Pale Kings (Emaneska Series)

by Ben Galley

  Durnus tapped his foot on the floor and shook his head like a dissatisfied mother. ‘Shoes?’

  Already half out of the door, Farden sighed and turned around. He ignored his lack of socks and shoved his feet into the first pair of boots he could find and briskly tied the laces. ‘Right, can we go now?’ he said.

  The vampyre gestured to the door. ‘After you,’ he offered, and Farden hurried into the corridor, mumbling something dark and full of curses. ‘What is the matter with you this morning?’ Durnus’s question followed the mage down the corridor. Farden adjusted his belt once again.

  ‘I just can’t seem to get my head straight this morning. I had some strange dreams last night,’ he answered.

  Elessi looked concerned as always. She tried her hardest to keep up with the brisk pace of the others. ‘What kind of dreams?’ she asked.

  Farden shook his head. ‘I wish I knew,’ he said, wondering silently why he was so anxious about that morning’s meeting. Then he remembered why.

  Within a few short minutes, they arrived at the wide doors to Farfallen and Svarta’s chambers and found them to be flanked by armed guards. It was a little unusual, thought the others, to have such soldiers at the dragon’s door. Eyrum looked particularly intrigued, but they were at war, and things happen to change when a country is at war.

  The men halted at the doorway and Durnus turned to Elessi. ‘Right, maid, this is as far as you go. Unfortunately this meeting does not include you,’ he curtly informed her.

  Elessi scowled at the old vampyre and looked to Farden. The mage simply held up empty hands and made an apologetic face. ‘Well,’ said the maid, trying to look down her nose at Durnus as much as humanly possible without looking at the ceiling. ‘I have important things of my own to do.’

  As Farden and Eyrum were ushered inside by the guards, Durnus lingered at the door, unable to resist a parting shot. ‘Mm, yes, you show that washing who’s boss,’ he flashed a sly smirk and disappeared behind the closing door. The guards watched the maid leave, muttering to herself and wringing her handkerchief as though it were a vampyre’s neck.

  Farfallen’s rooms were warm and cosy. The fires were piled high with crackling logs and the fireplaces were surrounded by lanterns and candles. It was a welcome change to the cold that besieged the rest of the palace.

  The three men were escorted into a room with huge windows overlooking Farfallen’s wide balcony, where Farden and the dragon had talked during his first stay in Nelska. There were long benches along the walls, another crackling fireplace, and thick carpets made of white bear fur. A table sat in the centre of the room holding flagons of water and mugs of hot fish broth and a kind of farska. Outside the weather was still grim and bitter, but thankfully the wind had died sometime in the night and the hail had now turned to soft snow. It was mesmerising to watch the snowflakes fall as slowly as they did. Sedately and solemnly, they drifted to the cold ground and waited there to melt or to freeze with their friends. In his sleepy state, Farden was hypnotised by the snowfall. He had to be nudged by Eyrum to snap out of his trance. The mage shook his head to clear his sleepy mind and sat down with the others.

  Svarta and Tyrfing had already arrived, and were sitting on opposite sides of the room. Farden could only imagine how short their conversation must have been. The Siren queen hadn’t changed her tune, and he doubted she ever would. Svarta was still as wary and as untrusting of strangers as she had always been.

  Farfallen had yet to arrive. Two of his captains, Towerdawn and a lithe green dragon named Glassthorn, lay on their fronts with their wings folded and their tails neatly coiled. Their riders were there; crimson Towerdawn’s copper-haired Siren whose name Farden remembered to be Aelya, and Glassthorn’s rider Reyk, a slight and gaunt woman with emerald scales and beady eyes. There were a few others in the room, most of whom Farden already recognised. Lakkin was there, Brightshow’s partner, and a few other important members of the Old Dragon’s council.

  Just as Farden was about to ask where Farfallen was, there was a thump and a thud from behind him, and he turned to see Farfallen standing on the balcony. The great gold dragon stretched his wings and then tucked them to his side as one of the soldiers opened the balcony doors for him. Farfallen stepped through, accompanied by a cold breeze that taunted the fire and made everyone present shiver. It lasted only a moment and the door was quickly closed.

  ‘Well met and good wishes, everyone,’ Farfallen greeted them wearily. He shook the snow from his head and bowed. Everyone bowed in return and the Old Dragon took his place at the end of the room. He seemed a little out of breath, even for a dragon, and there was that tinge of tiredness to tawny eyes again, as though he had forgotten to blink for some time. Once he was comfortable, he wasted no time in beginning the meeting. ‘Gordheim has been emptied,’ he said, and his words caused an instant stir.

  ‘Emptied? What do you mean?’ asked Svarta.

  ‘Bane’s armies are moving south as we speak. They are joining the other battalions in Krauslung.’

  Lakkin raised a hand. ‘Are you sure, sire? How do you know?’

  ‘I saw it with my own eyes late last evening. They are moving in huge columns, travelling fast and carrying heavy weapons, catapults, ballistas. They do not stop to make camp.’

  ‘How many?’ asked one of the Siren council.

  Farfallen rumbled deep in his throat. ‘I stopped counting at fifty thousand.’

  The others took a moment to digest this new and disturbing information. Svarta was the first to speak. ‘With Gordheim unprotected, we can strike at the heart of Bane’s city and destroy it before they could stop us.’

  Farfallen shook his head. ‘And accomplish what? Risk our dragons taking a city we cannot keep? Unnecessary.’

  ‘The Old Dragon is right. We need to stop Vice and Bane, not sack an empty city,’ said Tyrfing, receiving a murderous look from the Siren queen in the process. The mage didn’t return her gaze.

  Towerdawn offered a suggestion. His red scales, now showing a hint of gold in them, creaked as he raised his head. ‘With the entire Skölgard army in one place, we can strike at once with all our forces, and perhaps increase our chances of ending this war swiftly,’ he said. The others in the room nodded in agreement.

  ‘Why can we not just attack the ships once they set sail? That way we can sink their armies in the open sea in one fell swoop?’ asked one of the council members.

  ‘They’ll have archers, heavy weapons, sorcerers, and gods know what else. It does nothing except split our forces and stall the inevitable invasion,’ answered Eyrum.

  ‘And that is why we will attack them in harbour, before they can leave the port. Attacking the ships in open waters would be suicide, and keeping my dragons alive is a priority,’ said the Old Dragon, his deep voice now stern and commanding. ‘As is saving the lives of every man, woman, and child trapped in that city. Eyrum’s report has been heavy on my mind since yesterday. Our war is with Vice and Bane, not the people of Krauslung or the Arka as it was once. They will be liberated like the rest of us. I will not allow Vice to cull us like cattle.’ Fists and jaws clenched around the room. Eyes flashed with fervour and anticipation. Farfallen continued. ‘Take the army by surprise by storming the city on all fronts, burn the ships, and surround the Arkathedral. That shall be our plan.’

  ‘I think we’re making a mistake,’ said Farden, and everyone in the room turned to look at him.

  Farfallen stared at the mage. Farden couldn’t tell if he was disappointed or annoyed. ‘And how would you go about it, mage?’

  Farden sighed, searching for an answer. ‘I don’t know,’ he confessed. ‘But there’s something about this that doesn’t seem right. It feels as though we’re playing into Vice’s hands again.’

  ‘Then would you have us wait it out? Would you have us wait for him to lay siege to this mountain and tear a path through Emaneska in the process?’ asked the dragon.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you understand
what needs to happen,’ Farfallen said, and then seeing the look on the mage’s face, he sighed. ‘You’ll have your chance to undo what has been done, Farden, mark my words. We all shall.’

  ‘But what of Vice and Bane? What about them?’ asked Aelya, Towerdawn’s rider. ‘If we remove them first then surely the Arka and Skölgard armies would lay down their weapons and simply give up. They would be leaderless without their kings.’

  ‘Not quite,’ Eyrum held up a hand and cleared his throat. ‘There’s Bane’s daughter, the one Durnus and I spotted in Krauslung. She’s one of them.’

  ‘We can always kill her too,’ said Reyk. Her voice was whispery and hoarse like a snake’s hiss. Farden tried to keep his composure, but he couldn’t help but flinch at the Siren’s words. He clenched his fists and hid them by crossing his arms. Tyrfing saw the look on his nephew’s face and quickly interjected.

  ‘There are others,’ he said. ‘There always are, and by now Vice will have the whole army under his spell. Whether by fear or false promises or magick, he’ll have them hooked. They’ll fight to the death to protect him and the king. And besides, you can’t just march in there and kill them. It’s not that simple. They are nefalim.’

  ‘You said this yesterday. I trust then, mage, you have something up your sleeve?’ asked Glassthorn in a very formal and regal-sounding voice.

  Tyrfing allowed himself a tight and formal smile. ‘I always do,’ he firmly replied. ‘Just get me into Krauslung, and trust that Farden, Durnus, and I will take care of the rest. We will leave the city and its hordes to you.’

  ‘We will trust you, then,’ said Farfallen. Svarta bit her lip and looked at her dragon, but his rigid gaze kept her silent. The air in the room was an uncomfortable one.

  Durnus had remained completely silent and still throughout the whole discussion. His good spirits had died at the door. Not one single shade of emotion had passed through his blank and pale expression. Only now did he raise a hand. ‘Is that it?’ he asked. His voice was low and quiet. ‘We’re outnumbered ten to one, and as Farden said yesterday, no force has broken the gates of Krauslung in the history of the Arka. You tried in the war, and failed then. Is that the entirety of your plan?’

  ‘We are well aware of what happened in the war, vampyre,’ hissed Svarta. Her dragon growled.

  ‘We gather our forces, from anywhere we can, and get ready to fight. We muster every scrap of aid we can,’ instructed Farfallen. ‘Clearhallow has already gone north with a contingent of Sirens, to gather the northern dragons to our cause. They can be wild, and unpredictable, but we have no choice. I have sent a hawk and spies to Krauslung, to search for any sign of a resistance. I need the rest of you to spread our fingers wide, and rally others to our cause. Either Emaneska stands up to fight, or it will be knocked into the dirt for good, and trampled. Evil has always thrived on inaction and unreadiness.’

  Tyrfing spoke up. ‘The Paraians have plenty of tribes and nomads, but I don’t think any of them would come north to help. Vice has yet to make an appearance in the desert lands.’

  Beside Farden, Eyrum was muttering. ‘Let’s hope he never will,’ he whispered. Farden nodded. Tyrfing was still talking.

  ‘I can send hawks, go myself maybe, and see what help I can find.’

  Farfallen bowed his golden head. ‘It is worth a try,’ he said. ‘Towerdawn, Aelya, I am sending you east and south, to Halôrn and Midgrir, to see what help you can gather there. When can you leave?’

  ‘This afternoon, Old Dragon,’ rumbled Towerdawn.

  ‘Excellent.’

  Glassthorn rattled his spikes. ‘If it pleases, sire, Reyk and I can speak to the beast clans of Dromfangar in the southeast, near the borders of the Skölgard Empire. They’re a wild, tribal people, but they train many a strange creature to fight for them. They may be willing to help, for a price.’

  ‘Whatever it takes,’ replied the Old Dragon. Next he turned to Durnus and Farden. ‘And what of Efjar? Would the minotaur clans aid us?’

  Farden shook his head. ‘Not after what the Arka did to them in the skirmishes. They’d be the first in line to watch Krauslung burn.’

  ‘Then what about Albion?’ asked Svarta.

  Farden shrugged and looked to the vampyre next to him. ‘I suppose it’s worth a try,’ suggested the mage. Durnus had a hard time disguising his disgust.

  ‘The Dukes of Albion are a worthless breed, but you never know. Offer them enough gold and they will likely fight for anything. If one thing is for definite, they are short of arms and peasants to wield them,’ he said, wrinkling his nose. ‘And it is not like we have much of a choice.’

  ‘That we do not. We still have some gold left in our coffers, use whatever you need. As we have little time, you will leave tomorrow,’ ordered the Old Dragon. He sighed and pushed himself onto all fours, gazing at the cold snow falling on his balcony. ‘We have been given one chance and one chance only. We cannot afford to fail this time,’ Farfallen whispered.

  A feeling of quiet desperation permeated the room, and every person there felt it, and every person knew it was emanating from Farfallen. Svarta felt it the most. Without a word, she stood and ran her hands down the front of her dress to smooth out the creases. ‘I think the meeting is adjourned,’ she said. ‘Eyrum, I’d like you to follow me. The rest of you have your orders.’ And just like that the sombre meeting was over. One by one, the others got to their feet and left, the dragon’s words ringing in their ears. Only Farden lingered behind, rubbing his sleepy eyes. Tyrfing beckoned for him to follow but Farden shook his head and nodded towards Farfallen. The old mage mouthed something that looked like “good luck” and left, a silent and ashen vampyre in tow.

  Within a few minutes, everyone save for the guards had left, and Farden was left standing in the centre of the room near the table, waiting for Farfallen to say something. But the gold dragon said nothing, and simply went outside to stand at the balcony’s edge. Farden pulled his fur-lined hood over his head and followed the great beast out into the snow, shutting the door behind him. The Siren guards remained inside.

  As quickly as he dared in the slippery snow, the mage walked across the wide balcony and took his place beside the dragon. He tucked his hands under his arms to keep them warm and looked down at the mountainside far below.

  The whole city of Hjaussfen was being systematically strangled by the snow, and Farden had to squint to pick out the roads and buildings hiding under it. Some looked abandoned, while others had been shored up by driftwood and dark turf. Makeshift wooden roofs had been placed over the deeper rifts and craters to give the farms and towns below some shelter from the cold. Wisps of smoke and steam rose from the cracks. Farden wondered how the more northern, outlying towns were faring, the smaller, less protected places like Ragjarak, Farfallen’s old palace. He looked north. All he could see in the mountainous distance were a few signal fires, glowing orange in the snowy haze, warning lights for the craggy, wave-battered cliffs to the north and east.

  Farden realised he couldn’t stare into space forever. There were no answers buried in the landscape. He took a breath and opened his mouth to speak but the Old Dragon got there first. ‘My memories may be failing me and my mind may be growing weaker by the day, mage, but I remember a conversation we had not so long ago. In this conversation you told me that the Written were bound to strict rules,’ said Farfallen. ‘Am I right?’

  ‘I did,’ replied Farden. ‘On this very balcony.’

  ‘Remind me of them.’

  The mage drummed his fingers against his back and recited the rules that had been repeatedly beaten into him at the School of the Written. As he spoke, he realised how many of them he had broken over the years. ‘Do not let anyone, man nor beast, read the Book. Stay yourself from the drug known as nevermar, the anti-magick. Always obey the will of the Arkmages, never question their orders. Never fraternise or breed with another, most of all another Written, which is punishable by instant death.’

  The Old Dragon
fixed him with a penetrating gaze. ‘Then tell me Farden, how is it that Bane’s daughter is pregnant?’

  Farden stared straight into those golden eyes. ‘You already know the answer to that, Farfallen.’

  The dragon sighed as though a weight had been dropped from his shoulders. ‘I do, mage, I have known ever since you came back from the desert. I had been hoping that you would come to me and tell me yourself, like your uncle and Durnus asked you to, but you never did.’

  ‘I’m sorry…’ began the mage, but Farfallen held up a claw and shook his head.

  ‘What is done is done, and what remains now is the problem. Tyrfing and his gryphon have told me about this child and its possible abilities, and it seems horrifyingly apparent that this child could be the end of us.’

  ‘That’s not entirely true…’

  ‘And why is it then that such a thing was banned by your magick council?’

  Farden faltered, breaking his gaze and staring out into the distance, wishing he could just disappear. Farfallen rattled his ochre horns. ‘My memories are like broken shadows, mage, but I can still recall whispers of the daemons and the elves in my dreams, smell their stench, their magick, the chaos they wrought. They would rip the sky apart just to listen to the sound it made. Crush skulls to watch the colour they turned the grass. I can feel your pain mage, I can feel it as though it were my own, but let me make one thing clear to you,’ said the Old Dragon, pointing a claw. ‘The Dust Song speaks the truth. Cheska and that daemon-blooded spawn of yours is the entire culmination of Vice’s plan, and as so they must not be allowed to live. That bastard would see those days return once again, and I don’t need my memories to know that child will rain fire on Emaneska.’

  Farden’s face was ashen. He felt sick to his stomach. He felt as though everybody had suddenly turned against him. Where they right about his child? He thought of his uncle’s story about the merchant dying in the desert. Did they know better? Feeling the mage’s pain, the Old Dragon put his claws lightly on the mage’s shoulder. ‘You know that it has to be done, my friend, for the sake of Emaneska. I feel it is only just that I leave this matter in your hands, and yours only. The child’s fate will be up to you.’