Pale Kings (Emaneska Series)

by Ben Galley

  ‘I’m like a bad coin,’ Farden replied, and the two of them began to walk back the way they had come, this time ignoring the fruitless deer path and following their own route.

  ‘So, how are you?’ asked the vampyre. It was a question as deep as a sea, and Farden couldn’t decide whether he was asking the question as a friend or as his superior. Sometimes Durnus could be like that. The mage shrugged, suddenly realising how long it had been since anyone had asked him that.

  ‘Impatient, angry, as always,’ admitted Farden gruffly, as he picked his way over a patch of nettles. Durnus hardly made a sound as he strode through the undergrowth.

  ‘How so?’ asked the vampyre.

  ‘We’re wasting our time here, and every day that we waste Vice grows that little bit stronger, and our people get that much weaker. I could see it the moment I set foot in the city.’

  Durnus sighed. He felt the same as the mage did. He had never been one for the city, but he couldn’t ignore the Arka’s plight. They were his people too, after all. ‘You’re right, Farden. But what would you have us do? Ask Farfallen and the Sirens to attack tomorrow? Storm the Arkathedral with only four of us? We have to gather our army first before we can even dream of facing Vice.’

  Farden kicked a nearby pebble into a bush, knowing Durnus was right. ‘There’s a lot you’ve missed while you were in Paraia,’ said the vampyre. ‘For instance, I assume you know Cheska is back?’

  It was as though someone had just dropped a stone down Farden’s throat. He groaned, waiting for what he knew was coming. ‘Not you as well,’ he muttered under his breath.

  ‘And I assume you know about the weight she’s carrying around with her? Farden?’ queried the vampyre. The mage winced and bit his lip and carried on walking, even though he knew Durnus had stopped. ‘Farden, don’t ignore me,’ warned Durnus, and Farden stopped, and turned. The vampyre had crossed his arms, this time the mage’s superior. He tapped his foot, waiting for an explanation. The mage made a guilty face, avoiding the pale eyes staring at him. Arguing with Tyrfing had been painful, but at least Farden had held the moral high ground. With Durnus it was impossible to argue back. The damned vampyre was always so right.

  ‘I should have told you…’

  Durnus didn’t wait for him to finish. ‘You’re damn right you should have told me. Something like this doesn’t just slip one’s mind, Farden, something like this is beyond important! Sleeping with the enemy wasn’t good enough for you was it? You had to go and impregnate it as well,’ said Durnus, in frustration and anger. ‘And a princess, Farden? By Evernia’s scales, do you ever even try to follow the rules?’

  Farden shook his head stubbornly. ‘It was before any of us knew what Vice was doing. Cheska and I started a long time before any of this.’

  ‘How long?’

  Farden rubbed his brow while he counted. ‘I don’t know, five, maybe six years ago? Look it doesn’t matter now; what’s done is done and I can’t change it now.’

  Durnus shook his head, a slow movement of his head from side to side that made Farden feel distinctly guilty. ‘No, you can’t, Farden, but what’s done has now become very dangerous. The rules of the Written are there for a reason, and an extremely good reason at that, mage. The magick council always feared the day when two Written bear a child, and now here it is! Were they still in power, you’d be hanging from the main gates by your ankles right now.’

  Farden glared at the vampyre. ‘I got this same lecture from Tyrfing.’

  ‘Then I hope it is getting into that thick head of yours! The magick in your Book lives in your veins, in your blood, and yes, in your seed, Farden. Combining your magick with another’s magnifies the outcome. A child of that particular union, should it survive its own birth and be remotely human, could be more powerful than any of the Arkmages, more powerful than you or Tyrfing, more powerful that anyone the Arka has ever known, a monster of magick,’ explained Durnus. ‘And now Vice has such a child in his possession, which I am assuming was his plan from the very start. I would hazard a guess that he is plotting something extreme, something far beyond anything we dared to suspect until now. And now all he has to do is bide his time and wait for Cheska to give birth.’ The vampyre sighed.

  ‘Well, I’m not going to let that happen,’ grunted Farden, ever-stubborn. ‘Cheska loved me once, I can make her love me again. I can make this right.’

  There was no anger in the old vampyre’s face in reply to that statement, as there had been in Tyrfing’s. Durnus simply walked forward and put his hands on Farden’s shoulders. ‘No, you can’t. I remember what you told me, about the look you saw in her eyes that day in the Arkathedral. Remember? You said yourself there was nothing there, that she seemed hollow.’

  ‘No…’ began Farden, but Durnus wouldn’t have it.

  ‘Listen to me Farden! By the gods, for once listen just to me, and get it into your head. Vice didn’t just stumble across a pregnant princess. You and I both know that Cheska has been under Vice’s claws ever since the beginning. I guarantee that five or six years ago Vice orchestrated your meeting, and has been pulling the strings ever since. I know that must be painful for you, old friend, but you did not see her march into the Arkathedral alongside Vice and Bane. I did, and believe me she is one of them. But I also know that you are a stubborn bastard, and that you shall have to realise that on your own. This time, though, you had better realise it fast. It’s beyond just you and her now; it is about Emaneska, and life and death, and we will not have you jeopardising the future of this world because of your feelings for Cheska. She and that child are the enemy, do you understand me?’

  Even though a part of him wanted to clench his teeth, shake his head, and scream in his old friend’s face, Farden controlled himself, and nodded solemnly. Durnus shook him lightly.

  ‘And the dragons will have to be told about this. I was intending to send them the news via hawk, but now you can tell them yourself, which I think would be better for all involved, do you agree?’ The sullen mage nodded once more and then the two continued on their walk. There was nothing more to be said for now. They were silent for a long while, and then Durnus asked a question to change the subject.

  ‘So, it appears your uncle lives. The rumours were true, then,’ said the vampyre.

  Farden made a face. Durnus and his questions, he thought. ‘Don’t even get me started on him,’ he said.

  ‘I for one am glad he’s alive. To tell you the truth, I didn’t think you would find him. Deep down, I think that somehow I knew he had survived all these years. Call it intuition or hope, but I knew. But I also know that if he wanted us to know he was alive he would have told us. He is stubborn, like you are, hence why I am surprised he came to our aid.’

  Farden nodded reluctantly. His uncle had come, whether he wanted it or not, and that was something. ‘One good deed doesn’t make up for thirteen years of lies.’

  ‘I am sure it does now, but it’s a start.’ Durnus reminded him.

  Farden relented. ‘He’s not at all what I imagined.’

  ‘Are you disappointed?’

  Farden thought about that, and decided that yes, he was disappointed in Tyrfing. ‘As a mage he’s incredible, he controls magick like I’ve never seen. But as a man, he’s a coward.’

  ‘Cowardice comes in different forms, Farden, and more often than not it is confused with well-founded and simple fear. His Book is too powerful for its own good. Who knows what it has done to his mind, and what Vice did to him. I assumed he would be a shivering wreck of a man by now, I’ll admit it, but here he is, alive and well. I am the first to admit I am pleasantly surprised by him.’

  There was another moment of silence. ‘He’s got the same anger in him that I have.’

  ‘That’s your magick talking. Like I said, your Books are too powerful,’ said Durnus. Farden clenched a fist and watched the veins in his arm glow. ‘And that will be Vice’s undoing,’ muttered the mage, echoing his uncle’s words.

  ‘Ne
vertheless, it is good to see Tyrfing again. It has been far too long,’ said the vampyre, paying no notice to Farden’s comment.

  The two men negotiated yet another bush and made their way towards a grassy patch between the trees where, even in the cold, a handful of white snowdrops had sprouted. The Long Winter hadn’t won yet. Farden tried his best to avoid crushing any of the flowers as he strode through the long dewy grass, as if it would somehow help the world.

  Through the pillar-like tree trunks ahead of them, they could spy the orange flickering of a campfire not too far in the distance. It was just in time, for night was swiftly approaching and ushering away the day. Farden looked at his friend. ‘Tyrfing told me about Vice, Bane, everything. The nefalim, and the pale kings. He told me all of it.’

  ‘Hmm,’ replied Durnus, an answer that didn’t really say anything at all.

  ‘You knew?’

  The vampyre had to nod. ‘Lerel told me about Vice, and Bane, and that Dust Song. It was part of her message to me, or should I say, Tyrfing’s message. I would have told you eventually, if you hadn’t found your uncle. Do you believe it?’

  Farden sighed. ‘I have to say I do.’

  ‘I was afraid you’d say that.’

  Farden tensed slightly. Did Durnus know about the “One” in the Dust Song? Had he made that connection? Did he know that Tyrfing wanted the child dead? In the dim light, Farden caught the toe of his boot on a hidden boulder and put a hand against a nearby tree to avoid falling. He probed around in the grass to find the offending lump of rock but he couldn’t see it. He scowled at the grass. ‘And what did the rest of the message say?’ he asked.

  But Durnus wasn’t listening. He was staring up at the tree Farden was leaning against, a look of curious wonder on his face.

  ‘Durnus?’ repeated Farden, but the vampyre held up a hand and shushed him. The mage looked up at the tree and noticed there was something amiss with it. At first he thought it had fallen or toppled over, but he quickly realised that it had done nothing of the sort. The tree was curved like an archway.

  Where the tree should have been straight and tall like the rest of the forest, it was bent instead, bent and curved in an arch that rejoined the ground a few paces away. There were thick gnarled roots at either end, and at its apex leafy branches sprouted, forming a dark green crown. Its bark was almost entirely covered with coiling ivy. Farden peeled back some of the waxy leaves to make sure there was living wood underneath. It was an odd sight indeed. Farden had to walk around it a few times to make sure it wasn’t an illusion.

  ‘A little light please Farden,’ ordered Durnus, and the mage summoned a flame to burn in the palm of his hand. He joined the vampyre in the centre of the tree and looked up at the tree-trunk above them.

  ‘Just as I thought,’ muttered Durnus. His sombre mood had been forgotten in an instant.

  ‘What?’ asked Farden.

  The vampyre was suddenly as excited as a starving child who had just been handed a rather large cake. Durnus walked around the trunk, backwards and forwards, leaning this way and that to examine the branches. ‘I’ve heard of these trees growing in Emaneska, but this is the first I’ve ever seen. I thought they were just a rumour.’ The vampyre clapped his hands together. ‘Remember I told you once about the natural magick that flows through the rocks and the mountains and the sea, the magick that the quickdoors tap into?’

  Farden, confused, shrugged. ‘Probably,’ he said.

  ‘Well sometimes, and once in a blue moon, mind you, the magick forms a natural gateway, either in rock, or a tree like this, even in fog or mist or so I’ve read. You see how it sparkles slightly in the light?’

  Farden held his hand closer to the wood above him and squinted. ‘Careful,’ warned Durnus, but the vampyre was right. Where he had peeled back the ivy the wood sparkled ever so slightly, like the glistening trail of a slug or a snail, like grains of sand in bright sunlight.

  ‘Can we use this to get to Nelska? Will it work?’

  Durnus rubbed his stubbled chin. ‘It could, I suppose. I’ve never come across this before. Do you still have that Weight of yours?’

  Farden had completely forgotten about the golden disk in his cloak pocket. He quickly found it and gave it to Durnus. The vampyre looked at the inscriptions on the surface of the metal and hummed to himself, thinking. ‘I suppose it could work. But we’ll have to wait for morning, when the magick is at its strongest, and when I can see what I’m doing.’

  ‘Well at least we won’t starve.’

  ‘And then I won’t have to eat one of you,’ joked Durnus, in an attempt to lighten the mood. He patted the mage’s shoulder and walked on towards the bright fire. Farden followed, finding himself smiling a little. The mage pushed his dark thoughts to the side, for now, and concentrated on other things. There were plenty to choose from: a rumbling stomach, the dark and treacherous undergrowth, and the smell of burning pine on the cold breeze. Durnus did the same. Together they left their conversation behind for the trees.

  When they finally made it back to the campfire, they found Eyrum sitting with his arms crossed on one side of the fire, and Tyrfing on the other, staring blankly into the forest.

  ‘No food?’ asked the big Siren, and Farden shook his head and held out his empty hands. ‘Not a deer to be found. I think Ilios scared them away,’ he said.

  Eyrum grunted and said no more. Durnus looked at Tyrfing, then at Eyrum, and then at Farden, who made a confused face. ‘What’s wrong with you two?’ asked the vampyre, sensing a spot of tension around the fire.

  ‘Nothing,’ said the Tyrfing and the Siren in perfect unison. Farden rolled his eyes with a weary sight and sat down by the fire. Durnus joined him and leant close to whisper in the mage’s ear. His voice couldn’t hide the smile curving across his pale lips. ‘Guess you’re not the only who’s a stubborn bastard,’ he hissed, and Farden grinned. ‘Trouble in paradise,’ he whispered.

  The figure put a tentative foot forward, and then another. Had she a heart it would have pounded against her chest like a drum. But that would have given her away, and so that night she had nothing, a crouching spectre of wings and limbs. She dreaded every single sound, and made sure her next footing was sure.

  But it wasn’t, and out from the darkness behind her something pounced, claws and fangs bared, eyes glowing like a blast furnace, skeletal wings spread wide like a raven in the night. Darkness seeped from its pores, sucking at the light and feeding off it like a parasite. A daemon in the flesh, hungry for the taste of this little goddess.

  She was quick though, and her sword carved a curving shape across its blistered hide. It spat fire and cursed in a language long forgotten, and began to circle her. Her skin, made visible by her power, glittered in the starlight, shining like a beacon in the darkness. It wouldn’t be long before others arrived. And so she shouted, shouted for someone who was always listening, a god whose ears could hear a blade of grass growing from a mile away, hear time passing and ghosts sighing, hear the very molecules of air slip past his ears, a god whose eyes could spy a shadow of a shadow, see the valleys and canyons in a snowflake, a god who guarded the rainbow bridge to the highest reaches of the void…

  Chapter 8

  “Since the war, the dragons of Nelska have been in decline. Despite all their strength and prowess in other areas, dragon mating and breeding is severely dependent on luck and luck alone. Producing an egg it seems, let alone seeing it hatch into a wyrm, is an incredibly difficult and lengthy process, and has happened less and less often in the last few decades, due mainly to the dwindling number of breeding grounds. The Siren wizards and witches use many a spell to ensure an egg survives through to its hatching, but with such a low success rate, some argue that their spells are just tradition and that they have no real effect. (Some would argue that the Siren wizards are useless altogether, seeing as how their magick comes merely from books and incantations and cantrips, but that is another story for another day). It seems as though the dragons are
doomed, not due to war, but for lack of breeding.

  “Fortunately however, dragons are creatures of luck, it flows in their veins like the magick of a mage. With any chance, we shall have dragons for many more years to come.”

  Taken from ‘Nelska: The Dobran Conundrum’ by the esteemed critic Áwacran

  And so, as reliably as it always has in the lands of Emaneska and beyond, the cold velvet blanket of night fell, and with it came a mixture of thoughts and feelings for all. The four men slept as comfortably as they could manage amongst the pine needles and grass, snoring away and dreaming dreams of home and war and other things, turning occasionally in their slumbers to warm their cold sides against the embers of the fire. Ilios remained on his grassy knoll and slept with one eye open and one eye closed. His furry chest rose and fell slowly with each deep breath.

  To the south, on a hilltop near Manesmark, Modren stood by the gnarled ruins of the once mighty Spire and stared out at the dark sea in the distance. Below him lay Krauslung and the rest of the valley, glowing with orange torch and candlelight. Modren had swiftly given up trying to count them all. There were too many. Here and there a fire blossomed between the narrow streets, keeping gloved hands and children warm, while the Arkathedral, towering and obstinate, glistened like a star-filled night, its spiralling levels alive with twinkling points of light.

  Modren stood with his back to the ruins, one hand on his cold sword handle and another on his chest. He was happy to let the night wind sting his cheeks and his hands, as though it were a punishment of sorts. Behind him lay all that remained of the old Spire; a lopsided circle of blackened and broken stone. The charred timber had been removed months ago, and what was left had rotted away in the snow and rain. The scorched grass had never grown back, and the ruin remained a dark scar on the hillside. Modren wondered if the scars would ever heal. The wind moaned at him, asking if he meant the Spire or his people. The mage’s thoughts were frayed like old cloth.