Dead Stars - Part Two (The Emaneska Series)

by Ben Galley

  ‘Fog-giants,’ murmured one of the nearby sailors. ‘They’ll clobber us to bits. This is how they hunt, you see. They run ships aground and then have their way with them.’

  ‘No such things,’ hissed Roiks, from the step above him. Every whisper seemed loud on the deck of the silent ship. The whole crew could have heard a mouse cough.

  The sailor turned, wide-eyed and earnest. ‘There is, I say. My cousin’s ship ran aground near Belephon. They were tinder in minutes. Said great fists formed out of fog and smashed ‘em to splinters. No survivors.’

  ‘Then how did your cousin come to tell you that story, hmm?’

  That foxed the sailor. ‘Well…’

  ‘Pipe down!’ Nuka grunted from the wheel and all fell silent save for the waves, the creaking of the ropes, and the breathing of the sailors as they stood by, ready for anything. Tyrfing had the mages on deck, just in case.

  Farden was standing at the railing of the stern, looking back at their bubbling wake as it disappeared into the fog. A length of knotted twine unravelled behind the ship, bejewelled with water droplets. Farden followed its brown length through the gap in the railing and onto the ship, where it slowly unwound from a little wheel. It squeaked as each knot left it.

  ‘Eighty-seven,’ whispered Gabbant, as he bent over the table that Lerel was poring over, maps and scraps of parchment spread out in front of her in no discernible order. She furiously scribbled down a few calculations with one hand, while the other gently wandered across a map of the Nelska coastline.

  ‘Three points to port, Cap’n,’ she called, and Nuka flicked the wheel.

  Farden didn’t dare ask how she knew where they were. Their process looked far too intricate to disturb. Though the air was cold, a little bead of sweat had gathered on Lerel’s forehead. It sounded as though she hadn’t taken a breath in at least a minute.

  Farden shook his head and wandered to the steps where Roiks and a handful of sailors stood ready for orders. They were whispering earnestly about something. Nuka was too busy to chide them again. Farden couldn’t help but listen in.

  ‘Wreckwitch.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Wreckwitches. Siren bitches who draw ships into rocks with wind and fog, then once they’ve floundered they come aboard and drink the blood of the crew.’

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘It’s the truth.’

  ‘About as truthful as an Albion merchant, you are.’

  ‘Well, this ain’t natural fog, lads, so what is it?’

  ‘Who knows.’

  ‘Almost as if something don’t want to be seen.’

  ‘Njord’s balls, lads, we’re in league with the Sirens. Naught to fear from them.’

  There was a moment as one of the sailors looked up into the fog. ‘Sure about that, bosun?’ he asked.

  An eerie silence came and went. It was broken by the sound of Roiks snorting and then spitting something over the side. ‘Sure as a loaded die, lad. Now pipe down so the Cap’n can hear himself think,’ he ordered, and the sailors said no more. Farden turned to his left where his uncle stood behind Nuka and the wheel. He had been listening just like everybody else. The two mages swapped a look, one that ached with sudden suspicion.

  There couldn’t have been a more inappropriate time for a dragon to roar, but it did, somewhere high and lost in the fog, leaving them with its rumbling echoes. Every neck craned. Every eye turned upwards. Nuka handed the wheel to nearby Hasterkin and stood next to Tyrfing. Farden had to step closer to hear the captain’s hushed words.

  ‘How long exactly did you say it was that the Sirens have been ignoring your hawks?’ Nuka mouth in the Arkmage’s ear.

  ‘Ignoring is a strong word,’ breathed Tyrfing, ‘but several months.’

  ‘I’m not one to put weight in the pockets of the superstitious sailor stereotype, your Mage, but I think it would be wise to…’ Farden lost the rest of that sentence to Lerel calling another direction.

  ‘Another point port!’

  He turned back to find Tyrfing nodding. Nuka put his fingers between his teeth and blew hard. Farden had never heard a whistle so piercing. ‘To quarters!’ came the order. It was as if the whole crew had been simultaneously bitten by something with very large fangs. The deck erupted into a fountain of activity. Men scampered into the mast to tuck sails. Hatches were battened. Sheets of thin armour were slid across the scattered skylights. Men poured into the decks below and then promptly poured back out again, weapons in their hands. Rolled hammocks and blankets were shoved against the bulwarks. Water mages went to and fro, soaking the decks and the flanks of the ship. Pulleys rattled, ropes squeaked, and somewhere deep inside the ship cogs were turning.

  Farden moved to the nearby railing. To his fascination, he saw the armoured hull peeling apart. Rows of hatches were beginning to creep open underneath the circular shields that were bolted to the bulwarks. In jolting increments, the wooden hatches were cranked and levered up and up until they all sat at a high angle. Crossbows and arrowheads began to peep out from behind chain-mail curtains. Some were held by the ship’s soldiers, some slid out on their own runners. It was a marvel of military machinery. Every inch of it screamed Tyrfing.

  The Arkmage in question was running back and forth along the aftcastle, watching his mechanical marvels twitch and click. He was close to climbing the mizzen mast when Farden caught his arm. ‘Is this really happening?’

  Tyrfing looked around. ‘Precautions, nephew.’

  Farden winced. He trailed in his uncle’s wake as he hurried down the steps and under the mainmast. ‘Inwick! You and another, up to the crow’s nest! Heim…’ Tyrfing caught himself just in time. He grabbed Farden’s wrist. He wasn’t surprised to find it firmly armoured. ‘Find Heimdall,’ he hissed.

  Farden didn’t have to. ‘There,’ he said, and pointed to the bow, where Heimdall was standing on the bowsprit with Loki. Ilios was still on his platform, but he was now wide awake. He and the gods were staring straight up into the impenetrable fog.

  A great stillness fell over the Waveblade as the last rope was tied off and the last hatch raised. The entire crew fell silent as mice, listening only to the slapping of the waves beneath them, the cotton echoes of the fog, waiting, but for what they did not know, though most suspected it involved wings, and teeth, and claws. Some crouched, staring into the sky and the rigging. Others hunkered down and muttered prayers to Njord and Evernia and to whomever else was listening. Only Lerel spoke, giving headings to Nuka, and even she whispered. The Waveblade was as still as the fog it pierced.

  A long howl from far above sent the crew into a fresh state of muttering. Anybody who had ever heard the roaring of a wild wyrm or dragon knew what it meant. Hunting call.

  ‘Silence!’ hissed Tyrfing, from the bow, the air close, like a jealous lover.

  Farden was still pacing about, incredulous. He raised up his hood, as if he hoped the shadow of it would make his urgent eyes shine brighter. ‘Are you seriously expecting the Sirens to attack us? Have I missed some snippet of insanity while I was away?’ he mumbled to his uncle.

  Tyrfing ignored him. ‘Heimdall? Ilios? What can you see?’

  Heimdall was squinting. ‘Four of them. Cream-white. Curled horns. Nails like crumbled rock. Northern dragons.’

  A memory bubbled up from nowhere. ‘Lost Clans,’ Farden said. He remembered saw-blade claws and lava-rock eyes, a silent dragon and a haughty rider’s grin. Lord of the Castle of the Winds…

  Tyrfing looked at him quizzically and then nodded. ‘Too far south to be a simple hunting run,’ he bit his lip. ‘Any more?’

  Heimdall scanned the sky, making all the others look up as well. ‘None. Not a flash of colour in sight. Though this air, this fog,’ he paused then. ‘It is not natural.’

  Another roar echoed through the grey fog, closer this time. Half the crew ducked instinctively. Shushing whispers flew across deck. Ilios warbled from the corner of his beak. Heimdall murmured the translation. ‘Male. A big g
rey and no rider. He seems to be chasing something.’

  No sooner had the deep words left Heimdall’s mouth than a distant patch of fog blossomed orange. The whooshing sound of flame and the splash of some unfortunate seabird drifted by shortly after. Ilios growled as softly as any gryphon could.

  ‘Something is wrong,’ this from Tyrfing.

  Farden sighed, laden with many thoughts. ‘I think you’re right.’

  With a nod to Heimdall and Loki, the two mages crept back to the aftcastle. Tyrfing whispered orders as he passed each man. ‘Silence now. Not a noise,’ he urged.

  Roiks was still trading hearsay on the stairs with another sailor when they passed him.

  ‘I hear a dragon can spy the heat of a man’s heart, and ‘is breath too.’

  ‘That ain’t true. They would have come down on us already.’

  ‘True it is.’

  ‘Roiks,’ chided Nuka. ‘Silence.’

  Roiks threw a rough salute and fell silent. ‘Aye, Cap’n.’

  Tyrfing, Nuka, and Farden bent their heads together. ‘Roiks is right,’ said Farden.

  Nuka made a concerned face. ‘About our hearts?’ he asked.

  Tyrfing shook his head. ‘No. But they can sniff out magick. It’s why the wild ones hunt it.’

  ‘I’ve got several scars to prove it, if you’d like to see,’ Farden offered.

  Nuka waved a hand. ‘Then, begging the question, why aren’t we aflame this very moment? We must be a beacon of magick with all these mages aboard.’

  ‘Must be this fog. Heimdall said it wasn’t normal.’

  Silence, but for the fog, the creaking ship, and for the roaring circle of dragons above.

  Farden rubbed his nose. ‘We need to go ashore.’

  ‘What, all of us?’

  ‘No, just a few. You and I. Heimdall maybe. To see what’s truly going on here,’ said Farden. Tyrfing made a face at his suggestion. Farden narrowed his eyes at him. ‘Spit it out, uncle.’

  ‘I agree with going ashore, but with all… to be honest…’ Farden’s eyes got narrower. Tyrfing let the words tumble out. ‘I don’t think you’re fit enough to come, Farden.’

  As Farden opened his mouth to speak, there was a whoosh of wings overhead. A dark shadow skimmed through the fog, dragging wind behind it. It was so close it worried the pennant at the tip of the mainmast.

  The Waveblade held its breath. The silence in the dragon’s wake was almost painful in its severity. Teeth clenched like vices. Fingers strangled cloth, rope, and railing. Abdomens clenched and brows furrowed. A gryphon poised itself. Breath lingered in the darkest parts of lungs, burning.

  Just as the ship was teetering on the cusp of exhaling, somebody foolish dropped their sword.

  The peal of the blade striking an iron shutter was enough to wake even a Krauslung drunk. There was a screech, almost of delight, as the dragon heard the clang and clatter through the fog. A dark shape wheeled and flapped. There was a treacherous moment in which the whole crew hoped the dragon was not a foe after all, instead some benevolent emissary sent by the Old Dragon to guide them into port. That concept was quickly and universally eradicated as soon as the first spout of curling flame flirted with the iron point of the bowsprit.

  Nuka let his lungs and tongue loose. ‘Forward ranks, fire at will! Wind mages, get us moving! Roiks, give that overgrown lizard the full prickly glory of our broadsides when I turn her. Let’s show this beast what steel tastes like!’ he yelled, as he spun the wheel as far over as it would go. The Waveblade lurched to do his bidding.

  Tyrfing whirled around to order Farden to get below. Much to his horror, he found his nephew standing calmly with his arms crossed and his boots untied, laces trailing tauntingly.

  ‘Don’t you dare…’ he gasped.

  ‘Looks like you don’t have much of a choice in the matter, uncle,’ Farden shrugged, and before Tyrfing could even flinch, he was kicking off his boots and hopping frantically towards the nearest railing.

  ‘Stop!’ Tyrfing shouted, leaping after him. But it was hopeless.

  With a kick of his feet, a mock salute, and one last grim look at the icy water, Farden hurled himself overboard, leaving nothing but his boots wobbling on the deck.

  ‘Man overboard!’ A woman’s voice. Probably Lerel. It was the last thing the mage heard before the ice-cold sea knocked the air from him.

  The words he heard next were very clear indeed.

  ‘You’re a dim-witted, cretinous, obtuse, ignorant, blunt-nosed fuckwit, Farden, and that’s all I will trust myself to say at this moment in time.’

  ‘You forgot stubborn,’ Farden spluttered. It wasn’t often in life that a man gets to involuntarily punctuate his words with sea-water. This, unfortunately, was one of those times. Farden had experienced one before and from what he remembered, it hadn’t improved much. He retched and spat.

  Farden was dropped on the shingle like a sack of dead bones. Tyrfing stood over him and swung his arms in a circle to warm them up. He winced at the cold that was trying its hardest to penetrate his chest. ‘What were you thinking, boy?’ he wheezed.

  ‘Of a way to get you and I ashore.’

  ‘Well… you certainly did that,’ Tyrfing spat sand from his mouth. He pressed his hands to his armoured chest and pressed hard. Within a few brief moments, steam was coming from his wet robe. Farden waved his hands and slapped his own chest, his tongue too cold to get the words out. Tyrfing rolled his eyes and knelt by his nephew’s side. He spread a hand over his ribs and pushed down. Farden winced as the magick stung him. The heat was intense, like the fire burnt at the centre of his bones.

  ‘See? This is why I wanted you to stay behind. You’re still on the verge of exhaustion. You can’t handle magick. Not to mention the fact that you’re about as good a swimmer as a boulder troll,’ hissed Tyrfing. He looked around. The fog was as thick on the beach as it was on the sea. The world around them was monochrome; a canvas of wet slate, granite, and fog. Even the tide-abandoned seaweed had been dyed a charcoal grey. It was about as welcoming as it was warm. ‘And what exactly was your plan, anyway? Now that we’re here? Why just the t…’ His questioning came to an abrupt halt when they heard a commotion somewhere out to sea, muffled by the fog. The two mages turned to listen as there was a deep thud and a roar. Silence followed and they both frowned.

  ‘We need to get off this beach,’ Farden coughed. He put his red-gold fists against the stones with a clank and pushed himself up. He couldn’t hide the fact that his arms shook with the effort and the cold.

  ‘If the rest of your plan is as well-thought out as that, I cannot wait to hear it.’

  ‘Sarcasm does not become an Arkmage.’

  Tyrfing grunted, and shed his soaking white robe. The armour underneath glittered in its intricacy. Farden chose to keep his cloak on. Despite the spell, he had to fight to keep from shivering as he waited for his uncle to stow his unwanted clothes under a slab of granite. Hearing the frantic drum-roll of chattering teeth, Tyrfing looked up. Farden was going a paler shade of blue. He almost looked like Durnus. His scars stuck out, pink and livid. Wet hair clung to his face like the tentacles of some dishevelled, black squid. Tyrfing shook his head. ‘You’re not ready,’ he muttered. Farden threw him an acidic look.

  ‘For what?’

  A sigh. ‘Anything.’

  Farden simply sneered, and began to trudge up the beach. He moved as quietly as his feet and the shingle would allow. He soon heard his uncle catching up. His steel sabatons played dull notes on the stones.

  The peculiar thing about fog is that it is a canvas for the imagination. The mind paints its own monsters on its grey wisps. Tendrils become claws. Whorls become faces. Shadows of cliffs and rocks become crouching enemies. Ambushes. Marauders. Dragons. Farden glared at each and every one of them, but nothing came. They all faded as the fog swirled.

  Only when another dull boom rumbled through the fog did Farden turn around. He hesitated. ‘Do you think…?’

 
; ‘No, no I do not. That ship was built to fight daemons. A few dragons should be manageable,’ Tyrfing replied tersely. His tone was a concoction of uncertainty and anger, the latter directed at the former and at Farden for causing it.

  It was a long and silent walk that took them to the sheer cliff-face that marked the edge of the beach. The mountain rose up out of the wet boulders and splintered shingle without so much as an introduction or a gentle angle. In places, it actually lent out past the vertical, making little hollows and miniature caves for the fog to linger in. Farden and Tyrfing looked around for some sort of a path, or a road, or anything that would lead them somewhere civilised. No luck.

  Tyrfing crossed his arms. ‘Now what?’

  Farden scowled and pondered the question for a moment. He then dug into his cloak pocket and produced a copper coin, bitten by a sliver of green rust on one side. Tyrfing rolled his eyes. ‘Scales, we go left, Arkathedral, we go right,’ decided Farden.

  ‘It’s such a treat to see sheer tactical brilliance in action.’

  Farden glared. ‘What’s your problem, uncle?’

  ‘Your impetuosity, for one.’

  ‘I think you’ll find I’m the only one doing what’s necessary. I’m doing what we came here to do.’

  ‘You’re doing the first thing that came into your head, nothing more. Like the same old Farden.’

  Farden’s reply was sickly in its scorn. ‘Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint. Everybody likes a bit of nostalgia.’

  Tyrfing tried to summon some patience. ‘Just toss the damn coin.’

  Farden did so. With a chime, the coin rose, and fell, and Farden held his palm out for his uncle to see. ‘Scales. Left it is,’ he said. He turned and walked away before Tyrfing could venture a reply.