Dead Stars - Part Two (The Emaneska Series)

by Ben Galley

  Less than half a mile from the rocks, the Waveblade turned her starboard flank to the sheer face of the cliff and the sailors held their breaths as a narrow dagger of rock sidled by, casual as a statue, too close for comfort.

  ‘Port two notches. The island is close!’ Lerel hollered.

  ‘I see it,’ Nuka barked, as the keen edge of the cliff drew back to reveal a tall column of stone, built like a tall, ochre turret in the sea. Farden felt his jaw drop at the sight of it. Then the noise hit him, the noise of a million cliff-birds greeting them. It was deafening, a cackling, piercing roar like no other, only made worse by the hiss and rumble of the waves. He could see Lerel’s mouth moving as she yelled another direction, but her voice was lost in the cacophony.

  Guillemots, swippets, cormorants, puffins, foamsnatchers, rosklints, terns, and seagulls, they came in whirlwinds and waves, smothering the ship and her tall masts. They swarmed the deck, squawking and screeching and cawing and as they swooped and dove. A few snagged in the rigging, and had to be clubbed into silence before they frayed the taut ropes. The Waveblade surged on, unabated. She was poised for something, Farden could feel it.

  ‘Mages!’ yelled Tyrfing, from the port side. The mages emerged from their hiding places in the crew and began to throw random fireballs into the thick flocks. It worked like a charm. The birds, terrified by the fire, beat a hasty retreat, fleeing back to the sheer walls of their strange island, hissing and screeching from afar.

  ‘Five notches to starboard, Captain! Watch for the Bodkins!’

  ‘Aye!’ acknowledged Nuka.

  ‘The what?’ blurted Farden, as he remembered his tongue. He darted past Lerel and looked over the port side. His stomach clenched with what he saw: sharp rocks jutting out of the water at all angles, barely a few feet from the hull.

  ‘The Bodkins,’ Lerel was shouting. ‘Needle-like rocks that lead a path to the Bitch!’

  ‘The what?!’ Farden turned back to her.

  Lerel jabbed her dagger at the towering column of rock that stood directly in their path. ‘The Bitch! That great thing! Now shut up! I’m concentrating on not getting us killed.’

  Farden strangled the railing with his hands. Memories of the Sarunn made his teeth chatter. He winced as he spied a tooth of rock, unsheathed by a falling wave. It curved upwards like a fang. An old anchor was wrapped around it, just below its dagger-edge. A gravestone to some lost vessel. Farden was close to crying out when he heard the rattle of the wheel. The ship kicked, and they slid past it with only inches to spare. ‘Why’d we even come this way?’ he hissed, swearing under his breath.

  The bosun, a man Farden had heard being referred to as Roiks, stood at Nuka’s side. Hearing the mage’s cursing, he turned to grin at him. ‘Pickles the mind, don’t it!? But by Njord’s festering bollocks, you’ll see. Ain’t a current like it in the seas!’

  ‘Steady!’ Nuka shouted over the roaring of the waves, the wind, and the seabirds. It was then, leaning far out over the railing in the clutch of the most morbid curiosities, that Farden saw the method in Nuka’s madness. By some peculiar quirk of rock and sea, the channel between the Bitch and the cliffs caused a tidal race, one that flowed at a breakneck speed. Farden could see the water streaming between the rocks; frothy, pale, a blur ripped from the depths. It made him feel nauseous to watch it.

  Farden tried to stand as steadfast as the sailors around him. He clutched the railing with one hand, holding the other over his eyes so he could stare up at the lofty, dizzying heights of the cliffs and the Bitch. He couldn’t help but notice they were still heading straight for the face of the Bitch herself. It could have been the shit-painted rocks, it could have been a trick of the light, but it almost seemed to be smiling at them.

  ‘Now, Captain!’ yelled Lerel, jabbing her dagger into the crease of the map. Nuka and Roiks went to the wheel with a frantic will. Waveblade lurched like a stung sabre-cat, twisting almost around her centre to show the Bitch her port flank. Suddenly the surge of the channel snatched at them, and the ship sprang forward like a bolt from a bow, wind howling. Nuka and the rest of the crew let loose a mighty cheer. Roiks even spared a moment to flick two fingers at the Bitch as she flew past, her squawking parapets inches from the tip of the main boom.

  ‘Release!’ yelled Nuka, and the sailors sprang their trap. Clockwork and cogs clattered across the ship as levers were yanked by calloused hands. The sails burst into life, wrenched downwards and outwards by clever ropes and weights. They puffed like the chests of heroes, and the ship lurched again as the wind added its strength to the tidal race.

  Before Farden could even blink, they were skipping across the waves of a tranquil bay, the squall, the cliffs, the Bitch, and her Bodkins already shrinking behind them. ‘So that’s why,’ he muttered to the sudden quiet.

  Lerel teased her dagger from the wood. She winked. ‘That’s why. Now we can all can relax for an hour or two.’

  Roiks sauntered up, wiping a hand across his tanned brow. The bosun was a thickset man with cauliflower ears, younger than his weathered hide might have suggested. He had a mouth that would make a thug’s mother faint and that could goad a dead man from the grave, so it was said by the others. His hair had jumped ship long ago, and his knuckles bore the scars of many a fight. Despite all that, Farden supposed he seemed friendly enough. He had met worse characters in his time.

  ‘Feck me and that was close,’ he chortled, nodding to Lerel. He grinned a grin that was surprisingly full of teeth. ‘And we’ve got eats too, by the looks of it. The gods are just pissing luck down on us!’ The bosun gestured to the deck, where the sailors and soldiers were picking up the fallen birds, some already part-roasted, thanks to the mages.

  ‘Get the pots out lads!’ Roiks clapped his hands as he went down onto the deck. Heimdall was standing by a hatch, looking around at the feathered carnage. Completely unaware what sort of passenger Heimdall truly was, the bosun swaggered up to him, dead bird dangling in one hand. Roiks clapped the god hard on the back, thrust the bird into his hands, and winked. ‘That was bloody close, weren’t it?’ he chuckled, before jauntily strutting to the forecastle.

  Farden couldn’t help but wince.

  Loki was toying with a frayed bit of rope, slowly unwinding its braids. He looked up at Heimdall, who seemed frozen, staring down at the limp and bloody bird draped over his hands. It was a swippet, a bright blue and yellow cliff-bird with a long, curving beak and a crest of soft spines about its little head. Heimdall wrinkled his nose.

  ‘And you wanted to remain anonymous,’ muttered the young god.

  Heimdall let the bird fall to the deck. ‘It would be different, if they knew the truth.’

  Loki looked up at the aftcastle, where Farden stood between Lerel and Nuka. ‘I am not so sure,’ he replied. Heimdall didn’t answer. Loki tossed his rope overboard and put his hands in his pockets. He moved to stand beside the older god. ‘Any sign of them?’

  Heimdall flicked his eyes to the cliffs now retreating behind them, up to where their crumbling tops were fringed by spiky grass and teetering pebbles, where two creatures sat like clouds of smoke, grinning right back at him. Nobody had seen them but him. ‘Still they watch us.’

  ‘Why do they not strike?’

  ‘They are biding their time. This ship and its crew are strong. They will not risk it, until…’ Heimdall’s words faded away.

  ‘Until she tries again.’

  Heimdall nodded.

  ‘And is there any sign of her?’

  ‘A faint echo, to the east. Heading north still. I will climb the mast at sunset to make sure.’

  Loki turned his head to look towards the bow, where the forecastle offered a small platform to the sky. Ilios lay on it, curled up in a big, feathery ball. The gryphon had slept through all the excitement.

  ‘Do you think Farden’s plan is a sound one?’ Heimdall asked him.

  Loki looked back as if surprised that he was being asked that question, or any question at all for that
matter. It was the first time Heimdall had asked his advice since they had fallen. He sucked at his teeth, making Heimdall narrow his eyes. A most human expression. ‘Save the maid, chase the girl. I think the priorities are backward, but if she is heading where you think she’s heading, then I suppose we might just have time.’

  ‘Precious little.’

  Loki shrugged. ‘For immortal souls, we have such trouble with time-keeping.’

  Heimdall nodded and turned away, squinting into the distance. He couldn’t help but think of it, but that was the fourth time Loki had mentioned souls in the last two days. A strange occurrence, nothing more, he told himself, but it nibbled at his mind nonetheless.

  The sun died and with it the winds.

  As the bruised sky darkened to black and purple, the Waveblade found itself floating on a millpond sea, like a knife sliding gently through the glass of a mirror. It was a stillness that would have been peaceful, had it come at a different time. Not for Farden. Not on this journey.

  The mage stood at the stern of the ‘Blade, busy glaring at the star-speckled sky as if he were eyeing a crowd of thieves, hunting for the one that had stolen the wind away. They were as silent as the sea, and after a few minutes more of accusatory squinting, Farden relented, and decided to blame the sun instead. He sighed. The culprit was already long gone. He would have to take it up with him in the morning.

  A silver sickle-moon hovered in the east, looking for all the world as if some great creature had taken a bite of it. The stars clustered around her, concerned and fretting as they sparkled. Farden could imagine them wailing and crying at the plight of their silver cousin, as she tumbled slowly through the sky. But moons heal. She would be whole again soon. Farden shook his head at his abstract mood. Anything to distract him from his impatience.

  It was then that he felt a sudden warm breeze on his cheek. He heard the sails crackle behind him as they billowed outwards. Farden moved to where he could look down on the deck. There, below him, standing just a few feet from the base of the mainsail, was a trio of blue-tunic mages. They were silent and still, yet they had their arms raised to the white sails above them. Farden could see their clothes flapping and their hair shivering. Wind mages. Beloved of all sailors, and now of a certain Written. Farden smiled. He could already feel the ship starting to move. The sound of the mirror-sea splintering underneath the keel was like music to his ears. Finally.

  Farden sauntered back to his railing and poured himself one last drop of wine before bed. It was on nights like these that the never =mar used to call to him. The bottle gurgled at him as he poured. At least he had his alcohol, he thought. Small mercies.

  A sailor came to man the wheel behind him. Farden nodded to him, but they didn’t speak. It was only when another man came to the stern, a man in armour and a cloak, that the quiet, moonlit hissing of the waves was broken.

  ‘Fine night,’ said the man, gruff-voiced. He had a deep Arfell accent.

  ‘That it is,’ replied Farden, looking him up and down. The man looked like a Written. Farden could tell by the way the man lounged against the railing, oozing confidence, a confidence that only came from the feeling of a Book in your skin. Farden noted his grey hair, though it could have been the white of the moonlight, and the unique sparkle in the armour that covered his chest and legs. Scalussen, no doubt. Farden stared at the man’s face. ‘Do I know you?’ he asked.

  ‘You did,’ the man replied. ‘A bloody age ago.’

  ‘Efjar,’ ventured Farden, unsure. His visitor nodded.

  ‘The Iron Keys. Vice’s old regiment. First year.’ Farden bit his lip as a name tried to form itself in his mouth. The man beat him to it. ‘Gossfring.’

  ‘Gossfring!’ Farden blurted, like a cork escaping a beer bottle. ‘Gods, that was an age ago. I didn’t recognise you.’

  Gossfring smiled. ‘I’ve aged something terrible, I know. I remember the days when the whores wouldn’t know which one of us to swindle first, so dashing we were. Ugly bastard I am now,’ Gossfring chuckled. ‘But I tell you, if you think I’m ugly, you should see Korti. Got a face that would make a mirror cry. Hah. He’s here too, y’know. And Shol. And Enf the Boot. But I hear your memory ain’t what it used to be. On account of the…’ Gossfring waved a nondescript finger at Farden’s face.

  Farden turned back to the sea. ‘Yes.’ Rumours were like diseases. Caught from the last person who had it until it comes around again, when the first person is either dead or immune. ‘Well.’ It was all he could say. Nevermar was a curse word to the rest of his kind.

  Gossfring held up his hands. ‘Hey, I ain’t judging, Farden. I’ll leave that to the younger mages.’ He tapped his nose. ‘They whisper, but I know it’s only temporary, see?’

  Farden turned back to the man with a quizzical look. ‘Temporary? Are we talking about the nevermar, or my decision?’

  Gossfring shrugged. ‘A decision is it? A choice? Either way. It don’t matter. No hero of Efjar can banish their magick for good, not after what I saw him do to the minotaurs. Ain’t possible. You’ll see, in the desperate times we’re in. It’ll fight its way back out,’ he said, and it looked as if that was all he had come to say. He adjusted his cloak and half-turned to leave. ‘We just wanted you to know it’s a pleasure having you back with us. There may be a few who doubt you, but for us vets… well, once a Written, always a Written. Tough life it is. Makes you do tough things. Things no man can explain. Things no man should need to explain.’ Gossfring chuckled then. ‘Ramblin’, aren’t I? Anyways, that’s all I wanted to say. Enjoy your wine, Farden.’

  Farden nodded a goodnight to the man and watched him leave. It was a while before he moved, deep in thought over Gossfring’s simple wisdom.

  When he finally did move, he reached for the bottle and let its mouth hover over his empty glass. A single drop of wine dribbled from it, and then he tilted it back. He held it up to his eyes and the silver moon and swilled the dregs of it around. ‘Hero,’ Farden muttered to himself and the wind. Gossfring’s words swam around his head.

  Farden dangled the bottle over the railing and let his hand grow limp. The bottle landed in the ship’s wake with a splash, lost to the inky, silver-lined blackness. Even though his eyes had lost sight of it, Farden aimed a hesitant hand at the sea and the unseen target. He strained so much that his fingers bent to claws, and the tendons stood out like bones on the back of his hand. For a long time, nothing happened. Then, just as he couldn’t stand the pain in his head any longer, a puff of flame burst from his palm. It was a little sputter, a cough of fire, something a candle might be proud of but nothing more. To Farden it was a fountain of flame. An onslaught. He clenched his hand as the magick burnt him, and bit his lip. He felt guilty, then, for a moment, for trying to resurrect his magick, after all those years trying to kill it.

  But maybe Gossfring was right. ‘Desperate times and all that,’ he told himself, thinking of the door in the Arkathedral. Elessi was still in danger. He hadn’t saved her yet. Besides, Farden lectured to himself, perhaps it would be different. Perhaps he wasn’t a curse any more. Perhaps he was something new, or something very old.

  In the darkness, there might have been a smile on his face. Hero. He had been called that before.

  He had forgotten how much he liked the sound of it.

  Chapter 4

  “Ships have a curious relationship with the sea. The sea both loathes and loves them. A fickle mistress, she. Caressing the keel one minute, dashing the bow against the rocks the next. That is why we must pray to Njord, and pray that his sea remains a kind lady.”

  From the diary of Captain Rasserfel, in the year 801

  ‘Up!’ the sergeant bellowed. A score of sweating bodies pushed themselves off the scrubbed deck. ‘Down!’ came the shout, and the bodies kissed the wood with their noses. ‘Halfway up and hold it!’ The sergeant swaggered through the rows and lines, tapping arms with his boots. He could see their arms shivering with the tension. ‘Hold it!’ he yelled in their e
ars.

  At the far corner of the group, one of the men sagged and crumpled to the floor. The sergeant cast him a look, mouth poised to bellow, and then thought better of it. He turned away and let his lungs loose on the others instead. ‘And up again!’ he shouted. At the edge of his eye, he spied the man slowly but surely pushing himself back up.

  It was the mage. The one who had come aboard at Krauslung with the Arkmage and the Written. The one who had spewed his guts down the port side not a minute out of the harbour. He was a sweaty wreck if the sergeant had ever seen one, a feeble and exhausted mess, but by Njord, he had the determination of an iron bar.

  ‘Up! Down! Up! Down!’ the sergeant yelled his orders in quick succession. The soldiers and sailors bobbed up and down like flotsam on a wave. In the corner, the man crumpled to the deck again. The sergeant pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

  Farden was tired. His body was screaming. His mind was the only thing still capable of moving. He thrust at the deck with his palms but his body refused to move. He rolled onto his back and lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. Somebody grabbed his wrist and dragged him out of the exercise squad and into the sweet shade underneath the bulwark. He squinted up at his saviour. His uncle.

  ‘Tsk. Know your limits, boy,’ Tyrfing tutted, as he passed him a wooden cup of cold water.

  ‘You haven’t called me that in years,’ Farden wheezed. ‘When are people going to learn that I really, really hate being called that?’

  Tyrfing shrugged and turned back to watch the others train.

  It was a fresh morning, the kind that makes the teeth ache if breathing in too sharply. The kind where the sun sits behind a veil of constant misty cloud, teasingly warm. The kind where the sea is a lazy blanket of grey-blue, where ships rely on wind mages and the momentum of the day before. A day neither here nor there. Half-asleep and plodding. Just like their progress.