Dead Stars - Part Two (The Emaneska Series)

by Ben Galley

  ‘Why north?’

  Durnus raised his hands. ‘Who can tell? I can only hope she keeps heading that way.’

  ‘If she does, then we’ll catch up with her.’

  ‘Elessi first,’ Modren growled. ‘That bitch can wait.’ And that was the entirety of his goodbye. The Undermage pulled his hood over his head and strode towards the boardwalk. He ploughed into the crowds, daring somebody to get in his way. Farden watched him leave and sighed. He knew his pain, a little of it at least.

  ‘Tyrfing has your supplies, and a few trinkets from the markets,’ Durnus said.

  Farden nodded. ‘Be safe. Both of you. I don’t suppose all our enemies are heading north.’

  ‘And you,’ Durnus said. He clasped Farden’s hand and then followed in Modren’s wake. Jeasin felt for Farden’s face and gave him a stiff kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Durnus will look after you,’ Farden quietly said. ‘He’ll do a better job than I’ve been doing.’

  Jeasin stared at him, her blind gaze missing his only by a fraction of an inch. ‘I don’t know this mage. You’re not the Farden I knew from the cathouse,’ she said. As Farden took a breath to reply, to tell her he was sorry, tell her that she would be fine, to tell her anything, she caught it with her hand, touching his lips softly, like she had done in the dark of their nights together, when she had been bought and paid for. It felt strange, now that it was free. ‘Keep it up,’ she said. ‘Maybe I’ll be here when you get back. Maybe not.’ And with that she walked away, guards following, tramping out a rhythm with their steel-plated boots.

  ‘Farden!’ came a cry from behind him. ‘Stop wasting time!’ It was Tyrfing, hollering from the upper-decks. Farden did as he was told.

  As the mage negotiated the final ridges of the gangplank, he was faced with the swarming platter that was Waveblade’s deck. Tyrfing stood to his right, high on the aftcastle. There was a snap-crackle above him as the first of the sails were unleashed from their furling bags. Shouts chased each other through the rigging as a horde of sailors plied their ropes and pulleys. They worked like ants, strong and nimble.

  Farden was barged aside as politely as a sailor can manage, and behind him, the gangplank was hoisted aboard. Farden heard the scrape of others too, and all of a sudden, the rime-slick wharf below seemed very far away indeed. Farden stared at Krauslung. A little quiver of panic flitted through his stomach then as he felt the ship sag. The mooring ropes were being let loose. He could hear the squeak of the fenders as they were finally allowed to exhale and relax. The Waveblade had been unsheathed, let loose.

  The iron monster floated after all.

  ‘Farden!’ came another shout, above the clatter of commands and the cacophony of boots on wood. Farden began to make his way through the strangely ordered chaos towards the aftcastle stairs. Applause rippled through the crew as the mooring anchor was cranked aboard.

  The stairs to the aftcastle curved up towards the ship’s wheel like two horns, left and right. The mage took the steps two at a time, passing deck after deck until he stood atop the towering stern. It was no less bustling there. Officers ran back and forth, yelling at their respective deckhands. Getting a ship out of port seemed to be all one big shouting match.

  Farden finally made it to his uncle’s side. ‘So here we go again.’

  ‘That we do!’ Tyrfing was trying to remain blank-faced and hide his excitement. It is hard for any man, never mind an Arka, to stand at the stern of a fine ship and feel her buck and race towards open sea without cracking a smile. Tyrfing was managing, but only just. Farden looked back at the rapidly receding wharf. The city and its ivory Arkathedral shrank behind it. No cheers to waft the morning air, no applause to rustle across the boardwalk, no flags to flap and wave, not a scrap of a send-off, nothing, as they set off to save the world once again. The world, and one maid. Farden shook his head. What a thankless task it was, this saviour malarkey.

  ‘Wheel! Two points to starboard, quick as you like!’ yelled a deep voice from behind them.

  The wheel ratchets clacked and snapped and the Waveblade swung to the right to line herself up with the mouth of the port. The sea beckoned like a forgotten mistress. Farden could already feel the waves building beneath the slick hull far below. The ship shuddered with anticipation. Or was it the crew? The shouting had not died, but the men had slowed, keeping their heads up and their eyes on the sea, biting their lips.

  There was a glorious moment of silence as the Waveblade put her nose through the gap in the mighty sea walls. A moment of silence where nothing but the slap and slip of the waves echoed back at them from the flat-faced stone. Then there was a hiss and a roar as they sprang free, and suddenly the world seemed to erupt with noise and a cold, salty wind. The Waveblade sliced through its first wild wave and sprayed the deck with its foaming entrails. The crew applauded again, and the ships of the harbour rang their bells in salute. A piercing whistle rang out on the wind, making every man and woman aboard flinch. It was Ilios, perched on the bow. Despite his nervousness, Farden had to smile too. Perhaps there was just a scrap of a farewell after all.

  ‘You alright?’ Tyrfing asked as Farden took a wider stance. Sail after sail was dropping now. The faster the ‘Blade went, the less she moved with the waves, but it would take a while to reach her finest speed. For the meantime, she was at the mercy of every trough and crest. Farden felt like his stomach was plotting an escape.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You look as white as the sails.’

  ‘No. Fine.’ Farden kept his replies short, lest his mouth stay open for too long.

  ‘Come meet the captain, Farden,’ Tyrfing gestured, and the mage moved eagerly away from the railing. Farden caught the eyes of one of the Written, a tall man with red hair. His face was also pale and his mouth firmly clamped shut. At least he wasn’t the only one.

  The man Tyrfing brought him to had all the dimensions and vital statistics of a barrel. From his bare, calloused feet, to his huge, calloused hands, to the mop of black hair tied back into a tail behind his head, the man was simply round. He wasn’t fat, not in the slightest, and he looked as though he would twist the neck clean off of anyone who dared call him such a thing. This captain was pure rope-hauling, anchor-lifting, wheel-turning muscle, and he looked proud of it too.

  ‘Farden, this is Captain Nuka, one of the finest sailors ever to drop anchor in the Port of Rós.’

  Nuka took his sharp, gravel eyes from the horizon and affixed them to Farden instead. His concentrative face broke into a beaming smile that looked as if it couldn’t hold any more teeth if it tried, and he reached forward with two hands to grasp Farden’s one. He shook the mage’s hand vigourously, laughing a laugh only a barrel-shaped chest could manage. ‘Well if it isn’t the nephew,’ chuckled Nuka. ‘Truly a pleasure to have you aboard, sir.’

  ‘And you, Captain,’ Farden smiled back, immediately liking the man. Still holding onto Farden’s hand, Nuka spared a moment to bellow at one of his officers.

  ‘Get a barrelman up the mainmast sharpish! I want storm reports hourly!’ he yelled. The officer saluted and turned to yell at his inferior. Man by man, the order was passed on down the ranks, losing none of its volume or intensity, until it found the sailor in question. He dropped whatever he was doing and jumped into the rigging like a cat after a bird. This truly was a ship of war. It made the Sarunn look like a grimy fishing boat.

  Nuka turned back to Farden and finally released his hand. ‘I’ve heard plenty about you, you see. And, might I say, it’s a fine thing what you’re doing for this maid of Modren’s. How lucky it was that we hit port this morning, eh, Tyrfing?’

  ‘Divine coincidence,’ Tyrfing smiled.

  Nuka nodded. ‘Speaking of divine, where have the, er, other guests gone?’ he asked, looking suddenly wide-eyed and wary. ‘Don’t get me wrong. It’s an honour, and I’ve got a fine, loyal crew. Don’t spend long enough on dry land to pick up any ideas besides ale and naked women, if you get my meaning, but
they’re still sailors mind, and superstitious as the next. Just a bit disconcerting, to tell the truth. Having the likes of them on board. Want to make sure they’re looked after. Kept quiet.’

  Tyrfing looked over his shoulder. The gods were nowhere to be seen. ‘I’m sure they’re fine. They want to remain inconspicuous. Special treatment might raise eyebrows.’

  Nuka winked. ‘Right you are. And these wizened old brows don’t need any more raising,’ he said, pinching his wiry salt-and-pepper eyebrows between finger and thumb. He grinned and turned to Farden. ‘I almost forgot,’ he announced, clicking a calloused finger.

  ‘What?’ Farden held his breath. The ship was moving around far too much for his liking.

  ‘Might I introduce my second mate,’ Nuka moved aside, and pointed to a woman standing a few paces away. A very familiar woman indeed. Farden couldn’t help but squint to make sure his eyes weren’t lying to him.

  Lerel strode forward, as sturdy on her feet as any practised sailor. She wore the smart and simple Waveblade uniform, and a little smile on her face. Farden had all but forgotten what she had looked like, but the memory suddenly punched him hard.

  Perhaps it punched him too hard.

  Farden’s stomach chose that moment to strike. As the bile rose up his throat, Farden mumbled something strangled and barged his way to the railing. As he spewed his guts into the rushing water below, he heard the sighs and chuckles from behind him. And so it begins, he groaned to himself.

  How right he was.

  1566 years ago

  The Sand was hot on his knees.

  Even through the metal of his armour. He could hear the pebbles grating against the greaves, trying in vain to scratch them. Fools.

  ‘Come here,’ Korrin whispered. The wolf licked its lips at him. A skinny thing, a bag of bone wrapped in flea-bitten grey fur. Sand covered one side of its face like a leper’s mask. One of its ears was notched.

  Korrin waggled the scrap of meat again, leaning forward another inch. The red meat glistened in the baking sun. It wasn’t the freshest, but it was likely better than anything the wolf had eaten in weeks, months even.

  ‘Come on,’ he muttered. ‘I won’t bite.’

  The wolf inched forward, broken claws pressing into the whispering sands. Even in the blistering heat it was shivering. Poor thing, thought Korrin. He squinted at the wolf’s eyes, little shrunken orbs of deep dark brown. He moved the meat back and forth. The eyes didn’t move. They were fixed on his breastplate, on the wolf engraved into his own armour. A little growl escaped from its throat, more of a strangled little howl. Korrin went to toss the meat, but the wolf quickly backed away, disappearing behind the lip of the dune.

  ‘Not a fan?’ rumbled a voice. Big Balimuel. There was a scraping thud as a huge broadsword dug into the sand beside him, its blade crusted with sand and blood and bone. It was almost as tall as Korrin.

  ‘Apparently not.’ Korrin stood and hurled the little scrap of meat over the dune, hoping the wolf would find it on his own.

  Balimuel cast a nod behind him. ‘Trust me, lad. There’s plenty of meat on this field for him and his kind. He’ll be so fat tomorrow, he’ll be rolling up and down these bastard dunes. Give me snow any day,’ mumbled Balimuel. The giant was right. There was no shortage of meat behind them, if it could be so callously described. Korrin glanced over his shoulder, letting his tired eyes rove over the bloody mess that was the battlefield.

  The undulating dunes were covered with the detritus of battle. The black of charred bodies. The ugly red of spilt blood and innards. The dull, smoky glint of abandoned weapons. The wind caught the moaning of the dying and the muffled flap and caw of the gathering vultures, and carried it to their ears.

  Such was the aftermath of battle. Korrin’s eyes were dulled to it now. He had already seen so many scenes like this one, in the two years since they had first donned the armour. So many battles. Hard-fought. Hard-won. Not a single piece of armour nor a single Knight had been lost, or barely even wounded for that matter.

  He shrugged. He could see the rest of the Nine, standing a little way off, gathered around a hooded figure, kneeling bent and broken in the sand.

  ‘Come,’ Balimuel shrugged. ‘Let us see the fallen King.’

  King Halophen was a battered axe-head of a man, all bones and scars. He growled as they yanked the rough sack from his head, making him blink in the hot light. Korrin knelt down by Lop and stared at the king. Smeared with blood, the king’s face was a tapestry of war and violence, its threads the knotted purple of old battles, the fresh crimson pink of new ones. His hair was tied back in a braided tail, while his beard, black and wiry like all the men of Zeuter, spread down his chest like a rash.

  The glint in his eye was nothing short of murderous, and also something curious. Amusement, Korrin judged it. Usually it was fear, or repentance, anger maybe. Never amusement.

  ‘The Nine of the North,’ rasped the old king, looking at each of the Knights in turn. Gäel, Demsin, Chast, Estina, Rosiff, Lop, Gaspid, Balimuel, Korrin… they all stared straight back, confident as their armour made them feel.

  ‘Halophen Ad-Gara,’ began Gaspid, speaking in a tired, flat tone, ‘for crimes against your people and their allies, you will be…’

  But Halophen had begun to laugh then, a dry, sand-choked chuckle, prickly in its contempt. The Knights tensed and scowled. Estina even reached for a knife.

  Gaspid tried to continue but Halophen spat something red in the sand. ‘They put a crown on me in my youth, a terrible heavy thing, all jewels and white gold. They put it on hot, see, to give you the first scar of your rule. First of many. I wondered, for a time, why it was the crowd didn’t cheer, when I came to the balcony, why they mumbled and chatted amongst themselves as they read my name, instead of falling to their feet before me. You know why, Knights? Because a crown don’t make a king, no more than a scar makes a boy a man.’ Halophen showed them his yellow teeth. ‘No more than a suit of armour makes you lord and master, judge and jury.’

  ‘They cheering now, old King?’ hissed Estina, lips pursed.

  ‘What?’ Halophen spat again.

  ‘Are they cheering for you now? Your people?’ Estina looked around at the bodies, splayed around them in a ring. They had begun to stink. ‘Don’t think they’ll be cheering anything, let alone you.’

  ‘And whose swords cut them down?’

  Gaspid shook his head. ‘And whose tongue and whips drove them here, against their will? For your greed no less.’

  Halophen chuckled again. ‘The others won’t put up with you for long. You think you have a say, in these lands, so far from your tower? Pah! You think they will listen? No. They will hunt you down, and rip that armour from your hides.’

  Lop leant closer, bringing his nose close to the bloodied mask that was the king’s face. ‘Let them try.’

  ‘Balimuel?’ Gaspid looked to the giant.

  Balimuel shook his head. ‘It’s Korrin’s turn. I took the last one’s head.’

  ‘Korrin?’

  Korrin had been staring up at one of the circling vultures. ‘Me?’

  ‘By my count,’ rumbled the giant.

  Korrin paused, counting in his head. There had been so many this year. So many kings of the south and east already fallen. Quite a dent, they had made, in their violent machinations. Dictators and maniacs all. Korrin shrugged, and wrenched his sword from its scabbard. It came free with a sandy rasp. ‘If you say so,’ he replied. He raised his blade to the crystal sky and gripped it hard. So many this year, and look how numb he was to it now. What was it his father had once said? Ain’t no pride in killing a man, no matter how you flourish your sword.

  Korrin looked down at Halophen’s exposed neck, a mottled mosaic of bruises and blood. His father had been wrong. There was pride in ridding the world of filth like this. There was honour in the spilt blood of warlords and murderers. And what had he once said to his father? He was good at this.

  ‘Last words, King?’
sighed Lop.

  Halophen grinned at the sand. ‘Your time will come, Knights. Soon. Very soon.’

  ‘So be it.’ Gaspid cleared some dust from his throat. ‘Korrin? As you please.’

  Halophen chuckled to the very last swing of the blade. Not a single Knight would have admitted it, but it was unnerving, to say the least.

  Chapter 2

  “I’m of the opinion that the phrase ‘hopelessly lost’ was invented, and remains privately reserved, for those who dare to wander the lofty crags of the Össfen Mountains…”

  Words from ‘Mountain-Climbing - A Fool’s Hobby’ by the explorer Aspold the One-Legged

  Mist clung to the scree-slope like gnats to a bog. It held the mountain close, seeping into every crack and crevice. It was cold high in the crags, cold as graveyards in winter. The wind cut like a blade through the gaps in their cloaks. The footing, slivers of shale from the grinding of mountains, was tricky and treacherous. It covered the steep incline like a frozen avalanche of rock. Only the tired jabbing of a boot seemed to stir it to action, and when it did, it slipped like a sudden river, building as it flowed. It paid to dig feet in deep.

  Samara was exhausted, more exhausted than she had ever been. The ground tugged at her weak muscles, but she fought it, as stubborn as she ever was. At least she was conscious now. Lilith could stop moaning about carrying her. Only her shoulders, ripped and torn from her spell, slowed her down.

  Samara negotiated a steep section, hopping weakly from a protuberant boulder to a flatter section of shale. For a moment it sagged beneath her, its edges crumbling away, and then remained steady. She smirked and took a moment to look around her. She even dared to look down. It was a long fall and a lonely death that spread out below her, faint in the mists. Samara threw the fall a contemptuous look. This mountain should be so lucky as to play host to her grave.