by Ben Galley
‘Two.’
Samara glowered at the east. ‘Then we can bleed them both together. I’m starting a war,’ she said, not bothering to hide her pride.
Saker looked behind the girl, at the mighty fenrir and the strange-looking, middle-aged woman. ‘And that is why we are to accompany you. To the Spine, and to the roots of Irminsul. Where your destiny awaits.’
Samara clenched her fists and felt the magick make her legs shiver. She turned to the north and squinted at the black cliffs on the horizon. Something far behind them belched dark clouds. A tremble ran through her, and this time it wasn’t the magick. Anticipation. Worry. The ache to prove herself. It was all of those things. ‘Then let’s not waste any more time.’
‘Let us not, my young lady,’ Saker bowed again. The muscles in his bare arms flexed as he gestured to his dragons. ‘Dragon, or wolf?’
Samara smiled. ‘Dragon.’
Chapter 20
“And yet another thing irks me about the Scribe, and has irked me ever since I came to the twin thrones. How exactly does he survive so much exposure to the mages’ books? The scholars haven’t a clue. Neither do the mages and instructors of the School. I damn well don’t. Neither does Åddren. It’s a mystery, and one that I will get to the bottom of, if I ever have any time to do so. This city already demands my every moment. Now this business with the stolen book, and this reprobate Farden. It is irksome indeed.”
Excerpt from Arkmage Helyard’s diary, found after his death in 889
The snow was merciless. The ship had grown a second skin of it. On the masts, on the railings, on the deck, on the hatches, on the steps, on heads, on shoulders, on feet, on faces… the snow sought to drown it all under its deceptively pure blanket.
Farden was helping some of the other mages and crew clear the ‘Blade’s deck. It was an unfulfilling job. The trails that the brooms and heat spells carved were turned white again within minutes. It was more to stave off the boredom than anything else. Something to distract from the constant shudder and crash of the splitting ice. Not many of them had slept through such clamour.
‘What a bastard,’ Roiks muttered to himself as he sauntered past Farden. He had been idly writing his name across the port side in the snow, challenging it to see how fast he could spell it out without the first letter disappearing. Farden smirked, wondering if he could be bothered to join in. He was desperately tired. He had spent most of the night staring at the Grimsayer, staring at this Korrin and his lost armour. It had been worth the lack of sleep.
The only mercy was the wind. Although it whipped the snow up into a vigourous frenzy, it gave the sails something to grasp at. It had also given the whales a welcome break from pushing. The Waveblade was now barging through the ice on her own terms.
‘Two degrees to port!’ came another yell from the bow. There was a communal clenching of fists and jaws across the deck as the ship lurched awkwardly to the left. A dull boom rang out, and Nuka could be heard cursing on the aftcastle. The ice was getting thicker by the hour. Nobody wanted to admit it, but they were slowing down. The Waveblade was struggling.
‘Njord’s balls,’ Roiks muttered again, only getting as far as the i of his name before the snow covered it. ‘Give me seapspray and mermaids any day, mates, not this frozen shit this sky is givin’ us.’
‘Thought we’d all be used to it now, after the Long Winter.’
Roiks winked. ‘Weren’t no Long Winter for me, mage. I spent most of it sailing up and down the Paraian cost. Spice ship. Bloody Long Vacation, I call it,’ he chuckled, absently trying his name again. This time he almost got to the k before the snow foiled it. ‘Here. You try,’ Roiks challenged the mage.
Farden shrugged and dug his broom into the slush. Its bristles hissed against the smooth wood of the deck below, leaving brown streaks. He spelt the letters with deft little strokes, as if it were a sword carving through a blanket. He finished and nodded at his quickly disappearing efforts.
Roiks was scratching his head through his hood. ‘Fine and well, Farden, but who’s Korrin?’
Farden looked down at the letters he had scraped. The snow had already seen to the first three. The other half were quickly fading. ‘Er…’ he began. He never got a chance to conjure up an excuse.
‘Hard to starboard!’ came the shout from the bow.
‘Grab something!’ Roiks bellowed instinctively as he grabbed the nearest rope.
Those who had heard were fine. Those who hadn’t sprawled in the snow as the ship lurched into the air at a rather disturbing angle, and then came down hard on the ice. Ears perked up, waiting for the telltale crack of the ice giving way under the heavy weight of the iron bow. And still they waited. Nothing. The ice refused to budge.
Swearing floated down from the aftcastle.
‘Think we’re in trouble,’ mumbled Roiks, as he helped another sailor to his feet. The man rubbed a sore nose, and agreed.
‘Sounds like we’re stuck,’ he said.
Farden left his broom on the deck. ‘Sounds exactly like that,’ he replied, walking to the bow. A few Written had gathered around the bowsprit. A few well-placed fireballs plunged into the ice, but still nothing budged. Farden excused his way to the front so he could take a look.
Waveblade was stuck fast. The ice had bunched up like paper slid too fast across a desk, concertinaed into slabs each as thick as a banquet table. They were all slanted and jumbled at a crazy angle, and not one of them looked like it was ready to move. The north had become obdurate.
It took almost half an hour for the orca to break and nudge the ship free, and then another half an hour to push it back to a reasonable distance. With the mages pelting the ice with spells from afar, Nuka ordered the whales to drive the ship forward once again, this time at a different angle. The whales pushed and the wind mages blew, and the ‘Blade lurched forward almost as quick as it had escaping the Bitches.
All they got for their troubles was about ten feet. Maybe less. The ice crumpled up again and brought the ship to a sickening halt. The wood of her hull groaned for a full minute after the impact. Nuka even sent men below to check for leaks.
It didn’t take long for the rest of the crew and the passengers to come gawp at their situation. Farden was still at the bow, holding court with Nuka, Tyrfing, and Eyrum as they discussed their options.
‘What options?’ Eyrum shrugged. ‘I see very few.’
Nuka shook his head. ‘Few? I see one.’
Tyrfing’s throat was too raw to speak. He let Farden do it for him. ‘And what’s that?’ asked Farden.
‘It will take too long to turn her,’ Nuka said, firmly, ‘and too long to find another path. This is where my ship stops.’
‘I thought you’d never ask,’ said Farden. He cleared his throat and spoke a little louder. ‘We go north then.’
It took an hour to turn the ship inside out. The white ice clasping the ship began to catch a rash, a rash of dark blankets and boxes, of crates and bags, people and feet. The cracks in the ice hissed and moaned as its unspoilt surface was unceremoniously disturbed.
The rash spread outwards from the ship as the supplies kept coming. Ladders were propped up. Ropes trailed. Sledges constructed. Mages forced poles for lanterns into the ice, and lit braziers to keep the others warm. People took to walking around the ship, testing the splintered edges of the ‘Blade’s path, staring into the ink-blue water below and at the whales that cavorted there. Some of the children even had the nerve to make a game of sliding pots and pans into each other. The ice, given a voice, would have surely shouted at them to desist, and for the rash to retreat aboard its vessel. As it was, it had to be content with its creakings and grumblings, and being largely ignored.
Speed was of the essence. Noon had slid into afternoon, and was quickly turning into evening. The temperature, already nudging the depths of unbearable, was slowly and surely plummeting.
‘Bless Thron and the gods for fire mages, that’s all I’ll say,’ mumbled a passing Sire
n soldier, shouldering a crate. He nodded to Inwick, who was standing next to the brazier and massaging its tentative flames into life. She had the thing roaring in moments. Everybody in the vicinity, Farden, Eyrum, and several sailors catching their breath, shuffled closer.
‘We can share as many of our furs and clothes as possible, but it will barely be enough to cover a dozen more,’ Eyrum was saying.
‘A dozen more is better than a dozen less,’ Farden replied.
Eyrum shrugged at the obvious logic. Great beads of sweat clung to his brow, and yet still he was glad for the fire. Farden was sweating too, trying to hide how much he was trembling. They had been put to work carting supplies down the gangplanks. It was hard work, and yet it did nothing to keep them warm. The breeze was savagely cold.
Eyrum leant close and lowered his voice. ‘What about you?’ he asked, quietly.
‘What about me?’ Farden raised an eyebrow quizzically, conscious that Inwick was staring.
Eyrum sighed. ‘I’ve spoken to Tyrfing. I know what you’re going to do. Are you coming with us?’
Farden shook his head. ‘I need to check the Grimsayer,’ he said. ‘For directions.’
‘Well, mage. You’d better get to it. The sleds are almost full.’
Eyrum was right: the makeshift sleds the sailors and ship’s carpenters had fashioned were bending worryingly in the middle, heavy with supplies and blankets and food for the journey ahead. If one looked closer, the glint of swords and shields could be seen amongst the provisions. They had more to fear in the north than the cold.
‘Right you are,’ said Farden, with a sigh. His legs ached. He swore he could feel the sweat on his forehead freezing. So far, he wasn’t enjoying this excursion ashore as much as he’d hoped. What made it worse was that he had the distinct impression that this was going to be the high-point of the next few days. The calm before the storm.
So be it, he thought, as he strode up the gangplank.
He found the Grimsayer right where he left it, on the table beside his bed. With a heave, he lifted it onto the mattress and split it open with a creak. It was quiet in his room, deep in the ship. The heavily muffled thumping of busy feet was the only clue of the commotion outside. Farden briefly pondered locking the door and shuffling under the bed, falling asleep even. Hiding away from it all. He shook his head at his old, stubborn ways, and prodded the Grimsayer with his finger.
The magick must have been strong indeed in these parts. The lights leapt eagerly from the page, drawing waves and ripples around his fingertip. ‘Show me the way to Korrin,’ Farden spoke to them. ‘Show me the way from here.’
The little lights obeyed with a will. They sketched a swift likeness of the ship and its new friend the ice, and then suddenly flew north, scanning back and forth to weave the endless, featureless expanse of the ice fields themselves. Suddenly there were rocks, and broken slabs of ice scratching at the sky, and then mountains. The lights stopped abruptly above a cracked plateau, swirling around and around a crown of tall rocks, and the mouth of what looked like a well in the ice. Even as a drawing, the mouth of the well sucked at the little lights, trying to tug them down into its darkness. Farden slammed the book on it, and hoisted it under one arm. ‘Let’s be off with you then, shall we?’ he told it jovially. It rattled its pages in reply, and was promptly carted to the door.
Just before Farden reached the door, he heard a plaintive squeak from behind him. There on the bed was Whiskers, sat upright on his haunches and sniffing at the air. Farden sighed sadly as he made his way back to the bed. ‘Not this time, old lad,’ he said. ‘Too dangerous for old rats. I need you here to keep an eye on the ship.’ The rat looked up at him with his deep black eyes, and Farden couldn’t help but think he understood. He teased his whiskers and patted his head. ‘Keep the pillow warm for me,’ he said, and went back to the door. Behind him, Whiskers curled up into a tight ball. The old rat watched the door long after it had closed.
Tyrfing was pacing up and down the corridor outside. Farden’s confident smile faltered at the sight of his uncle. He was wringing his hands. His face was haggard. ‘I still can’t get hold of Durnus,’ he croaked.
‘Have you tried a hawk?’ asked Farden.
Tyrfing nodded. He had tried two. ‘No reply.’
‘Is there anything else you can try?’
Tyrfing shook his head.
‘Is there anything else you can do about it now?’
Tyrfing thought, and then shook his head again. ‘It’s a feeling I have…’
‘Well…’ Farden said. ‘We’ll just have to trust he’s alright. It is Durnus after all. The pale king Ruin himself. With any luck he’s halfway here already. We could use his help.’
Tyrfing gently pressed one of his fists against a bulkhead. ‘Since when did you become the wise one?’
Farden laughed wryly. ‘Since you let me.’
The two mages stood on deck and watched the last of the supplies make their way onto the ice. All around them stood heavily-breathing sailors and soldiers, scratching their heads and holding themselves against the cold. It was easy to see which ones wanted to stay, which ones wanted to go, and those weren’t not with a lot of choice.
Nuka was sitting on the steep steps of the aftcastle, arms folded over his knees. He looked to Tyrfing, and the Arkmage nodded for him to go ahead. As he got to his feet, his eyes roved over his ship and those on the ice below. ‘It’s a first, for a captain to split his crew in half. Then again, it’s a first when a captain finds his iron-clad ship being pushed through the northern ice by a pod of whales,’ Nuka sniffed, no humour in his face, ‘but if there is ever time for firsts, it is now. Firsts and lasts. You go to do what the rest of the world cannot. You go to do a noble thing, a brave thing, a necessary thing. Stay strong, all of you. And Njord, and all the other gods, be with you.’
There was a muted cheering as the captain sat back down again, eyeing the mountains in the distance with a wrinkled lip.
‘Fine words,’ muttered Roiks, as he shouldered his snow-covered pack.
‘You’re coming?’ Farden asked, a little surprised.
Roiks winked bravely, but a tiny hint of something that might have resembled worry twitched at the corner of his mouth. Farden almost missed it. ‘I’m a sailor through and through, but I’m also an Arka, and that means I go north with the rest of you sorry lot. Landstriding be damned. Besides, I ain’t needed on this tub any more. She’ll be waiting for me when I get back. Won’t you, miss?’ he chuckled, giving the ship a lingering look.
Farden reached for his own pack as he stamped his cold, half-numb feet on the solid ice. He cleared his throat. He abruptly realised that everybody was looking at him. Every mage. Every soldier. Every sailor. Every Siren. Even his uncle stood idly by, watching him, waiting patiently on his word. Four hundred pairs of eyes, waiting.
Farden quietly strapped his pack to his back, checked his armour, and then nodded. He took a deep breath, and shouted over the ice, as loud as his cold throat allowed.
‘Let’s go!’ he announced, and one by one the makeshift army shuffled off. What a fierce, motley crew they made: the borrowed, the eager sailors and grim-eyed soldiers, war-shy ship’s mages and Written armoured to the brim, Siren refugees and a strange smattering of others, two shadows of gods, a sick Arkmage, and his nephew, a mage but not a mage, leading the way. They left the Waveblade in their quiet wake, boots creaking, heads bowed against the snow, a lone gryphon circling above them.
Nuka watched them leave with a cold feeling in his heart. He couldn’t help but count each figure as they disappeared into the snowy haze. Recording them for posterity maybe, or perhaps to see how many of them returned. The truth of war was always in the numbers. It is by numbers that victory is measured. The cold, hard, calculating of the math.
Nuka caught himself before he reached the end of the long line. Maybe he didn’t want to know the truth after all. Nuka drummed his long nails on the wood of his ship and shook his head. ‘I
want half-hourly patrols of the ship. Chip the ice from the rigging. Batten the hatches. Keep those lanterns burning!’ he yelled, distracting himself. ‘We’ll be ready for them, when they return.’
Trudging was what one did on the ice. There was no other word for it. One did not saunter. One did not skip. One certainly did not jolly or prance. One trudged, simple as that.
It was half the terrain and half the cold. The former made the going awkward, and the latter made the going slow. All the socks in Emaneska couldn’t keep the northern cold out of their boots.
Farden had never longed for his magick so desperately. His uncle trudged behind him, periodically slapping his legs to force some hot magick into them. Despite his sudden sickness, he walked as only an old mage like him could in the snow: secretly warm and simply tired. Farden cursed himself one more time.
Roiks and Eyrum walked on his left and on his right, dealing with the cold in their own ways. Ever the true Siren, Eyrum stoically held his chin high, as if daring the cold to get even colder, Roiks seemed to be trying to fold in on himself. Farden knew the feeling. Lerel was behind with his uncle. Farden just kept his hands in his cold pockets and watched his feet plod.
Somebody was trying to sing at the back of the column. Farden had to applaud them for trying, he supposed, even if it was the singularly most annoying thing he could have imagined at that particular point. Annoyed elbows soon silenced the singer, and the column moved on with a few scattered mumblings.
Farden soon found a hand on his shoulder. It was his uncle. Tyrfing had wrapped a scarf around the bottom half of his face. Plumes of steam emanated from its mottled threads, as if he were finding it hard to breathe. ‘Are you okay?’ Farden asked him.
‘I’m fine,’ he croaked. ‘Heimdall wants to know why you’re not going ahead with Ilios.’
‘Tell him it’s because I’m needed here.’
‘How so?’
‘Somebody needs to lead these people.’
His uncle narrowed his eyes. With the scarf it was hard to tell if he was smiling or grimacing. ‘Not putting anything off are you?’