by Ben Galley
It was at that moment that Farden snapped, his pent-up anger found a way out and a target all at the same time. ‘And you know who’s to blame? You, uncle! You could have stopped me from making these mistakes a long time ago! With a click of your fingers you could have saved us from all of this!’ he bellowed, fist hovering by his cheek as though he were going to swing for another punch.
For a moment, Tyrfing managed to look guilty, but only for a moment. A very familiar flash of anger flitted across his face then. ‘That’s not true. Ilios never saw the child in your future! We didn’t know!’
‘How fucking convenient for you,’ swore the mage.
Tyrfing shot him a dark look, full of venom. ‘You watch your tongue, nephew. That baby is too powerful, it blurs Ilios’s vision. Like I told you, we only discovered it a couple of days ago, when they moved her to Krauslung. What was I supposed to do? I tried to tell you as the faun but you walked out on me!’
Farden shook his head. ‘It changes nothing! I know what I saw in the dream. I am going back to Krauslung,’ he growled. He turned and trudged down the steps into the dark corridor. Footsteps followed him, as did a loud voice.
‘And what if you run into Vice, or Bane?’
Farden cracked his knuckles. ‘Then I will take them both on if I have to. It’s time to put an end to their mess. I’ve been waiting long enough for my revenge.’ And now I have another reason, he thought to himself.
‘Then you will die, like any of us would. They’re half-daemon immortals, Farden, far too powerful for you or I!’
The mage stopped and turned once more, and took a wild stab in the dark. ‘Then come back with me, help me kill them. I know the stories about you and your Book. We can save Emaneska together.’
Tyrfing instantly wilted like a flower in a fire. ‘I can’t, Farden. You don’t understand what he did to me.’
Farden crossed his arms. His vambraces clanked together. ‘Why not? He ruined your life, uncle, like he has mine. You want revenge as badly as I do, I can tell.’
Tyrfing held up a scarred wrist and pointed to his scarred tattoos, to the coin dangling from his neck. ‘I’m an outcast Farden. I can’t go back.’
Farden looked into his uncle’s eyes and realised he was truly afraid. His eyes twitched from side to side and he had begun to rub his fingertips together nervously. The very mention of facing Vice had turned him into a sweating wreck. ‘You’re scared of him.’
‘Aren’t you?’ mumbled Tyrfing.
‘Not half an hour ago you were telling me how powerful we are, how our Books are different! If we fought him together we could finally put an end to this!’
‘No, Farden, you’re wrong.’
Farden clenched his fists. He felt like punching a hole in the wall. ‘Why? Why am I wrong?’
Tyrfing scratched at his beard. ‘Because a nefalim can only be killed by another nefalim.’
Farden would not be dissuaded. ‘But there were three pale kings, so where’s the last one? Who is it? The Scribe? Was it Helyard? It’s Svarta isn’t it?’
Tyrfing held up his hands. ‘No, no, no, it’s not any of them! It doesn’t matter. The third king, Ruin, is dead. He disappeared a long time ago.’
Farden clapped a hand to his forehead in frustration. ‘Then we have no choice!’
‘You don’t understand, you don’t need to…’ Tyrfing began, exasperated and sweating.
But Farden had had enough. He lifted his chin. ‘No, Tyrfing, I understand perfectly. You’re strangled by fear. You think you can manoeuvre us like chess pieces or puppets on strings while you hide in your cave, safe and sound and insulated from any sort of reprieve. Whatever god blessed you with your magick and the gryphon must be shaking their head at you right now, disgusted. They’re wasted on you. You’re so wrapped up in your little fearful world you even sent a cat to deliver your messages. Can’t you see how sad that is? And now you have the sheer audacity to tell me that my unborn child is some sort of ancient weapon, and that because of some ridiculous poem it has to die? How dare you!’ The mage bit the inside of his lip and looked into Tyrfing’s eyes. ‘I remember a time when men and women used to stop and stare at you as you walked past. I remember holding your hand in the streets and watching them point and whisper and flutter their eyelashes at you. I was proud to call you my uncle. I thought I had found that old uncle, but apparently all I found was a coward and a liar instead. I seem to have wasted my time.
‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and fix the world once and for all, because nobody else seems to have the balls and the fortitude to do so.’ Farden’s heart was pounding against his ribs. He turned and left his uncle standing alone in the darkened corridor. Footsteps echoing against the sandstone walls, he quickly gathered his things and made for the narrow exit without another word.
Tyrfing, numb, bewildered, and his breath shallow, listened to his nephew leave. He heard the whoosh and the whiplash crack as Farden’s Weight whisked him away into the cold desert night. Somewhere along the corridor a candle gurgled at the very end of its wick, fluttered weakly, and then died. Tyrfing stood alone in the darkness with his thoughts to keep him company, beaten and bruised. He had failed again. The old mage slumped to the cold floor of the dark corridor, and put his aching head in his hands.
Far away to the west, the sun was slowly rising over a small market town. Doors and windows began to open and people emerged to wander the cool streets. There was a rumour of rain in the air, a moist smell unfamiliar to most of the residents of Belephon. Dew clung to their white-washed walls.
Slowly but surely, the market stalls began to open. Sleepy merchants rubbed eyes, scratched ears, and broke their fasts. Ropes were untied, hooks unhooked, and tarpaulins rolled up. Slaves were shaken and nudged awake. Wares were spread out on tables and displayed. Goods were unpackaged and prepared. Belephon was beginning to wake up.
One merchant in particular, a small man in a white robe with pointy and ever-so-slightly furry ears, was a little later than usual that day. Arms piled high with bags and bowls, he hurried down the dusty streets to his stall. Huffing and puffing and at the same time fighting back a yawn, he carefully lowered his wares and took a moment to regain his breath. He was getting too old for this, he thought to himself, with a sigh. He rubbed a speck of dust from his bright yellow eye, and sneaked a stretch.
As he began to unpack his bowls and bags, a small something nudged his sandalled foot. He bent down to investigate and his hand quickly found a little, yet strangely heavy pouch. He stood up and brought it into the light of the early sun. The merchant peered at his find.
Nestled in his old dry hands was a purse of coins tied with string, and by the feel of the bulging leather skin it was very full indeed. The cat-eared man looked around to see if anyone was watching, and then carefully untied the string to have a quick peek inside. The purse was crammed full of gold coin. A small fortune for a Paraian merchant. Stunned, the man quickly tied up the pouch and stuffed it into his pocket. He leant against his stall, his fingers and hands quivering. A huge smile began to appear on his face.
For the rest of the day, and to tell the truth, for the rest of the week, the cat-eared merchant wondered where the pouch had come from. It was not for a month at least, after the rains and the storms had passed, that he remembered the strange foreign mage from the cold north, who had bought a nut to find a family member.
Chapter 6
“When the old gods dragged the elves and their daemons into the sky, their sway over the world went with them. Only magick, Evernia’s gift, remained. She had embedded it deep into the earth, you see, hence why the elves had dug their wells. Even to this day it flows beneath our feet like an underground river, endless and powerful.
“Magick, in its purest form, is the element that binds the worlds together. However it can exist in many forms, in certain plants, or waters, or even fruits. Depending on the user it can be dark or light, powerful or subtle. Creatures hunt it, dragons leak it, others fe
ed off it. For humans, magick lives in words as Evernia intended, as spells, memorised like the sorcerers and mages do, read aloud in the traditional way of the Sirens, etched into skin like the Arka, beaten into metal, woven into fabric, infused into potions, or bent into quickdoors. Magick is Emaneska, through and through, whether we like it or not.”
‘The Beast Behind the Spell’ by the Arkmage Maldavil, in the year 715
Far to the north the sun was also rising, and that dawn it rose upon a subdued city. The pale rays of sunshine tried their best to penetrate the haze of winter cloud and industrial smog that hung over the city, but for most of them it was a lost cause. A few golden beams fell upon the marble arches and crenellations of the Arkathedral and bounced hither and thither, until one lucky shaft of sun found a gap between two velvet curtains and fell upon the closed eyes of a young woman.
Cheska blinked and scrunched up her face in a mixture of displeasure and tiredness. The princess rolled over to avoid the lucky ray of sunlight and pulled the blanket over her head. It was no use. Her bladder had already started to complain. Cheska sighed. She grit her teeth and, using her arms, pushed herself into a vague sitting position, as upright as her sizeable belly would allow. She rubbed her taut skin and wondered how much more it could stretch. It looked as though it would split at any moment. But before she could ponder this eventuality any further, her stomach gurgled and a wave of nausea rushed through her insides. She barely made it to the next room before she threw up.
After a few minutes, and after more than a few heavings and hurlings, the nausea passed. Thankfully, one of the maids had left a glass of water nearby and Cheska drank it in one thirsty gulp.
As she sat there propped up against the cold marble wall, she ran her pale hand across her swollen belly again and took a long, measured breath, the enormous kind of breath where eyes are tightly closed, and, if enough air could possibly be swallowed, the problem would be gone when you opened them. But alas, it wasn’t, and as she breathed out she managed to mix in a few curses for good measure. ‘This better be worth it,’ she exhaled, whispering to herself.
With great difficulty, and a great deal of cursing, she made it back onto her feet and back to the bedroom. Squinting at the sunlight, she picked up a nearby cloth and wiped her forehead and mouth and then did a few circuits of her wide room to get rid of the numb feeling in her feet. For gods’ sakes, she thought to herself, she was a Written, not a pregnant fishwife. This whole plan irked her. It was necessary, she understood, but it galled her to her core. She should have been out there hunting with the rest of them, looking for that bothersome mage, or that rogue vampyre.
A flash of reddish metal caught her eye and she turned to the table near the door. With a throaty grunt that was not entirely ladylike she grabbed the metal bracelet and lifted it to the invasive sunlight so she could look it over. The red fjortla glinted dully in the light and Cheska scowled at the runes engraved into its surface. It was a relic of her old life. A useless trinket that Farden should have known better not to keep. In a burst of hot sparks, she melted it in her hands and let the liquid metal trickle onto the white floor at her feet. It hissed and bubbled on the marble.
She may have ruined her bedroom floor but it had made the princess feel a little better, and after considering her options she took it into her head that she would wander into the city. It would be her city after all, once she had done her duty, and her subjects would need to start getting used to seeing her in charge. Delusions of grandeur skipped around her.
Cheska went to the window and stared at the angular rooftops below her, covered in ice and grime, filled with people and pigeons. They would cower in fear when she walked by. No fruit would be thrown at her, no, she would rule them with an iron fist, like Vice. Cheska smiled at her future city below, still locked in its slumbers. One day it would all be hers.
Thinking of Vice, she decided she would go and tell him of her intentions. And this time she would not take no for an answer. She did not care about vampyres, nor did she fear Farden. That mage was obsessed with her, and therefore he was weak. He wouldn’t, and couldn’t touch her, especially with his baby in her womb. Vice needed to realise that.
Cheska combed her long blonde hair and instead of calling for her maids she changed her clothes by herself. She covered her face and the skin of her hands in pale makeup, painted the corners and arches of her eyes with black and blue dust, and then donned a thick fur coat made from the wolf pelts of the Skölking mountains, followed by a pair of matching boots. She rested a thin circlet of gold on her forehead, in case any citizen should mistake her for anyone of a lesser stature, and made sure that the coat’s folded sleeves did not cover the key tattoos on her wrists. She looked at herself in the polished silver mirror and narrowed her eyes at her haughty reflection. Cheska smirked to herself. She was feeling better already.
The supercilious princess swept from her room, coattails swishing against the floor, and clicked the door firmly shut behind her. The Arkathedral was quiet, still in the process of waking up. She seemed to be alone in the corridor. Her fur-clad footsteps barely made a sound against the marble beneath her.
Cheska made her way towards Vice’s rooms. As she walked she mentally rehearsed what she would say to him. She found herself walking taller and faster as she neared the Arkmage’s rooms, that is, as tall and as fast as her sore back and bulge would allow. The princess reached Vice’s door before she had even realised and in her confident daze she almost missed it. Cheska straightened her coat, wondered why she was worrying so much about the whole thing, clenched a fist, and knocked three times on the stout door.
To her surprise, the door swung inwards with barely a sound. The door had been left very slightly ajar, as though a distracted someone had rushed out of it and in their haste forgotten to close it, which, in actual fact, was exactly what had happened. Cheska pouted, pushed the door open, and promptly went in to investigate. It wasn’t like Vice to leave his private chambers unlocked.
The princess strode into the Arkmage’s chambers and looked around for Vice. There was no sign of him, so she put her hands on her hips and went to the window to look down at the city. From his windows she could see the entire of Krauslung, spread below her like a scale model dusted with dirty flour. The sky was a slate carving, etched and rippled. She pressed her nose to the cold glass and watched her breath spread like a fog across the pane. All was silent in Vice’s rooms.
That was until she heard a faint scuttling, the sound of tiny and spindly legs sliding across marble, like the sound of a leaf blowing across cobbles, like rat’s claws on brick. Cheska turned to investigate and saw a black spider the size of a dinner plate emerging from under a table not far from where she stood. Instead of panicking and running, or squealing and jumping on a table like some of her maids would have done, Cheska crossed her arms and waited, tapping her foot.
The large spider ambled its way to the middle of the room, in the way that only spiders can, each leg probing the way for the next and tapping the marble with its hairy, clawed feet. Cheska shuddered as she watched it walk. Cheska didn’t like spiders one bit, but she knew this one was different. ‘I haven’t got all day,’ she announced impatiently, and the spider stopped in its tracks. It seemed to be looking right at her. The disgusting thing began to shiver and shake, like heat waves, and then very strangely it began to grow in size. Its eight legs merged into four and its body began to elongate, and all the while its skin boiled and convulsed like black smoke. The spider stretched upwards, reaching three feet, then five, then seven, until it was looming over her, and still Cheska didn’t bat an eyelid, as if this sort of thing was an every-day occurrence in Gordheim. The spider’s legs and arms became pale and muscled, and then clothes began to wrap themselves around its once spindly proportions. A neck appeared, and then burly shoulders. Bear pelt and bone adorned its skin, and its grotesque insect face melted into that of a man’s, scarred, pale, and calmly smirking.
Bane stretched unti
l his shoulders clicked audibly and then adjusted his clothes. ‘Ah, that’s better,’ he rumbled.
‘Why do you insist on sneaking around like that?’ asked Cheska.
The king shrugged and cast around for something to drink. There was a collection of wine bottles on a table near the window, some full, some empty, some in between, and Bane chose one that was almost full. With a flick of his thumb he uncorked it and took a swig. ‘Because I can,’ he replied, and wiped a drip of wine from his forked beard. ‘Jealous?’ asked her father, smugly. ‘You could learn it, if you had the patience.’ Cheska rolled her eyes and huffed noisily.
‘Where’s Vice?’ she asked.
‘Why do you want to know?’
The princess crossed her arms. ‘Because I want to talk to him,’ she said, and raised her chin ever so slightly. Her father took another gulp of wine and looked her up and down for a moment, then he waved the wine bottle in the direction of the window and the sleepy city. ‘Out there, hunting for that imaginary vampyre of his,’ Bane replied. A cough took him by surprise, and he thumped a fist against his chest to beat the cough into submission. He cleared his throat noisily. Cheska looked at him and smiled, a smile that dripped with insincerity and false pity.
‘Must be all that wine, father,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t do you any good. Nor do these southern whores, with all their diseases.’
‘You’d do well to keep your opinions to yourself, daughter, I think we know who the whore is in this room,’ answered Bane. It sounded like a threat, but somehow it lacked the punch his threats normally carried. Cheska kept her smile, and watched her father the king lumber around the room and poke at Vice’s things. ‘What are you doing in here anyway? You should be in your room, in bed or something, out of the way and silent,’ said Bane.
‘I told you, to speak to Vice.’
‘You said that, about what exactly?’