by Ben Galley
The Old Dragon and his queen led them to the lowest levels of the fortress where the air became warm and moist. Wisps of steam lingered in the torch-lit corridors. Every now and again they noticed locked doors and signs saying “closed” where open baths had once been. As it turned out, more than half of the baths had been shut due to the lack of hot water, and the remaining were beyond busy. It looked to be the last remaining place in Hjaussfen where a Siren could get warm; the ice creeping down from the north had driven the heat deeper into the ground, and one by one the volcanic springs were slowly dying, shutting down almost half of the baths. The Long Winter was slowly smothering the mountain to death.
Consequently, there was a long queue of disgruntled Sirens standing in the corridor, busy tapping their scaly feet and sighing despondently. Fortunately, Farfallen and Svarta led Farden and the others to the entrance where they were guided straight in without hesitation.
Inside, hot steam choked the air. It was so thick they had a hard time seeing where they were going. There was a faint sulphurous smell to the steam, and the ground beneath their boots was warm to the touch. In every corner and cranny, hot springs bubbled and gurgled away, supplying the baths with bucketfuls of hot water. An army of servants and maids were at work in the thick mist, handing out towels to the other people enjoying the near-scalding water. One man was busy at a pump, pushing air into an array of thin copper pipes so that the bath water bubbled. His shirt was soaking with sweat and yet he carried on, arms rippling with the muscles of his labour. Another area seemed to be for laundry, and shelves upon shelves stood stacked with dirty uniforms waiting to be washed. A Siren’s work is never done, thought Farden.
They were led to a secluded area of the busy baths where they were greeted by an army of healers bearing trays of cloths and salves and ointments. Near to the wall was a wide and deep bath carved from granite, surrounded by small whale-oil lamps and a circle of benches covered in towels. They were instructed to sit while the healers tended to their assorted injuries. Farden clamped his teeth together and watched as one of the Siren physicians carefully pulled the slender shard of black stone from his shoulder. He was mindful to keep her prying eyes away from the symbols and letters scrawled across his shoulder-blades, especially after the last time.
With a swift and skilful tug the shard came free, and was dropped with a clatter in a nearby dish. As the healer went about rubbing a healing salve over his bruised face, the mage thoughtfully thumbed the edges of the razor-sharp rock in the dish. Like broken glass, he thought. A memory flashed across his mind then, of his fight in Krauslung and a young mage lying halfway through a broken window, and then it was gone. They were Vice’s tools, not reasons for remorse, he reminded himself. Farden had none to give.
Once they were done, the healers produced vials of oil, the colour of which never seemed to stay the same for more than a few seconds, like the cat Farden had seen in Paraia. It went from a deep fiery orange to a coppery green, and then turned to a dusky purple. The men watched as one of the healers poured the thick oil into the bubbling water. It frothed and fizzed and turned the water a deep blue and made the air smell like lavender. ‘We call it jorg,’ explained Eyrum, making a strange sound like youerg. ‘It’s a lot like syngur. And a highly guarded recipe.’ Durnus and Farden merely nodded, quite intrigued by the effervescent water. The healer emptied another two vials of the oil and then stepped back.
‘It will relax your tired muscles and calm your mind,’ she said, and with that they were left alone to undress and bathe. The three men did so with avidity, and as always Farden was careful to keep his tattooed Book out of sight. Both Eyrum and Durnus knew not to look, and nothing was said. They hopped into the water as quickly as they dared, for it was so hot it was almost unbearable, and like children the men danced around from one leg to the other, clenching their fists and gasping, until they gradually adjusted to the temperature. It had been months since each of the men had bathed, and so with much grinning and sighs of contentment they lowered themselves until they were neck-deep in the hot water. Farden sat with his back to the stone wall behind him and folded his hands behind his head. He still wore his Scalussen vambraces. ‘This is the life, gentlemen,’ he said, sighing.
‘Can we just stay here? Until this whole war nonsense is over with?’ said Durnus, running wet hands through his greying hair.
‘Don’t you ever take those off?’ asked Eyrum, pointing at the armour on Farden’s forearms. ‘They’ll rust in this water.’
‘These?’ Farden replied, tapping his shiny vambraces. He smiled. ‘Oh these will never rust,’ said the mage with a shrug. ‘I take them off sometimes, when I’m alone. I suppose I could make an exception just this once,’ he shrugged. Farden unfastened the left one first, putting finger and thumb to the red and gold metal and pushing very lightly. As if by magick, which of course it was, the leaves of metal contracted under his touch and slid apart like a snake uncoiling. With a slithering clicking sound the vambrace came apart and he put it on the side of the stone bath tub. A few moments later it was joined by its twin. The pair of them glistened in the lamp light.
‘You never did tell me the story of how you came across those. Word has it from Svarta that you won them in a duel or something,’ said the big Siren. Beside him, Durnus rolled his eyes, knowing the story all too well.
‘Perhaps one day I will,’ answered the mage, with a fiendish smirk, as he briefly dipped his head below the bubbling surface to wash his grimy face. The healing salve was itching, and Farden could still feel grains of desert sand hiding in his thick hair. His shoulder ached. He massaged it with his hand.
‘There are so many secrets,’ began Eyrum. The Siren shook his head and watched while Farden removed the dragonscale amulet from around his neck and placed it carefully next to his vambraces. The mage prodded his bruises and muttered his healing spells under his breath, stretching after each one. ‘So many secrets between us all.’
Durnus nodded and ran a hand through the steaming water. ‘That there is, my friends, and I doubt we have yet heard the last of them,’ he said, forebodingly. Eyrum was left alone to wonder what that meant, as the other two men rested their heads against the side of the bath and shut their eyes. The Siren did the same, and spent the next hour enjoying his well-earned bath.
Fresh clothes had never felt so good. The servants supplied them with clean white tunics and fur-lined jackets and took away their dirty clothes to be cleaned and repaired. There was many an arrow hole that needed patching up.
Farden replaced his amulet and vambraces and stood grimacing as another healer bandaged up the hole in his shoulder, stuffing it with poultices and strong-smelling salves. Whatever had been in that jorg, the stuff had cleared his head and refreshed his body no end. His magick was now going to work to finish the job. Overall, he felt good. That was of course, excluding his rumbling stomach.
Eyrum and Durnus felt the same, and together their three empty bellies groaned like a landslide. Thankfully, they were led back up the stairs into the heart of the fortress and to a small hall, lit again by lamps and candles, empty but for a handful of comfy chairs and a long table topped with a veritable feast, the smell of which caused each man to rub his hands together and lick his lips.
Abandoning ceremony and manners, the three went at it with an eager will, pulling up chairs and plates and piling them high. There were roast fish and clams, boiled fish broths, smoked fish platters, cauldrons of bubbling stew and vegetables, and mountains of strange fruit and bread studded with seeds. Jars of sauces and pickles from the far north of Nelska adorned the perimeters of the serving plates, and in the middle of the table there was a roasted rack of bear ribs, dripping with fat and a stormberry and cragleaf gravy.
There was even something for Durnus in amongst the dishes and bowls: a tall thin jar covered with a cloth and a note with his name scribbled in dragonscript. He peeked underneath, at first confused, and then delighted. So as not to put the other two off their food
he kept the jar covered with the cloth and lifted it to his pale lips. His fangs slid eagerly from his gums and met the jar with a clinking sound. He drank and drank, until the jar of blood was empty, and then sat back in his chair with a sigh.
‘That feels good,’ he said, wiping his blood-stained lips with the back of his hand. When he had first arrived in Nelska the Sirens, especially Svarta, had been immensely worried about having a vampyre in their midst. Even though Durnus wasn’t dangerous, Siren society demanded his type be shunned. For the first few months, most of the fortress had either ignored or avoided him. Farfallen and his dragons on the other hand had been much more accommodating. They had wisely set up a system where by Durnus could feed on the handful of Skölgard prisoners of war the Sirens had locked away in their deepest, darkest prisons. Those who needed to know knew, and those who didn’t, well, they were none the wiser; Durnus was as silent and subtle as a shadow. Their screaming only lasted a moment.
Farden was busy attacking a plate of smoked fish and boiled potatoes, something he had developed a real taste for during his stay in Nelska. ‘I could eat this whole table,’ he said.
‘Not if I get there first,’ replied Eyrum, mumbling around a mouthful of bear.
‘Thank the gods it’s not sandworm,’ muttered the mage.
Durnus put a hand to his ear. ‘What?’
Farden shook his head and smiled. ‘Nothing.’
Soon there was a knock on the door and in came Tyrfing, fresh-faced and clean. Farden got up to meet him. His uncle hardly looked like the same person. His old grimy desert clothes and exotic clockwork armour had been replaced by a crisp grey tunic, thick black trousers, and a new pair of boots. Like his beard, his hair had been neatly trimmed and washed, and Tyrfing self-consciously ran a scarred hand through it, as if to check that it was still there. The Paraian rainring was still on his finger, and it sparkled in the light. Farden looked him up and down. ‘I’m surprised you even knew what a bath looked like,’ he said. Tyrfing grinned awkwardly.
Without taking a break from his plate or turning around, Eyrum called over to the mages. ‘How’s Ilios?’
Tyrfing scrunched up his face and bobbed his head. ‘He’ll be alright. They say the arrow that hit him was poisoned.’
Durnus nodded. He looked very comfortable in his chair, leant back with his hands clasped together on his chest. He clicked a finger. ‘I should have known. One of the few books I managed to save from the Arkabbey was a manual on Skölgard poison-brewing. Don’t ask me why I have it. According to its writings, it is common for Skölgard archers or sorcerers to use wolfsbane, water hemlock, or dropwort to poison their arrows and daggers. They grow along the canals of Gordheim and in the northern fjords. Though why they insist on using such foul tactics is beyond me.’
‘Probably because they’re such bad shots,’ added Farden. Durnus nodded again.
‘They are a pleasant bunch. No wonder they control half of Emaneska. Remind me to inform Farfallen of that manual.’
Tyrfing looked ashen. ‘Well, Ilios has lost a lot of blood and the wound is very deep, but the Sirens managed to catch the poison before it stopped his heart. They say if he makes it through the night then he’ll be fine. They seem to know what they’re doing, and Ilios is strong.’
‘I wouldn’t be worried if I were you. They’re the best at what they do,’ grunted Eyrum, still eating. The big one eyed Siren seemed to have a bottomless stomach.
‘Anyway,’ said Tyrfing, eager to change the subject from his poor gryphon. ‘There’s someone I’d like you to meet, Farden. I think you might recognise her.’ Farden made a puzzled face. Gesturing to somebody in the corridor, Tyrfing opened the door a little wider and in stepped a young woman, hands crossed and folded neatly in front of her, looking from man to man with an air of grace and control that only a feline could display. Lerel was human again.
To say that Farden was astonished would have been quite an understatement, and despite his politest of efforts, his wide-eyed gaze wandered up and down her new body.
As it turned out, Lerel was almost as tall as he was, long-limbed, lithe, and obviously of some Paraian blood. Her skin was tanned like Tyrfing’s and her eyes were the same deep brown as they had been in cat-form. Her hair was cut so that it barely skimmed her shoulders. It was a brown so dark that it almost verged on black, and the colour matched the smattering of freckles that dusted her cheeks. Her lips seemed to hide the capacity for a wide smile, and were at that particular moment tightly drawn into a coy little smirk. The dark skin of her hands were covered in intricate lines and swirls, like the tribal tattoos he had seen on the girls in the markets of Belephon and Halios, and there were a number of rings on her fingers, little silver rings etched with copper and brass, and one with a red jewel in the centre. She wore a long, slim-fitting dress made from a blue fabric that moved like the sea. The beads at the hem made a swishing sound on the flagstones as she did a little turn. ‘What do you think?’ she said, in a small voice, the cat’s voice. Farden wondered why he had never noticed the slight Paraian twang to her accent. There was an awkward moment where he realised he was staring. Farden didn’t know what to do but clap his hands together and smile.
‘Er, you look great!’ he said. ‘I keep expecting to see a tail swishing behind you, but that’s about it.’ A stupid joke, he thought to himself, but Lerel smiled politely.
Durnus was thinking the same, and with a tight smile he got to his feet and came closer to bow deeply. Lerel bowed back, and the formal old vampyre placed a light kiss on the back of his hand. ‘My lady, it is a pleasure to have you back in your original form. Might I say you look beautiful.’
Lerel smiled and perhaps blushed a little. ‘Thank you,’ she replied.
‘You always were such a charmer, Durnus,’ murmured Farden, and then not wishing to be outdone, he too bowed low with a formal sweep of his hand. Lerel curtseyed in return.
The vampyre shrugged. ‘I bet Elessi doesn’t think so,’ he said, while Eyrum took his turn to bow.
Farden suddenly clicked his fingers, as if awakening from a trance. ‘Elessi, that’s who’s missing. Where is she?’
‘She’s gone to make sure your rooms are all ready for you,’ said Lerel.
Farden rolled his eyes. ‘Always the maid, even when she’s on holiday.’
‘I’d hardly call this a holiday, mage,’ Durnus wagged a finger.
‘It is for her,’ grunted Eyrum.
Tyrfing cleared his throat. ‘By the way, I think we’re wanted for a council meeting in the grand hall, or great hall, wherever that is. Farfallen has some questions that need answering.’
Farden looked to Lerel. ‘I think we all have,’ he said.
Eyrum wiped the crumbs and stains of food from his lips with a cloth and straightened his shirt. ‘It’s best not to keep the Old Dragon waiting. There’s much to discuss,’ he said decidedly, and motioned for them all to leave. With the big Siren leading the way, the others followed him out of the room and into the winding corridors and hallways of Hjaussfen.
Finally, after what seemed like a long uphill hike, they found themselves surrounded by the grand decor of the palace, walking down ornately carved corridors large enough for two or three dragons to walk side by side. This as it turned out, was a lucky thing, as there seemed to be a queue to get into the grand hall. When Eyrum asked a nearby rider the reason for the delay, he was informed, rather snippily, that the giant skylights in the hall had been sealed up to protect against the weather, so that now the only access for the dragons was by foot, rather than by wing. Eyrum thanked him gruffly and returned to the others with a helpless shrug. It seemed like a sensible thing to do; the northern ice sheets were creeping further south by the day. Even sheltered as they were from the winds, the air at the top of the fortress was icy-cold, and despite their grandeur, the granite surroundings felt bare and numb. The palace felt a million miles from the hot springs far beneath their feet, bubbling away at the roots of the mountain.
It took almost an hour for everyone to get into the hall, and once inside they stood shivering and waiting for the fires to be lit and for the dragons to find their respective nests. Farden and Tyrfing, warm as usual thanks to their magick, lent their jackets to Lerel and Elessi, who had found them in the corridor. Eyrum was used to the cold. He stood stoically with his arms crossed.
Once everybody had finally found their places, the fireplaces were stoked and kindled into roaring fires and the draughts were locked out. Crowds of gathered Sirens huddled together for warmth, burying their hands and chins into their fur jackets. Above them in their nests, the dragons seemed perfectly fine, kept warm by an inner fire like the mages were. The scaly beasts would occasionally cast a forlorn glance at the skylights that punctuated the domed roof above them, now boarded up with wooden panels and driftwood thatch to keep the bitter winds at bay. Farden tried to count the occupied nests, hoping there would be more dragons than the last time he counted, but the proceedings began before he could finish.
‘Well met and good wishes to all,’ came the booming voice of Farfallen. The Old Dragon had taken his usual position in the centre of the grand hall, sitting upright on a wooden stage strewn with autumn leaves. Nearby torches made his scales glisten like molten gold, and his giant eyes, huge pools of knowledge and wisdom, roved over the faces of his subjects like an eagle looking for prey. His sharp teeth poked from the sides of his scaly mouth. His crown of spikes and horns looked sharp and dangerous in the firelight, as did the claws that flicked the leaves beneath his enormous feet. Despite the Old Dragon’s regal appearance however, there was a tiredness in his face Farden hadn’t seen for a long time, not since they had first met. The mage guessed it was his tearbook; it had been many months since Vice had stolen back the dragon’s memories, and the stress of its second theft was beginning to show, now deeper than ever before. What made it worse was that the tearbook had been stolen before the rebonding had been completed, meaning what memories Farfallen had regained were now a jumbled mess and fading more rapidly than before. A dragon without its memories, or for that matter any creature robbed of their past and their origins, was like a tree with the roots ripped out; eventually they would shrivel and die of thirst, even if it took years, decades even. Memories are foundations, without them people fall.