Dead Stars - Part Two (The Emaneska Series)

by Ben Galley

  They marched into the room in pairs. Malvus had sent a dozen for him. Their short spears were low and levelled and their armour polished to perfection. Some looked worried, while others looked victorious, even contemptuous. They surrounded the Arkmage with a circle of spears, and then a man stepped forward to take his hands.

  ‘Arkmage Durnus,’ he announced, in a loud voice. ‘Your presence is required in the great hall.’

  Durnus raised an eyebrow as he felt a hand grab his arms. He heard the clink of metal. He could smell the familiar scents of a certain brand of pipe tobacco, conjoined with lashings of a dubious perfume. Up until now, they had been the scents of a loyal and faithful man. Stressed, over-worked, but faithful. Or so Durnus had thought. Stress, it seemed, could bend the strongest of steel with time and pressure. ‘Colonel Jarvins,’ Durnus said, with a sour look, wondering what his price had been. Rumour had it Jarvins had an ambitious wife, with dreams far above that of a guard’s status. ‘And am I refusing to attend?’ he asked, meaning the irons.

  Jarvins shook his head. ‘It’s for your safety. And for ours, your Mage.’

  Durnus felt a cold loop of iron encircle each of his wrists. Too cold to be natural. There was magick in the metal. ‘So be it,’ he said, and with that, the Arkmage Durnus was marched from his rooms.

  Step after confident step, they marched him across the marble floors. Durnus could hear the occasional gasp of a servant. The grim nod of others. The smiling teeth of council members standing by. Durnus grit his teeth and held tightly to his calm. With every step and passer-by the urge to resist became greater and greater. The guards must have felt the fire in him; he could tell from their steps that they gave him a pace or two of extra room. The iron around his wrist became colder.

  Soon enough he was brought to a halt. They were still a few corridors from the great hall, standing at what Durnus guessed to be Modren and Elessi’s door. He made a wry face. They must have been brave indeed. No surprise then that he now heard the breathing of another dozen guards, maybe a score. No chances were to be taken with a grieving Undermage.

  ‘Ready?’ asked Jarvins. Durnus wondered if he were talking to him, but a grunt from the other guards told him different. He stared straight ahead and waited for the chaos to unfold. He knew Modren would not go as quietly as he. Politics were last on his list of what he cared for at the moment.

  Durnus did not have to wait very long at all.

  As the guards formed up in pairs before the door, shields at the ready, somebody reached for the doorknob. His fingers had barely graced it before it exploded outwards, with all the ferocity of a sling-stone. It slammed into the chest of the nearest guard and floored him with a clang and a surprised ‘Oof!’

  The heavy door came next, bursting from its hinges in a flash of light and black smoke. Still in one entire piece, it flew from the doorway and introduced itself to the first rank of guards, smashing them against the opposite wall. Modren stood in the door’s charred wake. Ice spun around his left hand. His right had become the colour and texture of the marble itself.

  ‘Treacherous bastards,’ he spat. He saw Durnus standing nearby, and saw the spears that had suddenly leapt up to tickle his pale throat.

  The guards had already picked themselves up and formed a wall of shields around the doorway. This was the Evernia guard after all, highly-trained and clad head to toe in powerful anti-magick armour, armour Tyrfing had helped to perfect. Unfortunately, they were the finest guards within a thousand miles. Sadly, they weren’t the most loyal.

  ‘Kill the spells, mage,’ ordered Jarvins. He had splinters in his hair.

  Modren bared his teeth like a dog. There was a dangerous moment, but at last he did as he was told.

  The order came. ‘Clap him in irons.’

  ‘The hell you will, Jarvins, you snake…’ spat the Undermage. Fire ran along his arms as a threat. But it was no use. Half a dozen spears were held to Durnus’ neck again. He growled, and put out his flames.

  Jarvins gestured to his men, who wrestled Modren’s arms behind his back. ‘Council Barkhart’s orders, I think you’ll find,’ said the colonel, almost conversationally.

  ‘I don’t take orders from worms.’

  Jarvins smiled. ‘You do now.’

  Side by side, Modren and Durnus were marched through the golden doors of the great hall and pushed to their knees. A huge crowd of council members were waiting for them. Every single one of them was wearing a smile that Modren longed to burn from their faces. He struggled and writhed like a criminal facing the gibbet.

  Malvus was standing at the foot of Evernia’s statue, calm, collected, and as happy as could be. He was wearing a long coat of red and grey, complimented by a white shirt and black trousers with creases so sharp they could have drawn blood. His thin black shoes were polished to glorious mirrors. He drummed his nails on Evernia’s marble dais while he savoured every inch of the scene in front of him. For some reason, there was a battered old warhammer leaning next to him, but for the moment it was ignored. Malvus brushed a lock of waxy hair from his eyes and raised his hands. The crowd behind him murmured excitedly. ‘Shall we?’ he asked with a smile.

  There was a loud chorus of, ‘AYE!’ from the crowd. It made the mages’ blood boil, but only Modren let it show.

  Malvus swept a long length of sand-coloured parchment from the statue’s base. It was so long that he walked ten paces toward the mages and most of it still lingered between Evernia’s feet. With a supercilious smile, he held it up for everyone in the hall to see. Edge to edge, it was covered in the scribblings of a thousand different hands, in lines of names and ink-stained X’s. Malvus held it up like a trophy, like the head of some defeated general.

  ‘I shall keep this brief,’ he intoned. He tossed the parchment to the floor in front of Durnus and Modren. The Undermage stared at it as though it were a diseased rat. Modren mouthed some of the names to himself.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Durnus.

  ‘A list of traitors,’ muttered Modren.

  ‘This,’ interrupted Malvus, ‘is a petition signed by the city, by high-ranking mages, sergeants, lieutenants, and colonels, by School instructors, appointed magick council members, renowned merchants, property owners, and of course, the people themselves. Why? Well, according to the founding writings of this council, we, as the majority, have the right, nay, the privilege to call for the abdication of Arkmages should they be judged unfit to rule.’ Malvus gestured to the parchment snaking along the floor. ‘It appears that the people and their appointed have spoken, dear sirs. It appears you are most unfit indeed.’

  Durnus kept his chin high. ‘And they are the richer for it, I am sure.’

  ‘How much does it cost, exactly, to buy that many scrawls, Malvus?’ hissed Modren.

  A rustle of chuckling ran through the crowd and the guards at the door. They knew the truth, they simply didn’t care. Every single soul in that great hall knew they simply had to recite the lines and play the part. The city would be none the wiser, like an audience to a play. There would be no peeking behind the scenery. It was a farce. A comedy of traitors. The Copse was having its day.

  Malvus wisely avoided getting too close to the red-faced Modren. He whispered in Durnus’ ear instead. ‘Less than you might imagine, let me tell you that,’ he grinned, then stood and turned in a swift movement, managing to flick Durnus in the face with his coattails as he turned.

  ‘And so,’ he announced to the hall, ‘It gives me the great honour to announce to this city, this country, and its armies, that Arkmages Durnus and Tyrfing no longer have the right to their thrones or to their titles. The title and position of Arkmage is hereby suspended from this day until this council, acting on behalf of the people, finds a suitable replacement or alternative. This council has spoken!’ There was a deafening cheer as Malvus finished speaking. He swaggered back and forth past the statue. Those near enough clapped him on the back, laughing and grinning. He smiled through wily lips.

  Wi
th a flourish of his coattails and the squeak of boots upon the marble, he raised his hands to his crowd. ‘And who shall steer this council true until such times as a worthy replacement can be found?’

  ‘Malvus!’

  ‘Malvus!’

  ‘Malvus!’ came the shouts, the sickeningly eager shouts. Modren glared fire and brimstone into every eye he could meet. Durnus stared sightlessly at the floor while he waited for the noise to die away.

  When it did, Malvus was there, standing over both of them, hands on hips. ‘Fortunately for you, the city has decided that execution would be a step too far. At least for now,’ he chuckled, and then gestured to the guards. ‘Take these failures to the prison. Toss them somewhere dark and cold, where they can reflect on their crimes of neglect and greed. And take that maid of theirs too. The sick one. She can share her husband’s fate,’ he ordered.

  It was fortunate that Malvus called for the guards the moment he did, for his mention of Elessi sent Modren into a flaming rage. A literal flaming rage. He thrashed and he lunged and he kicked and he spat, and all the while his clothes and skin sputtered into deep orange flame. His eyes were mad, his threats and shouts just guttural barks, like a wolf set ablaze.

  Malvus was startled to the say the least. His calm composure cracking for just a moment, he stumbled backwards and almost tripped over his own shoes. He smoothed his coat with his hands as Modren was hauled away by half a dozen guards, fire charring the marble beneath him. ‘As if we needed more proof!’ he yelled. More cheers came from the council.

  Only Durnus remained calm and still. He was pulled to his feet by his shackles. The guards gave him a moment to speak before they hauled him away. Malvus strutted around him. ‘Any last words, Durnus?’

  ‘Many. But only a few shall suffice,’ he said, in a voice as brittle as an autumn leaf, yet as cold as the winter it dreaded. As Malvus came to a sneering halt in front of him, Durnus somehow managed to fix him with a glassy stare that raised the hairs on the nape of his neck. Durnus continued, speaking only to him. ‘I pity you, Barkhart. Your glory will be as fleeting as the morning frost. There will always be a schemer like you, you see. They could be behind you, in your faithful crowd. They may be in the city below. They may even be a thousand miles from here, so far blissfully unaware, but they will come, one day, and challenge you. They will flock to usurp you. Undermine you with tongues and coinpurses, like you have done to Tyrfing and I. They will see a stone that needs kicking from the mountaintop. A bare neck ready for the blade. Trust me, they will come, and when they do, you will know your errors. Good luck, I say.’ Durnus chuckled then; a single, condemning snort that rattled Malvus more than any laugh or a threat ever could. Only the future that the seer showed him, spoken over tea-leaves that morning in the cobbled street, allowed him to cling to his confidence. Malvus quickly waved the guards away and Durnus was hauled away by his elbows, heels sliding across the marble. He kept his misty eyes on Malvus until the golden doors were shut in his face.

  Another mighty cheer went up from the council then, accompanied by an eager rattle of applause and back-clapping. Malvus turned and strode purposefully towards Evenia’s statue. With a heave, he seized the old warhammer and swung it onto his shoulder. He marched into the crowd and they parted like water before a sharp keel. Hands patted him on the shoulders as he walked by. Laughing words of congratulations swirled in his wake. Malvus didn’t say a word to any of them.

  When the crowd fell silent, Malvus stood in front of the twin thrones, so still he seemed frozen to the marble. Several minutes he stood there, as the whispers began to build yet again. One man stepped forward, peeling away from the crowd, and raised a curious finger.

  ‘Malvus?’ he asked. ‘Are you…?’ His question trailed off as Malvus began to move. He raised his hammer high into the air, as high as his arms could reach. It teetered for a moment, clasped by white, stretching fingers, and then it was brought down with an ear-splitting crack, colliding with the very centre of the twin thrones. A half-shocked gasp went up from the council. The rest flinched at the noise and watched, wide-eyed, as Malvus brought the hammer down and down again, in great furious swings. Marble chips and milk-white dust flew like sea-spray. The guards ran forward and then floundered in hesitation, unsure if this was a step of treachery too far. None dared stray into the arc of the swinging hammer. Malvus was sweating now, somehow speeding up, not slowing down. The hammer-blows rained as though he were a seasoned blacksmith. The tendons stood out on his rolled-up forearms like cords. He grunted and hissed with every strike, grinning through the dust, a rabid dog.

  Within minutes, one half of the twin thrones was a battered, obliterated mess. It lay on the floor in chips and chunks, a mound of featureless disarray. Unmatched craftsmanship, smashed and scarred to nothing. Panting, Malvus paused for a second to admire his work, and then with one last swing, he split the nearby Underthrone in half. Its broken back fell onto the floor, spitting marble as it split again. The warhammer fell with it, cast aside with a loud clang and left to wallow in its own destruction.

  The council watched with wide eyes as Malvus took to the scarred steps of the remaining throne. He took his time, nudging broken marble aside with his toes as he took each glorious step. Had he been facing the council, they would have seen a smile on his face so wide that they would have feared for the safety of his cheeks. Then, at the summit, with a clap and a rub of dusty hands, Malvus Barkhart turned and slowly sank into the seat of the throne. Many years abruptly culminated into that one act of gravity. His heart thumped.

  All was achingly silent in the great hall. Malvus stared straight ahead, waiting, drumming his dusty, marble-bitten nails. Then, one by one, the council began to drop to its knees. Malvus’ smile got even wider. ‘Ring the bells!’ he ordered, with a laugh. ‘Ring every bell! Let the city know what it has done today!’ What I’ve done today, though this was to himself.

  Chapter 8

  “No better guise than a shapeshifter’s hide.”

  Latter section of an Albion parable

  Hjaussfen was an exercise in darkness. Darkness, and a stench only a rat could savour. The mountain fortress was as quiet as a graveyard, and in more than one place, it played the same role.

  The precarious stairs had delivered them straight into the windowless bowels of the mountain. It was pitch black save for the occasional stubborn torch. It was a mercy in a way. There had been fighting there. The vicious sort. The fruits of it lay sprawled and twisted in corners. The darkness did its best to give the corpses an inkling of respect. Whatever had happened to the mountain, it had happened quickly and brutally. It sparked fresh prickles of worry and fury in Tyrfing and Farden.

  The mages crept between storerooms and servants’ quarters, steam-starved baths and abandoned guard posts. The long stairs had taken their toll on Farden’s legs and now he had fallen behind Tyrfing. He didn’t seem to mind; the Arkmage was like a master thief, thoroughly in his element, tiptoeing back and forth, darting and probing. He let his magick flow into both light and shadow, illuminating the darker paths, but wrapping himself in shadow at every corner and junction. The spells flowed out of him like wine from a skin. It was effortless to watch, but irksome too. Farden scrunched up his face more than once. He tried a spell, just once, out of curiosity, but his body still wasn’t ready. The magick stung him, a blinding headache came and went, and so he left well enough alone.

  To the untrained eye, the deep reaches of the mountain fortress might have seemed bloody, but abandoned. The guard on the stairs had proven to them otherwise. As did the occasional echo of voices or footsteps, the smattering of fresh crumbs by a bench, or the drag-marks of some bloody altercation, still tacky to the touch.

  ‘This is making my blood boil,’ hissed Farden, as they passed a figure curled around a splintered door-frame, displaying the sort of disturbing stillness that only a corpse can. The mage’s voice sounded foreign in the silence.

  Tyrfing nodded as he peeked around a corner.
His blood had been boiling since the beach. ‘Stairs,’ he breathed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stairs. They’ll take us up.’

  Farden felt strong enough to take the lead. His sword was out and low, barely grazing the granite floor. Tyrfing strode behind him, hands out, dangerous.

  As they set foot to the wide, simple stairs, they heard an echo murmur to them. Something from the levels above, like the rustling of a great tree, or a giant snake shuffling along. Uncertainty was a painful thing, in moments like that. It made the breath catch at the back of the throat. Tyrfing stifled another cough as Farden moved on ahead.

  The source of the murmuring was soon discovered: Feet. Hundreds of barely-covered feet walking in a silent line. The mages watched them from the top of the stairs, down the length of a long corridor, dark except for its distant end, where shadows and their owners shambled along in droves. Soldiers, their armour and mail glinting, telltale, in the torches they carried, marched alongside them. Even at that distance, the mages could see them shoving and pushing their captives along.

  ‘Reminds me of a Krauslung we liberated, a long time ago,’ muttered Farden.

  ‘At least we have no Vice to fight.’

  ‘No, just the entirety of the Lost Clans.’

  Tyrfing shrugged as if that truly didn’t worry him. ‘Let’s go.’

  Go they did. As quietly as their boots and armour would allow, the two mages sprinted down the corridor as the tail of the train of captives passed by. Two soldiers were bringing up the rear. By the time they felt cold, metallic hands and a blade slide across their throats, it was already too late for them. Once their cloaks and helmets had been pilfered, they were quickly and quietly stowed in a dark doorway. Their comrades were too busy haranguing the captives to notice.