by Ben Galley
After a while, when she couldn’t stand the cold any more, she went inside to shiver by the crackling wood fire and keep Lerel company, and to sip her horrible drink.
The big one-eyed Siren in question was not up to much at all. As it happened, Eyrum was trying to do absolutely nothing, and remain as inconspicuous as could be, which for a man of his size and rugged appearance was harder than it sounded. He stood in the relative shadow of one of the smaller shops that lined the busy harbour. Port Rós was its usual bustling self, crammed with merchants and fishermen and sailors and soldiers standing guard. Gold was passed back and forth with cupped hands and whispers. Cargo was wheeled, pushed, and hauled on and off the idle ships. Traditional Arka fishing boats, clinker-built with tall, curled bows and striped square sails, dodged in and out between the bigger ships and carracks, dumping their swollen nets on the boardwalks with yells and shouts. Their bells tolled quietly on their masts. Rigging whined and the swarms of seagulls and rimelings cawed and sniggered as they hovered on the winds. The sound of loud and inebriated singing wafted to Eyrum’s ears from a nearby inn, a filthy little hole with one round window and a lopsided sign that said The Bilge Swindler. Appetising, thought the Siren. He longed to be back in Hjaussfen.
Eyrum didn’t like Krauslung. He had decided that within the first few minutes of his arrival, and his distaste for it had only grown in intensity. Durnus, on the other hand, seemed to relish it. From under the lip of his hood Eyrum scanned the faces in the crowd. The vampyre was nowhere to be seen, and he should have been back by now. Someone barged into him and shouted drunkenly. The tall Siren growled deep in his throat and the drunk moved on, suitably warned. Nobody wanted to pick a fight with a seven foot tall man that was built like a big brick outhouse.
Pulling his black scarf up around his stubbled chin and scaly cheek, he wandered to the water’s edge and leant against the wooden railing, feeling it creak under his forearms. He looked down at the icy waters of the port and tried not to breathe through his nose. The smell of salt and fish and waste was on the verge of unbearable. There was an oily film to the surface of the calm waves. Eyrum wrinkled his nose and turned around. There seemed to be a great deal of people bartering passage on some of the larger ships, bound for anywhere that wasn’t the city. Between the sickness and the Skölgard, Eyrum didn’t blame them.
A figure brushed past him again and Eyrum clenched his teeth and his fists. As he moved to glare at the drunken fool he noticed a pair of very pale blue eyes staring back at him. Almost imperceptibly Durnus nodded his head and without a word, Eyrum left his leaning spot and followed the hooded vampyre through the massed crowd. He was barely recognisable. To keep the sunlight at bay, Durnus was wearing gloves and a scarf wrapped around his face. Eyrum had done the same to keep his scales out of sight. Their attire may have seemed conspicuous but they blended in just fine amongst the sailors and soldiers, and nobody threw the pair a second look. There were a lot of strangers in Krauslung these days.
Eyrum kept walking, and to his utter dismay, Durnus led him straight towards the dingy Bilge Swindler. Eyrum had to duck under the lopsided sign, which, he noted, was hanging by a mere strand of rope dangling from the drainpipe above it. In the round window somebody had stuck a small painted notice that said “No Skölgard.” He eyed it warily, and then stepped inside.
The bar was even dingier on the inside, full of drunken fishermen and workers drinking their own body-weight in ale and wine. Tuneless, rattling music filled the smoky air, as if somewhere amidst the dark shadows and overturned tables a gang of rats were gnawing on the strings of a ljot. The smell here was worse than it had been outside, and Eyrum groaned inwardly.
Durnus headed straight towards the back of the inn. The building itself was shaped like a curving, broken L, and around the corner it was quiet, and foggy with clouds of grey pipe-smoke. The sound of raucous singing from around the corner had died to a muffled yelling. They were alone, save for a crooked silhouette sitting at a lone table. The silhouette beckoned to them, and they shuffled forward, knees knocking against unseen stools and feet kicking forgotten tankards. The vampyre chose a seat next to the figure, who turned out to be a disturbingly frail old woman, wrapped in an old sailor’s jacket and a blouse that might have once been white. The vampyre sat down and lowered the scarf from his face. Eyrum remained standing, arms folded and cautious, looking around. The woman sniffed loudly and looked up at the giant man. She seemed to be hiding one of her arms under her dirty jacket. Wreathed in smoke, her face was full of cracks and canyons, old and splintered like oak. Her nose was like a beak, and her fingers were contorted with years of arthritis.
‘Ain’t your mountain of a friend goin’ te sit?’ she whispered, obviously wary of him. Durnus leant forward and shook his head, keeping his voice equally low. ‘He seems fine where he is, madam,’ he replied. She made a noise like a crow with a bad cough and shrugged the threadbare jacket from her shoulders. Eyrum suddenly realised she was missing the whole of her right arm, down from the shoulder. Subconsciously he put a hand to his battle-scarred eye.
‘So,’ said the old woman, tapping her feet on the wooden floor. ‘Are ye runnin’ or stayin’?’
Durnus looked a little confused. ‘I don’t follow,’ he said, and she chuckled hoarsely. ‘Everyone in this city is either runnin’ away, or stayin’ in the hope it gets better.’ She chuckled again, as if the second option was a joke. ‘So which is ye? Runnin’, or stayin’?’
The vampyre drummed his long nails on the table and stared at her. ‘Staying,’ he answered. The crow-woman grinned at him then and bobbed her head. ‘Well it can’t get much worse can it!’ She laughed hysterically until the laugh became a horrible cough, and she shook as she convulsed with her retching. It was a sound that the two men had heard quite frequently around the city.
‘Sickness is gettin’ worse they say,’ she finally managed, spitting something to the side. ‘They say the Skölgard brought it with the snow. But I know better than that. Same as the weather. There’s daemon blood in those storm clouds, mark my words.’ The woman tapped a finger to her nose and winked at Eyrum. He looked away and watched two skinny drunks fight over a chair.
Durnus put a hand on her wrist and she flinched away, hissing as if his touch had burnt her. ‘We want information,’ he whispered gently.
She looked at him with a strange look, like a hungry orphan would look at a cake, and then squinted her cloudy black eyes at him. ‘Your kind always do, young man, ye always do,’ she wagged her finger at the vampyre. He tried a smile, remaining careful not to reveal too much of his fangs. ‘We can pay you,’ he answered, and Eyrum turned back to fix him with a confused stare, but Durnus waved a hand at the Siren and Eyrum stayed reluctantly quiet.
The crow-like woman nodded again. ‘That ye can! But what I want ye don’t ‘ave, not yet anyway. Spirits will do fer now. Don’t cast no fortunes fer free,’ she cackled, and then with her one hand she reached inside her blouse pocket. Durnus and Eyrum instantly looked away, as it was bad luck to see the stones before they were cast. As they busied themselves watching the drunken sailors fight, the seer produced three stones, red, black, and milky white, and jiggled them in her cupped hand. They clacked and knocked together in a rhythmic way, and then with a flick she tossed them onto the table. Cautiously she peered at them and touched each one with utmost care, gasping as she did so. The two men slowly turned back to the table and looked at the three stones lying on the wooden surface. They cocked their heads to one side and tried to make sense of them.
Suddenly the seer banged her fist on the table and the stones jumped. In one deft move she caught them all and they were already back in her blouse before they could blink.
‘The one ye want is far, far away,’ she said, then she winked. ‘But another draws near, another who’s very important to ye…?’
Durnus looked confused. ‘Sorry?’
‘An Arkmage.’
‘Vice?’
The seer nodde
d.
‘Here?’
‘Here.’
‘Today?’ echoed Eyrum.
The seer looked up at the big man and nodded. ‘That’s what I said. Today, within the hour, he’ll arrive,’ she replied.
Durnus leant very close to the seer and put his finger on the table as if he were pointing at a spot on a map. ‘Vice is coming here?’ he whispered.
‘Ye should clean the wax from yer ears, vampyre, an’ then maybe it’ll make sense! Today, here, Vice. Now where’s my payment?’ she said, narrowing her eyes. Durnus nodded and ran a fang over his lip thoughtfully without taking his eyes off of her. ‘Eyrum, do you mind?’ he asked, and the Siren grunted reluctantly.
‘A bottle o’ the good stuff, mountain man, if ye please,’ added the seer, still matching the vampyre’s gaze. Eyrum left them like that and wandered back towards the bar, remembering to keep his hood low and his scarf high. He had to negotiate a loud drunken choir and a maze of overturned tables but finally he made it to the bar, and waited patiently. He could feel eyes on him, and it made him feel uncomfortable. The innkeeper noticed him and stumbled over. The stringy man had deep bags under his eyes and his hair looked like a wind-blown bird’s nest. ‘Whayewant?’ came the addled greeting.
‘A bottle of the strongest stuff you have to offer,’ muttered Eyrum, hating every minute.
‘Finewime,’ slurred the innkeeper. He slowly bent over until he was out of sight below the bar top and Eyrum wondered if he would come back up. Slowly but surely he did, grasping a dark green bottle with even darker liquid sloshing around inside. ‘Silver,’ stated the man flatly, and Eyrum flicked a silver piece at him. The Siren resisted the urge to sniff whatever was in the bottle and walked back to the rear of the inn.
As he emerged out of the smoky haze, Durnus quickly stood and pulled his hood even lower. ‘Let’s go,’ he said gruffly, and walked back the way they had come. The Siren placed the bottle on the table in front of the seer and tried a wry smile. Before he turned to leave she caught the sleeve of his cloak with her one hand and hissed at him. ‘Luck isn’t far away, mountain man, it’ll be here soon enough,’ she said. Eyrum, slightly confused, nodded, and then followed Durnus out of The Bilge Swindler, hopefully for the last time, he silently prayed.
Outside the polluted stench of the port was almost sweet compared to the noxious miasma of the inn, and Eyrum looked up at the scattered clouds and watched his breath billow in the cold air. Beside him Durnus was quiet and thoughtful.
‘Where did you dig up that old crone?’ asked Eyrum, watching the crowds move past slowly.
The vampyre shrugged. ‘She found me,’ he said. ‘She had what we needed. Anyway, let’s go, we don’t have much time.’
The two men left quickly, merging into the masses and weaving their way towards the higher ground and into the city. As they made it onto one of the roads leading to the west part of the city, both of them looked back to see the port spread behind them. Their gaze instantly fell on the shipyards, near to where the slopes of the mountain Hardja met the angry sea. From their vantage point they could hear the hammering and grinding noise of tools as it echoed around the busy harbour. There, in a sheltered section of the port, a dozen grey wooden skeletons rested half-in half-out of the dark waters, each in various stages of construction, covered in swarms of workers banging and crashing with hammers and other tools. Some were almost finished, others were on the way. Floating all around them was a flotilla of other vessels, from tiny faerings to tall-masted cogs and carracks, their sailors hard at work.
Durnus and Eyrum scowled from beneath their hoods and from behind their scarves, and then without a word, they turned and walked away. They had seen the ships many times since their arrival. They knew what they were for.
As the two men picked their way across the slippery cobbles and through the muttering crowds, they looked around, down alleys and in windows, letting their morbid curiosity wander. A smattering of little children ran about in the puddles, laughing and giggling and snatching a few brief moments of play. Their sudden noise was a strange contrast to the gloomy atmosphere. They ran, delightfully oblivious.
Eyrum had really taken a dislike to the city. He wondered if it was the smell, or the boarded-up windows, the coughing, the afternoon drunks wandering the streets, or the tension in the air that was so palpable he felt he could crack it with his fist. There was a pressure building in the city like the steam bubbling underneath volcanic springs in Nelska. It was just waiting to blow. The Siren wondered if he would be here when it did.
Of all things, what bothered him the most were the Skölgard soldiers standing on every corner and intersection, leaning on their halberds and pikes, spitting and leering. Every now and again they would point at something and shout, and someone would be dragged from the passing crowds and searched. Eyrum kept his eyes down and his scarf high and tried to slouch as much as he could to avoid attracting attention. His scales would have given him away instantly. There was no explanation for a Siren in the middle of Krauslung. They were at war, after all. The soldiers would kill Durnus and Eyrum on the spot. Well, they could try, thought the Siren. Eyrum slouched even more.
Durnus on the other hand, was oblivious to everything. He strode across the cobbles with a determined pace, ignoring the soldiers and the people alike. Eyrum knew Durnus well enough to know when he didn’t want to talk, and so they walked on in silence.
After a while they came to where the roads converged and widened. The buildings here were taller and grander, and some of the street-side rubbish had been cleared away. The two men turned left and trudged up the ever-steepening thoroughfare. Up ahead where the street split in two opposite directions the sheer pale walls of the Arkathedral fortress rose up from the cobbles and stretched up into the sky like a chalk cliff. Behind it was the towering peak of Hardja. Its opposite, Ursufel, sat behind them in the east. Those two mountains formed the valley in which Krauslung sat, and they towered over the city, insurmountable walls of rock and snow.
Durnus stared at the Arkabbey. It had been twelve years since he had seen it. The heavy gates that dominated its front bristled with soldiers, as did the roadside and the adjoining alleyways, and a wide path had been driven through the groups of people gathering in the streets. Skölgard and Arka soldiers alike kept their spears low and pointed at the crowds, and each of them secretly prayed for another riot. Discontented talk and whispers ran through the crowd like rabbits sneaking through a misty field. Eyes watched them from the arrow slits and windows above. Eyrum did not like the situation one bit. He caught Durnus by the arm and brought him to a halt.
‘We shouldn’t have come here,’ he hissed from behind his scarf.
Durnus shook his head. ‘We have to make sure the seer was right,’ he replied, staring ahead.
‘Look at the crowds, Durnus, there’s no doubt Vice is here.’ But the vampyre was resolute. ‘I’m not taking any chances,’ he whispered, and then he walked forward to join the throngs of people. Eyrum sighed and clenched his fists by his side. This could only end in trouble, he thought to himself. He was starting to regret volunteering for this mission. Nevertheless, strong-armed by the vampyre’s stubborn words, he pulled his hood as low as it could go and hoped to the gods they would go unnoticed.
And unnoticed they were. As they weaved their way through the cramped lines of people, nobody even spared them a second glance. The citizens of Krauslung seemed to be utterly preoccupied by the arrival of their so-called Arkmage. Durnus noticed a few baskets of rotten fruit hiding underfoot, tucked between legs and under skirts. One man held a menacing-looking club in one hand, carefully keeping it out of sight. The crowd murmured to itself, uneasy, fractious. The vampyre could hear the rumbling of their bellies, the ragged, wet coughs of the sick, their lungs sounding like they were full of butter.
Durnus decided they were close enough and halted a few rows back from the front line. As he looked around and tried to avoid the eyes of the soldiers, the twin bells a
t the top of the Arkathedral began to toll. A rustle of talk ran through the crowd. Durnus caught a glimpse of something coming up the street towards them and the crowd noticed it too. Durnus felt Eyrum standing behind him. The big Siren could see over the heads of the others and after a moment he bent to whisper in the vampyre’s ear. ‘It’s Vice,’ he said. ‘And he’s not alone.’ Durnus nodded slowly. He could just about see them now.
Flanked by guards on both sides, and with a small group of masked Written leading the way, Vice strode confidently across the cobblestones with a cold smile hovering on his face, as a snake would smile at a group of trapped mice. Snubbing the traditional Arkmage’s robes, he wore a long, black Skölgard coat with tails and silver buttons, a crisp white shirt with a stiff collar, and tall boots with steel heels that clacked on every stone. On his head he wore nothing save for his blonde hair, and on his fingers were a trio of rings set with shards of red crystal. Vice oozed superiority from every pore.
At his back was a monster of a man, wearing a red silk shirt and snowbear skins. King Bane made even Eyrum look stunted and malnourished. There was a huge sword at his side, the blade the width of a spade. Hovering on his brow was a circlet of sunset-coloured gold, set with the same crimson crystals, the bloodcrown of the Skölgard. Tradition stated that a new king or queen must wash the bloodcrown in their predecessor’s blood and let it dry in the sun, hence the name, and the colour for that matter. Durnus could only wonder at how many generations of blood that crown had tasted. Its current wearer glowered at the crowds, baring his teeth at the dissenters.
At the king’s side was a tall and slender woman with flowing blonde hair that cascaded over her shoulders. A long train of servants trailed behind her, looking slightly bewildered at the sight of the angry crowds. Durnus narrowed his eyes at the woman, confused at first, and then to his shock, he suddenly realised who she was. It was the woman, the princess, the one Farden had bluntly refused to talk about.