Dead Stars - Part Two (The Emaneska Series)

by Ben Galley

  Eyrum nodded. ‘As we’ll ever be. My suggestion is not to look.’

  ‘I’ll take that advice.’ Tyrfing nodded. He stretched out a hand towards the black window. A gust of wind sighed around them and blew the remaining glass and dust out into the air.

  As the three readied themselves to jump, Tyrfing turned to his nephew. Farden had sheathed his sword, and was now holding only the blood-spattered Grimsayer, cradled in both arms. ‘I don’t envy you, Farden.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ he asked.

  Tyrfing pointed to the cumbersome tome. ‘With the weight of that book, nephew, you’ll drop like a boulder.’

  ‘Well, taking into consideration your iron stubbornness, and Eyrum’s sheer mass, I think I will take my chances,’ he replied acidly, a little smile pulling up his cheek. There was something of a chuckle from Eyrum. How odd it was, that the more dire the situation, the more fun they had to poke at it. Such was the way of dire situations. Why make them even direr? Farden was about to place a wager when they heard the zip and clatter of arrows behind them.

  ‘Well, can’t stand around chatting all day!’ he yelled as he sprinted forward. He took the window-ledge in one great leap, and sailed out into the fading grey of the morning light like a most ambitious boulder indeed.

  When a person jumps from any great height, there is a moment where the world lies to them. It whispers to them a great and awful falsehood. It comes the very second that feet slide from rock or ledge, and lasts just that brief moment before reality takes grip. That moment where wind and treacherous momentum collude to convince the person, miraculously, that they can fly; that they could do this all along, yet never knew. It is that thin sliver of a moment before the heart begins to climb into the throat, and the face, previously grinning wide with downright elation at this discovery, begins to fall as fast as the rest of the body. Gravity strikes. The lie becomes apparent. Hope falls like a rock.

  Farden enjoyed his brief lie. He had to admit it; he fell hook, line, and sinker for it. His mighty leap had thrown him far from the mountainside, and for one sweet, grasping handful of seconds, he flew, legs pedalling frantically through the cold, misty air, one arm clutched to the Grimsayer while the other flapped like a wing. What a sight he must have made.

  Then the realisation came crashing down. Literally.

  Farden fell like the weight he was. Groping at the sky was as futile as trying to catch the moon, but he tried anyway, clawing and scratching at nothing as he plummeted. He heard the grunting whump! of the two landing beneath him. A flash of pride came suddenly as he realised he would have won his wager, and then the impact jolted it from his mind.

  His legs crumpled and his arse took most of the landing. Luckily, his cloak had bunched up in the fall, and managed to make quite a cushion between his rump and the scree. The severe incline helped too. He almost lost the Grimsayer as he bounced and rolled.

  The three cried out as they slid and bounced down the slope, still falling, but being connected to the ground didn’t make it seem so dangerous. Farden grit his teeth and stuck his legs out like tree roots, but they skittered over the top of the scree, futile against the speed he was now gathering. He could do little but grimace, and watch the world slide upwards to meet him.

  Ahead of him, Tyrfing met a rock and flew over it with a yell and a crash of armour on the other side. Farden rolled to avoid the same fate. Eyrum was sliding down on his belly, whether by clever design or sheer unfortunate luck, Farden didn’t know. He was somehow steering with his hammer, using its weight to slow him down. Farden’s eyes flicked to the Grimsayer and considered doing the same, but thought better of it.

  Arrows began to ping and ricochet off the rocks and scree around them. Farden ducked as he heard one flit past his ear. It sliced a line across his cheek and buried itself deep in the cover of the thick Grimsayer. ‘That was too close!’ Farden shouted to himself, a little wide-eyed. He could have sworn the book muttered something cantankerous, but with the roar of the sliding rock and wind it was too hard to tell. The arrows faded as quickly as they had come; the men were falling too fast to offer much of a target. Farden felt as if they were already halfway down the mountain. Despite the ripping of the scree and the pain in his legs, he almost let his grimace turn into a grin.

  Almost.

  From below, Tyrfing flashed him a quick look. ‘Erm, Farden?!’ he yelled.

  ‘What?!’

  Tyrfing could only point.

  Below them and fast-approaching, was a ledge jutting out of the scree at a sharp angle. It wasn’t so sharp as to stop them, but sharp enough to cut the slope in twain like a black, granite saw stuck halfway through a grey bone. The real heart-tugging, aspect of it was that the slope appeared to fall away soon after it, into complete and utter thin air. A cliff. No doubt about it.

  ‘Shit,’ was all Farden could stutter.

  Eyrum slammed his hammer shaft into the rock in a spray of shale and pebble. Tyrfing’s hands shimmered with green light, tugging at the passing rocks. Farden breathed a sigh of relief as he drew level with them, but as he slid quickly passed them, he began to flail and shout. He tried to dig his heels in but his knees buckled under the strain and speed. He reached out to Tyrfing with his spare hand, but he was already too far past him. Tyrfing’s eyes grew wide as he watched his nephew plummet toward the ledge. Tyrfing tried to pull him back with a spell, but he didn’t have anything to brace himself with. Those sorts of spells, even for Tyrfing, needed sure footing and solid ground. ‘Farden!’ he yelled, futilely, as if his words could halt him. He grabbed and pulled, but he just fell faster.

  ‘Uncle!’ Farden shouted. His mouth became a silent scream. Eyrum tried to reach him with the head of the hammer, but he was too far ahead.

  Farden reached the ledge. There was a sickening moment as the sound of Farden’s fall changed from the hissing roar of tumbling gravel to the solid scrape of rock, then cold silence as he was tossed up and out into thin air. Once again the world lied as he hovered at the apex, just before gravity bit into him. Farden had somehow managed to turn in mid-air, and he threw a wide-eyed and ashen look back at his still-sliding friends. To his credit, he was still hugging the Grimsayer.

  And then he fell, with a scream so high-pitched he would later regret it with blushing cheeks. It was partly why he didn’t hear the keen whine of golden wings above him. The other reason was due to the other sad fact of falling: that the faller will almost always look down to see his doom rushing up to great him. So it was that Farden’s eyes were glued to the jagged fingers of rock below him, completely oblivious to the huge golden dragon swooping down to snatch him from his fate. It was only when Towerdawn’s sharp talons slid under his arms did he snap out of his fear-stricken reverie. He felt a lurching jolt as the dragon flared and beat his wings. It wasn’t a moment too soon; Farden managed to spit on a jagged tooth of cheated rock as Towerdawn pulled him up. He flashed the dragon a joyous grin. ‘Not this time,’ he whispered to himself. The Grimsayer in his arms rustled in the wind. It sounded like the book was sighing.

  ‘We are not out of danger yet, mage!’ boomed Towerdawn from above. He took a breath and blew a great trumpeting roar. Farden heard the voices of other dragons somewhere above and behind him echo the call. He looked up to see Tyrfing and Eyrum in similar positions. Eyrum was tightly held in the grip of the big blue dragon from the great hall, while Tyrfing was in the grip of lithe Shivertread. He swayed from side to side as the charcoal dragon swooped and flapped, a little less practised than the other dragons.

  It was then that he heard a different sort of roaring. Farden threw a quick look over his shoulder and spied a multitude of dark shapes chasing them, blowing fire and smoke as they flew.

  Towerdawn growled. ‘Hold on tight, Farden.’

  ‘And the same to you, Old Dragon!’ Farden gulped as Towerdawn hugged the jagged mountainside, wings flat, limbs and mage tucked close to his scaly underbelly. It was all Farden could do to lift his legs to his chest and
hope for the best. He could have sworn that his cloak slapped the railing of a balcony as they rocketed by, stomach-churningly close to the ground.

  Towerdawn led his meagre swarm, five dragons in total, west and down through the rolling, hollow foothills of grey Hjaussfen. As the snow-spattered terrain levelled out, the dragons hurtled under the arms of cranes, skimmed thatched rooftops, and careened between watchtowers, sparing only inches for their wingtips and tails. But these dragons had been born on this landscape. They had spent a thousand years doing this for fun and training. They knew every twist, turn, and roll like the back of their scaly claws.

  The Lost Clan dragons didn’t.

  Farden grinned as he heard an almighty crash from behind them. He caught a glimpse of two dragons tumbling to the ground, half a watchtower in the process of collapsing on top of them. There was another boom as a farmhouse exploded in a writhing mass of stone, thatch, and wings. Each roar was like a fanfare of justice being served.

  In a blink of an eye they were swooping down toward the sea, where the volcanic granite of the mountain fell away to wind-carved and hollow cliff. Farden found himself praying that their scroll had reached Nuka in time, praying to whomever was listening. It was the first time in a decade and a half he’d allowed himself to pray to anything.

  Before he knew it, they were diving over the granite spines of cliff edge and down to meet the sea. The cold, salty air slapped the mage in the face, chilling him to the bone. The mist had receded to the edges of the harbour’s bay, and there, wreathed in its fading tendrils, was a glorious sight indeed: the Waveblade, in full battle-sail and slicing through wave after wave with its glittering bow.

  ‘There!’ cried Farden, even though Towerdawn had already seen her. He couldn’t help it.

  Loki drummed his nails on the varnished railing. The shipsmiths had spent far too much of their effort on varnishing this boat, he had decided. The wood under his pale fingers was so varnished, in fact, that it appeared as though it had been wrapped in thick glass. The dark wood was a blurry creature, living under it. What a waste of time, he thought to himself. It was already tarnished by the salt.

  Heimdall stood behind him, as stoic and as silent as ever. His tawny eyes were roving the frothing feet of the black cliffs, the sheer walls of rock standing bravely against the cobalt sea. They were draped in the remnants of the morning’s mist.

  ‘Any sign?’

  ‘Not a soul.’

  Loki raised an eyebrow. He licked his lips and shuffled closer to the older god. ‘Such a human expression,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Hmm?’

  Loki dared to speak a little louder. ‘Such a human expression. Not a soul.’

  Heimdall slowly shook his head. ‘That it is.’

  ‘Blind to the truth, as usual. There must be plenty of souls, even in this barren armpit of the world. Am I right, brother?’

  Heimdall tore his eyes away from the distant cliffs and turned them slowly on Loki. He was narrowing his eyes at the sea and its waves, watching their white tips burst as the wind caught them. ‘You know the answer to that already, Loki. Why do you ask about such things?’

  ‘Oh, no reason. Jealous of your eyes, as usual. I wonder what it would be like to see the rivers of them, streaming across the landscape.’

  Heimdall turned his gaze to the land again and sighed. He didn’t often watch the dead, in the ashen hues beyond where magick lingered. He forced himself to now. Little figures, wispy like the mists, trailing around the roots of the mountain. ‘They do not so much stream as limp. Trickle even. A sad sight.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Loki was drumming his fingers again. ‘And are there many?’

  A silence, perhaps while Heimdall counted. ‘Thousands.’

  ‘So many.’ Loki sounded almost wistful. ‘How unfortunate it is that we have to live off prayer, instead of…’

  Heimdall’s voice was like a brick striking a bell. ‘It is beyond forbidden. You know that. I should have you punished for the very mention of such a thing.’

  The god held up his hands, pulling an innocent face. ‘I’m only thinking aloud.’

  ‘Well, think of something else. Their souls are sacred, to be untouched.’

  Loki sniffed. ‘Isn’t that what we built them for, to power us with prayer? Why should their souls be any different? The daemons lived off them.’

  ‘We are not daemons,’ Heimdall growled. ‘You would have the humans be simple tools then? Beasts of purpose, like their cattle are to them?’

  ‘Isn’t that what they are?’

  Heimdall frowned, looking somewhat pained. Disappointed perhaps. ‘They are much more, Loki. I had hoped this venture would have taught you that at least. Come now, you have tasted their food, their wine, slept in their fortresses, seen their power, even sampled their games, so I hear. How can you compare them to cattle?’

  Loki thought about it for a moment. ‘Shallow trivialities. Such accomplishments are distractions, when they could be so much more.’

  Heimdall let anger flash across his face. Loki couldn’t miss it. ‘Not souls to be harvested, as I believe you are suggesting. Blasphemy, Loki. No, you place too much stock in what they should be, when you miss what they already are. Look at them. Look at this ship. They have become powerful creatures in their own right, even capable of killing daemons on their own. We should be proud of them,’ Heimdall lectured, gruffly. ‘You are such a young god, Light-bringer, and a rash one at that. You judge these humans by the many, not by the few. These few will save the world,’ Heimdall turned his head to the south and east. ‘Even if the many are foolish enough not to thank them for it.’

  ‘And yet they refuse to pray to us, or pray to false gods instead.’

  ‘Not all of them. You’ve felt the desperation in those that still do. They more than compensate for those that have turned their backs,’ Heimdall corrected him.

  ‘It’s still not enough. Killing daemons should be our job,’ Loki muttered.

  Heimdall growled again. ‘What has gotten into you?’

  Loki waved a hand. ‘I feel like a spectator, not a god. They show little respect for us gods. You say that they will save the world? Even now, they trifle with saving a maid over killing the One, as we’ve ordered.’

  Heimdall shook his head and sighed. It sounded like the wind wandering through the sails. ‘The stars have little sway over the cogs of this earth now, whether we like it or not. You would do well to remember that, Loki,’ Heimdall admonished him. He watched Loki’s blank, emotionless face for a moment before walking away. Whatever he was thinking, he was hiding it well.

  As the older god left him to his own devices, Loki muttered far beneath his breath, far enough that even Heimdall would have trouble to hear it. ‘We’ll see,’ he said.

  A shout rang out across the deck, shattering the silence. ‘There! To the starboard! Dragons!’

  ‘Archers and bolts at the ready! Mages!’ Lerel bellowed from the wheel. All across the ship, the creaking and clanking of a hundred bows and ballistas joined the pop and roar of spells bursting into readiness.

  ‘Hold!’ Nuka ordered. He had a strange contraption tucked tight beneath a bushy eyebrow. A spyglass, he called it. It was formed of slices of crystal stacked in a neat long line, thinner at one end, and thicker at the other. Some were coloured a malted yellow colour, while others were delicate, and as transparent as the air. They were held in place by four thick brass rods and a liberal dash of thin wire. It looked like something Tyrfing would dream up.

  In this case, he had.

  ‘They’re Sirens!’ yelled the captain.

  ‘An’ they got a whole party of the grey ones on their tails, Cap’n!’ shouted Roiks, from high up in the mainmast, waving a spyglass of his own.

  ‘Wait for my signal!’ bellowed the captain.

  The dragons dove down to meet the foaming tips of the waves, fast and low. Nuka clamped his spyglass to his eye again. He could spy dark shapes dangling from the talons of the nearest three. �
��Tuck that for’ard sail in!’ he roared. ‘And be quick about it! We’ve got bodies incoming! Give them some room to land, there! Get that gryphon out of the way!’ The orders were rattled off like sling-stones. Ilios didn’t need to be told. He had scampered amidships before the words had fully left the captain’s mouth, almost as if he had known they were coming…

  Towerdawn led the five dragons in a line. He roared and trumpeted as they drew close to the ship. The Lost Clans dragons were no more than half a minute behind them, already snapping at their tails. One by one, Towerdawn first, the three dragons swooped down and dropped their cargoes on the bow of the Waveblade. They landed with yelps and shouts, but they landed safe all the same. Little mercies.

  Just as the Lost Clan dragons were bearing down on them, jaws splayed, fire crackling in their throats, the last two dragons flapped hard, up, up, and over the mast grazing its pennant with their claws.

  It was perfect timing.

  ‘NOW!’ Nuka roared, and the Waveblade let fly.

  A wall of arrows, bolts, spells, and even a spear or two exploded from the ship, flying straight into faces of the oncoming dragons. Two were killed instantly with heavy ballista bolts. The others collided in a flailing effort to escape, and were picked off at will as they tangled, writhed, and roared. Fellgrin was amongst the pile, battering spells and missiles aside with her huge wings and thick scales. As the others crashed into the cold, dark waters, already dead or dying, only she and one other managed to escape, scrambling over the wave-tips in an effort to flee. Towerdawn and his dragons were quickly after them, barely sparing a parting word for the ship and her crew.

  ‘We will see you in the north!’ cried the Old Dragon, as he sped after Fellgrin and the other, teeth gnashing and fire boiling around his teeth. Eyrum saluted them with his hammer.

  As the splashing died and the bodies sank, Nuka strode across the crowded deck, heartily clapping shoulders and hands, bruising many in the process. He was already bellowing at the mages and their Siren friend. ‘By Njord’s frozen arse, you have either the worst timing, or the very best! Only the gods could tell.’