Pale Kings (Emaneska Series)

by Ben Galley

Cheska cocked her head to one side. ‘None of your business.’

  Bane glared and walked towards her with a few measured steps. The wine bottle hung loosely in his left hand, looking as though he would drop it at any moment. ‘Of course it’s my business, child. I’m in charge here, not you.’

  The princess glowered right back at him. His wine-swilling attitude and lazy appearance had somehow fuelled her confidence, and her chin rose a little more. ‘As far as I’m concerned Vice is in charge. And if you must know I’m going into the city, whether you two like it or not. I was coming here to inform him so.’

  Bane chuckled and mimed her arrogant-sounding words in a mocking voice. ‘ “Coming to inform him so!” ’ guffawed the king, taking yet another swig of the dark red wine and finishing half of the bottle in the process. He fixed her with a slimy look and went to run a hand through her combed hair. Cheska slapped his mauling hand away and moved her hair behind her ear. He leant forward and stared down at her with his dark green eyes. They flicked between hers, undecided which one to look into. She could smell the strong wine on his breath. ‘What do you think Vice is going to do with you when he’s got his hands on your little baby? Hmm? What use will you be to him then? All Vice wants is to fulfil his foolish little prophecy, and that is all, no more and no less. I, for one, am fed up with all his scheming. If you want something then you grab it by the balls and you rip it out. I didn’t forge an empire on conspiracies and plots. I forged it with the edge of a blade and the bone it cut through,’ hissed Bane. Cheska grimaced and pushed him away, but he grabbed her wrist in an iron grip. She glared back at him then, and felt magick stirring in the base of her skull and spine, swirling like a drug in her veins.

  ‘Let go of me,’ she warned in a low voice.

  ‘You’re nothing but a tool to him, Cheska,’ said Bane, smiling lopsidedly, the scar that ran down the side of his face twisting with his expression. ‘You’re both fools.’

  ‘Let go!’ shouted the princess, and a little bit of magick leaked out along with her yell. A small spark shocked her father, jumping from her clenched fist to his skin and he suddenly let her go. His face turned a darker shade of red then, almost a purple, like a gathering storm cloud waiting to strike. Cheska half expected him to hit her, but he didn’t. The king took a step back and gulped whatever was left in his bottle. Wiping the rest of the red liquid from his lips, he took a deep breath and lurched like a stung bear towards the open door. ‘You wait and see,’ he growled. Cheska, wanting to have the last word as usual, yelled after him.

  ‘You’re losing your touch, father!’ she called.

  On hearing that, Bane turned, glared at her once more, and growled a reply. ‘I just want my war.’

  The door slammed behind him, leaving Cheska to rub her wrist and shake her head. If possible, she despised her father even more. He was an idiot, a blind idiot, and his debauched way of life was threatening to ruin what she and Vice had worked for so long to build. They had vision, he did not; all he wanted was bloodshed, and had not the patience to wait for it. The Arkmage would hear of this, she said to herself. The fuming princess straightened her clothes once more, and then strode out of Vice’s rooms, intending to gather her maids and a handful of guards for her excursion into her city.

  And so, within half an hour, she had gathered willing maids and guards aplenty, and with them now assembled around her in an appropriate manner, not too close, yet not too far, Cheska emerged from the imposing gates of the Arkathedral and strode into the streets of Krauslung.

  The city was embracing the morning, if not a little grudgingly, and the streets were beginning to fill with merchants, soldiers, and citizens. A light fog still hung between the grey buildings, and the smells of cooking and the squealing of seagulls made for a strange atmosphere.

  Cheska lifted her chin once again and made sure to walk with a decisive stride, stately, imposing, regal. She was all of those things. With little flicks of her eyes she would watch the people as her party passed, and sure enough they would look at her and wonder. A few scowled behind her back but Cheska never noticed, and her guards, a mixture of other Written and Arkathedral soldiers made sure the scowlers were moved aside and appropriately ushered into the foggy shadows between the buildings, and dealt with.

  The princess stayed silent while her handmaidens talked and yammered about everything under the morning sun. Though annoying, she let them talk; their high pitched voices broke the subdued silence in the streets and attracted more stares and looks. Cheska had made sure to pick the shorter maids for her entourage, firstly so that she would appear taller and grander, and secondly so that when they were gathered around her they would hide her pregnant bump. The princess smiled at her cleverness. Like Vice, she too could construct a plan, and a fiendish one at that.

  As per the princess’s strict instructions, the regal gaggle made their way toward the markets in the south of the city, near to the docks where most of the richer people of the city lived, or more accurately, where they now squatted.

  By the time they reached their destination it was approaching mid-morning. The crowds around the stalls and in the streets were growing thicker by the minute. The city might have been oppressed, but somehow the trade from the port still struggled on. It was the only thing the city had left, and the brow-beaten people were reticent to let it go. It was like a dwindling shred of normality, hanging on by an unravelling thread.

  Cheska and her entourage emerged into the wide square where the market stalls had been erected and looked around, deciding where to go first. She could already feel the stares brushing against her skin. Without further ado, Cheska pulled herself to her full height and strode forward to a nearby stall filled with trinkets and enchanted jewellery and her party moved with her. Her guards formed a little ring around her and her maids just in case. They were at war, of course, and after all there had been the rumour of a vampyre in the city.

  The princess took her time moving between the stalls and stands. She flashed her most winsome and slipperiest of smiles at the merchants, and nodded to the Skölgard soldiers that stood in groups at every corner, watching their princess and her Written guards. People watched this imposing and monarchal figure with a mixture of faces. Some appeared confused, either about who she was or what she doing here in their city, others seemed excited and a little awed by her entourage, some wore an expression of indifference, some even looked a little angry, while others seemed nervous and unsure what was happening. But no matter what their reaction, everyone stared.

  Three sets of eyes in particular watched the princess: a pair of very pale blue eyes, a pair that wasn’t quite a pair but a long scar and one good eye, and another pair, hiding on the opposite side of the market from the other two, a pair of grey-green eyes partly hidden by unruly dark hair and the shadow of a black hood. These grey-green eyes could not tear themselves away from the princess, no matter how much they tried. The eyes bided their time, and stayed where they were.

  Modren had heard a rumour in the docks. At first he had paid no attention to it and dismissed it as a silly joke. He had even smirked at the notion of the princess wandering freely around the city, but the more he thought about it, the more it seemed entirely possible given her mental state, and the more it dawned on him how angry Vice would be if such a thing were to occur, and how responsible he might hold Modren to be, and how much that might hurt. The captain was quite fond of his head, being so firmly attached to his neck as it was, and, realising that the whereabouts of his head could be changed very rapidly indeed by this situation, the smirk quickly disappeared from his lips. Modren quickly found himself jogging briskly through the city streets towards the markets, cursing the unruly princess under his breath.

  The mage quickly reached the crowded market square and instantly began to look for Cheska. It didn’t take that long. All he had to do was follow the stares, and he soon spotted her perusing reams of silk and other cloths at an expensive-looking stall. Modren sighed with a mixture of
relief and exasperation and barged his way through the throngs of people. As he neared the princess and her entourage one of her Written, a younger mage barely out of his Ritual, put out a hand to stop the approaching man. Modren glared daggers at him and the younger mage, seeing the mustard-yellow cloak of a captain, realised his mistake and wilted like a dead weed. The captain barged him out of the way and swiftly moved to Cheska’s side.

  ‘Princess,’ he whispered to her, ‘you shouldn’t be here.’

  Slightly startled, Cheska looked up at the mage and glared at him. ‘Haven’t you got more important things to do with your time instead of bothering me, Captain?’

  Modren took a breath and tried not to swear at the imperious woman. Her handmaidens had finally stopped gossiping and were looking on like a flock of curious geese. ‘Princess, I have to insist that you return to the Arkathedral. It’s not safe out here,’ asserted the mage.

  ‘You can insist all you want, I’m not going,’ Cheska shook her head and pushed Modren aside, turning back to the rolls of multicoloured cloth at the stall. The merchant looked decidedly uncomfortable and smiled uneasily. A few Skölgard soldiers had overheard the argument and began to move a little closer to the stall. Modren clenched his jaw. Vice would be furious with them as well, he thought. The mage carefully took hold of Cheska’s arm to move her away but the princess whirled around and knocked his hand away. Fire flashed in her crystal-blue eyes.

  ‘How dare you touch me!’ she hissed at him, fists clenched.

  Modren put his hands on his hips and matched her glare. No easy feat. ‘The Arkmage wants you safe and sound in the Arkathedral. You will turn around, leave, and go back there immediately,’ ordered the mage, in as calm a voice as he could muster.

  Cheska narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Or what, mage? What are you going to do about it?’

  Modren shrugged and looked around at the people and soldiers staring at them. He leant forward slightly and lowered his voice. His eyes flicked from her belly to her face. He couldn’t help himself. ‘You can leave calmly, Princess Cheska, or I can have you forcibly escorted back to the citadel, in front of all these people,’ he murmured. ‘In your present condition, and with your, let us face it, obvious, lack of training as a Written, I can imagine you would want to avoid the embarrassment. It’s up to you.’

  Cheska looked around her and realised they had drawn quite a crowd. A hush had fallen on their section of the market. ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ she hissed, livid. Her eyes were blue cauldrons.

  ‘I have my orders,’ replied Modren. The princess glowered at the mage some more until finally, like a querulous child, she huffed, turned smartly on the heel of her fur boot, and marched off into the gawping crowds with her handmaidens and guards struggling to keep up. A group of Skölgard soldiers followed in her wake, and gave Modren a few dark looks as they passed by. The mage simply crossed his arms and watched them leave. With a sigh, he ran a sweaty hand through his short, blonde, almost-white, hair and then rubbed his tired eyes with finger and thumb. He could feel the dust and grime on his face. Modren needed a bath. And a hot meal.

  The mage stood there for a moment to gather his thoughts. The market square quickly returned to its normal bustling self, and Modren found himself listening to snippets of conversation and the loud shouts of the vendors and merchants. He heard something about a hot slice of sea-serpent pie and a bowl of thick reindeer stew. As he turned around to investigate a tall figure hastily weaving his way through the crowds caught his eye. Why did he recognise him? Curiosity piqued, Modren watched the man, hood up and black cloak wrapped tightly around him, hurry in the direction of the Arkathedral, in the same direction as the princess…

  Suddenly it dawned on Modren like a hot sun. That cloak, that hood, that gait, the tingle of magick in the air, it could be no one else.

  Farden.

  All thoughts of food forgotten he darted forward and began to push and barge his way through the crowd. People yelled and shoppers cried out angrily as they were mercilessly shoved aside. Modren didn’t care. ‘Clear a path there! Move!’ he began to shout. It was like yelling at treacle. The people of Krauslung stared at the mage with dull eyes and gaped as he pushed past them. Modren grit his teeth, and feeling himself losing his temper, he began to shout even louder, high above the bustling of the market. ‘Get out of the way!’ he bellowed, and this time even Farden heard.

  For a shadow of a second, the hooded mage looked back in Modren’s direction and met the desperate angry look in his eyes. It was a fleeting look, but it was enough. Farden instantly doubled his pace, somehow threading through the crowd like a snake through grass. Modren leapt forward, pushing left and right and thrashing his arms in all directions. He didn’t care if he trampled legs and feet or elbowed ribs and faces, he could not let Farden escape. If he did Vice would have his head in a basket for sure.

  ‘Stop him! Stop that man!’ yelled Modren in a vain attempt. Some nearby soldiers, both Arka and Skölgard caught sight of the commotion and began to block the streets and alleyways with spears and shields.

  ‘It’s Farden! The mage! Stop him!’ hollered Modren once more. A group of Skölgard spotted the hooded renegade and began to move towards him, using their shields to carve a path through the crowded square. Panic began to spread and soon the cold morning air was filled with shouting and wailing. Seeing the soldiers the crowds began to shift. They pressed up against the stalls and squeezed into the surrounding streets and alleyways to get away from the commotion. But like a dam, the soldiers pushed back the swollen flood of people. Tension rose in the market. Modren sensed a riot on his hands.

  Suddenly a burst of flame rocketed into the sky, and Modren watched, cursing, as a Skölgard soldier flew through the air and crashed into a nearby fruit stall. Chaos seized the square. Screaming at the top of their lungs, the people in the market ran in every direction they could and quickly they overwhelmed the soldiers standing in their way. Over the commotion, Modren could hear the clashing of armour on stone. There was a loud bang and in a cloud of dust another soldier was catapulted into the air. Modren ducked as the unlucky man soared over him. The captain bit his lip and surged forward with the panicking crowd. He spotted Farden, now with his hood down and hands full of fire, standing alone in an open space in the crowd. Nobody wanted to get close to the rogue mage, not even the soldiers. Modren stepped forward and into the clearing. He rubbed his wrists together and felt his own magick fill his veins. The tattoo on his back grew hot. His heart throbbed against his ribs.

  ‘Farden!’ he shouted, and Farden turned, boots crunching on litter and the charred remnants of a shattered spear. Flame trailed around his wrists, ready as ever. Modren tried to stand as tall as he could in the presence of his old friend. Farden grinned wryly.

  ‘So, you’re the Captain now,’ he remarked, nodding to the yellow cloak hanging from the neck of Modren’s ornate steel armour.

  Modren shrugged. ‘Someone had to be. After you,’ he muttered, very conscious that the surrounding soldiers were slowly tightening their circle.

  Farden, with no trace of sarcasm and with every sign of sincerity, nodded. ‘Who better for the job?’ he replied.

  Modren nodded once again. He sighed briefly and looked to the soldiers, who were waiting for his signal. ‘I think you know what I’m going to say, Farden. Arkmage Vice is very eager to see you again.’

  Farden made a face. He looked like he was about to spit on the cobblestones. ‘I’m sure he is,’ he muttered. ‘And his time will come, like all the rest of them.’ His voice had gone cold and hard like flint. ‘I didn’t come here to fight you, Modren,’ said the mage.

  The captain looked down and watched sparks of scintillant green light flicker between the fingers of his left hand. The other rested on the smooth hilt of the sword at his belt. ‘I don’t think we have much of a choice, old friend.’

  Farden looked into Modren’s eyes and slowly let the fire die in his hands. The atmosphere was tense. The mage looked a
round the circle at the soldiers with their narrowed eyes and pursed lips, knuckles white around their sword and spear handles, ready to fight. Farden looked at the faces of the panicking crowd behind them as they scrambled to get out of the market square. The mage rubbed his hands together. ‘Then so be it,’ he said, and no sooner had the words fallen from his mouth did pandemonium break out.

  Something resembling a moving wall of muscle crashed into one side of the circle and sent several of the soldiers flying. Shocked and rooted to the spot, Modren watched as a monstrous man over seven feet tall punched the teeth from the mouth of a nearby soldier. Another man, wiry and thin and entirely swathed in black cloth, broke into the circle and dragged a man to the ground like a sabre-cat. It was chaos, sudden and swift.

  Modren aimed a spell at the monstrous attacker, but before he could unleash it, Farden had knelt to the ground and pressed his fists to the stone. A wave of magick rippled outwards across the cobbles and every person nearby fell to the ground. The noise of the screams and the stone cracking was deafening. Modren quickly found himself on his back, confused and nursing a bruise at the back of his skull. He was already regretting his decision to leave the docks.

  Farden stood up and wrenched his sword from the scabbard on his back. The battered blade glinted dully in the morning sunlight, ready and willing. Eyrum and Durnus got to their feet. They flashed him wry smiles as they fended off jabbing spears from the sprawling soldiers. They looked pleased to see him. Farden returned their grins, though he could barely recognise the vampyre: to fend off the harmful daylight, Durnus was wearing gloves, a black cloak with a low hood, and a black scarf-like affair that covered the entire of his face. The only visible parts of the vampyre were his eyes and the bridge of his pale nose, and they were terribly sunburnt.

  ‘Nice of you to join us Farden!’ yelled the vampyre.

  ‘I only dropped in to do some shopping,’ quipped the mage, as he chopped a spear in two and kicked another soldier in the groin. His boots were busy stamping on the fallen. Cries and yelps joined the panicked screams, filling the air with noise.