliver of a moment, right up until Farden’s fists decided to introduce themselves to a few jaws and ribs. The men were sent reeling, crumpling to the grass. More shouts and screams followed. Wincing with every step, lungs aflame, Farden sprinted on.

  ‘Stop him!’ yelled the people on the road, in one giant voice. Soldiers stepped into his path, spears low and hands on swords. Farden dodged them by running back across the road and leaping up a little knoll. For a moment at its paltry summit he was free. Between his pounding feet and head, he could hear the faint hint of music in the air. He looked to the north and caught sight of the splash of white at the base of the Spire. So close, but still so far away. Ranks of mages had formed a line across the road. Farden’s heart fell. Between his pounding feet and head, he could hear a faint hint of music in the air. So close… He had to try.

  As the mages caught sight of him, Farden dashed back onto the road and ploughed his way through a flock of young women. It was a bad choice. Faced with a grizzled rogue sweating and panting and pawing at them, they screamed like there was no tomorrow. The noise brought the attention of almost every mage for a mile around crashing down on him. All except one: a young man questioning two women by the side of the road, just up ahead. Farden saw the gap and charged for it. He might have made it had it not been for the spine of a rock hiding in the grass. He clipped it with his toe and it sent him him flying. Not to the grass, no, that would have been too easy. He bowled straight into the backs of the women.

  Farden’s head exploded with colours even before he felt the kiss of the soft, dewy grass. Somehow, gods only knew, he managed to roll and tumble onto his knees. Run! screamed his thoughts. But he didn’t move. It wasn’t because his legs had given up, nor was it the fact that a score of mages were seconds away from seizing him in their steel grips and wrestling him to the floor, it was a reason intangible. A tingling in his gut. Something that made his skin prickle in ways he couldn’t describe.

  Farden turned, inch by gentle inch, until he was looking straight into a pair of blue-green eyes, eyes that had stepped out of a mirror and found a fairer body. Eyes that glared right back, scraping at the back of his skull.

  Time limped past as they stared at each other. Even when a dozen hands pushed him to the ground, Farden still kept his eyes fixed on his daughter. She was strikingly beautiful. Painfully so. She had the face of her mother but the colouring of her father, right down to her jet-black hair. She was a perfect blend. A perfect storm.

  ‘Farden,’ she whispered, like ice sliding across ice.

  He ventured a smile, and then remembered who and what she was. She spared no such smile for him. This was no teary reunion. He could feel the heat of her in his veins as she knelt in the grass. A frail woman thrashing by her side, staring at him with wild eyes. Shouts filled the air.

  ‘It’s her! The girl is here!’ somebody was shouting. A mage leapt forward from the crowd, the young man from the tavern. Farden’s tongue scrabbled for his name. He had to stop him.

  The young man barged the old woman aside and grabbed the girl’s arm with all the bravest intentions in the world. Poor fool. Farden didn’t need his magick to realise he’d just sealed his fate. He could see the grass around her flatten as though a fist pressed it down. The air grew hot around. ‘Let her go, Bringlin!’ he bellowed hoarsely, the name bubbling up from somewhere.

  ‘Now, Samara!’ yelled the thin old crone in the grass, the one clutching an arm to her chest. Samara. That was all Farden could think of. That was her name.

  Silence reigned for her answer, as if her spell had snatched the wind from the air and the voices from the throats of everybody nearby. She turned to the old woman. ‘Stay down, Lilith,’ she ordered, calm as could be. Then she stood straight, and thunder clapped for her.

  The spell ripped outwards through the gathered crowds. There were no screams, only the sound of clothes ripping and ribs popping. Farden felt at least one of his break as he sailed high over the grass, together with a dazed clump of men in silver armour. Bringlin flew over them all, bearing the very brunt of the spell. A body had never looked so dead, so twisted.

  Farden crashed to the ground with a cry. Only the thick grass spared him the full pain of the fall, but even so, he fell crushed and beaten. His rib sent sparks flying through his eyes. Shaking, he managed to lift his head from the dirt. He narrowed his eyes at his daughter. Samara was now a good distance away, standing in a wide circle of bruised grass and broken people, arms raised to the sky.

  It was then that the screams began.

  Chapter 23

  “In many ways, the gift of belief that the gods gave to the humans was a double-edged blade. In one way, we are free beings, capable of a great many feats. Yet on the other hand, we can choose not to believe, and in that respect, we shape the world in a way that may not be its best direction, and shun the gods who made us.”

  From the writings of the infamous, and anonymous, critic Áwacran

  Bunting crackled overhead. Birds tweeted in the spring sun. Children played in the shadow of the Spire. The world was none the wiser. Innocent, yet about to be soiled.

  Modren dared a surreptitious glance down the carpeted aisle. She was only halfway down the aisle now. He was quickly rewarded with a sharp nudge from Tyrfing. The Arkmage rolled his eyes. But Modren couldn’t help it. Elessi was nearly by his side.

  His wife-to-be walked sedately up the narrow aisle, her maids and the skalds at her back to carry her train and keep the music flowing. The crowd clapped gently as she took each slow step up the seemingly endless carpet. Despite how serene she was attempting to look, Elessi couldn’t help but beam with happiness. She looked from side to side as she walked, nodding to the people she recognised and smiling at the ones she didn’t. Who cared if she didn’t know them. They knew who she was.

  Elessi did look for one person in particular as she walked. A gaunt face from a past long-forgotten. She found Durnus instead. He sat alone with his guards, smiling in her direction. Tyrfing stood at the scales with Modren, back turned. The blind Albion woman sat by herself, alone, yet surrounded, fidgeting. Farden was nowhere to be seen. Good, she thought. It was another broken promise, but she was glad for it.

  Eventually, she reached Modren’s side, and they slowly turned to face one another. As the crowd began to take its seats, they stared and smiled, taking in the dress, the armour, every inch of the other. Elessi looked beyond beautiful with her brown curls and glinting eyes. Modren looked like a polished war hero, proud. He leant forward to whisper in her ear.

  ‘It’s not too late,’ Modren said.

  Elessi shook her head, curls catching the wind. ‘You’re not escaping now, Undermage,’ she replied. There was a firmness in her quiet voice he knew better than to argue with.

  Modren looked up and over the crowd, to where the city lingered in the distance and smiled.

  Tyrfing took a stand behind the golden scales. They were a big and ornate affair, full of curves and twists. He looked a little proud as he rested his hands on their bulbous head. After all, he had made them himself for this very occasion.

  The Arkmage cleared his throat with a grimace and began his speech. ‘We have gathered on this hill today to celebrate the union of two Arka. They have come before you to be wed in the tradition of our people, and in the sight of the gods,’ he paused, unintentionally, as he caught the eyes of Verix sitting in the crowd. He had never expected that line to be so literal. Modren smiled as he too felt the strangeness of it. Tyrfing coughed and continued. ‘It is a public commitment that they make, and you as Krauslung’s people are witnesses to the vow they make here today, to each other, and to themselves, as the scales dictate.

  ‘The scales. The symbol of the goddess Evernia is one with many faces, and today it represents a balancing of tw
o people, and the effort they must make together to keep the scales steady, today, and for the rest of their marriage. It represents the end of a life walked alone, and the beginning of a life walked together. It represents equality. It represents the difficulties, the problems, that marriage and life will present, and the act of balancing each and every one as they come.’ Tyrfing reached behind him, where a small lectern had been placed, and took the two polished weights from its wooden top. They were small things, made of white metal and each inscribed with one name. The one in his left hand said Elessi, and the one in his right, unsurprisingly, said Modren. Tyrfing held them out for the crowd to see, and then handed them to their owners. ‘Now is the time to make your own promises to each other, in the sight of the gods, and of your witnesses,’ he announced. He glanced at Durnus, and found his old friend trying not to smile. Only he knew how long Tyrfing had spent practising these lines.

  Taking the sun-warmed weights in their cupped hands, Modren and Elessi turned to face each other. Modren spoke first. He too had spent nights practising his lines. He took a deep breath, and tried to ignore the crowd. ‘Elessi, my only wish is that I had met you earlier. You came out of nowhere, and then you stayed. Now I can’t imagine having a day without you, nor spending a night without you beside me. This is my promise to you, that I will always be by your side, to protect and love you, until the gods see fit to take me to the other side,’ he said. The crowd clapped as he placed his weight on the scales. They tipped with a creak. Tyrfing frowned. He thought he had oiled them.

  Elessi took a while to compose herself. Little tears were trying to escape from the corner of her eyes. ‘Modren,’ she began, her voice cracking at the edges. The crowd settled down and fell deathly silent to hear her speak. ‘Modren, you are the finest man I have ever known, and I too wish I had met you sooner…’ She took a moment to take a breath, managing to laugh at herself as she fanned away another set of tears. Modren couldn’t help but smile. Nor could half the crowd. They may have been a haughty bunch, but they still had hearts that pumped crimson. Elessi waved her hand across the crowd and towards the city. ‘I may not be the prettiest girl in Krauslung, nor Emaneska, but you make me feel like it. I may not be the smartest mind, but you make me feel like an Arfell scribe. I may not be the strongest, but you lend me your strength. And I may not be the richest woman here, but now…’ she paused as she placed her weight in the scales. Modren’s side slowly raised to meet hers, and after a little wobble, they settled, perfectly level. Elessi continued. ‘…now I am. Because I have you. I love you, Modren.’ The last four words were whispered just for him, but the crowd saw it on her lips, and rose to its feet clapping. Confetti began to rain down on the hill, thrown from the balconies of the Spire. As the cheers rose to the clear blue sky, Modren and Elessi kissed. They were finally wed.