by Ben Galley
Farden had completely forgotten about the Scribe, and what a loss his death was to the Arka. He scratched his chin with a nail. ‘Was the Scribe a pale king? Was he the third?’
‘Sadly no, he wasn’t. I never knew much about him, but according to Ilios he was just a man, an ancient spellsmith kept alive by Vice’s spells long after his allotted years. Perhaps he even had a little elf blood in him. They worked together since the start.’
‘Strange, the things we’ve forgotten.’
‘Like I said, they’ve spent a lot of time convincing us that they had died out.’
Farden nodded, trying not to let the dark thoughts creep back inside his skull, like rats into a waiting ship. ‘Why are you here? I assume you wanted to teach me something,’ he said.
‘If you’d like,’ said Tyrfing, neglecting to mention he was there because he felt guilty. ‘Would you? Farden shrugged in a way that said “yes” while looking like a resounding “no.”
Tyrfing rubbed his nose. ‘Like I said, it’s the magick we wield in between our spells that count the most,’ began his uncle. Farden frowned.
‘Is that supposed to make sense?’ he muttered.
Tyrfing sighed and took a few steps back. ‘One of the zeal spells is called “presence” and simply relies on pure force of will to intimidate people or animals. Trust me, it’ll scare most people into a shivering ball if you get it right, and save you a lot of effort in the process. Now, does that make sense?’
Farden waved his hand impatiently, knowing he was coming across as rude. He wondered if at that moment he really cared. His uncle deserved it. ‘Show me,’ he said.
Tyrfing took another step back and moved his head from side to side with several very audible clicks. ‘Concentrate all your will into a single spot, usually an area around the eyes or the forehead, and focus the deepest part of your magick on it. Let your magick flow through your chest, let it into the space behind your eyes, pull in from the shoulders, and then push with your mind.’ As he spoke, shadows began to creep into the edges of the hall and the flames of the torches fluttered and flapped. Tyrfing appeared to grow in stature, and the closer he came to Farden the taller he became. His eyes burnt with an intimidating fire and he loomed over his nephew in a way Farden couldn’t begin to explain. The mage felt cornered, trapped, and his heart pounded hard against his chest. ‘And that’s it,’ said Tyrfing, and suddenly the spell was done; the shadows went back to their hiding places and the torches breathed a sigh of relief.
Farden grudgingly admitted he was impressed. ‘I want to learn some illusion, or transmutation,’ he said, and Tyrfing smiled and made another sucking noise with his teeth.
‘Well, that’s a hard one. True illusion verges on shapeshifting, and that took me a decade to master.’
‘Shapeshifting,’ murmured Farden. ‘If any magick were dark, that would be it.’
‘Only because the daemons perverted it to their own cause, nephew, and only because Vice used it to trick you. Dismissing it as evil is exactly what he wants us to do. There is no dark and light magick; it’s all just a different shade of grey.’
‘So could you shift into, say, a rock troll, or a dragon?’
Tyrfing chuckled wistfully. ‘I wish I could. I doubt anyone but the gods could do that. I’ve only managed about two or three other forms in my life, Lerel and the faun not included, and they were difficult to hold.’
The mage rubbed his stubbled chin. ‘I’m curious to know who taught you these things. Surely you couldn’t have learnt it all by yourself?’ asked Farden.
Tyrfing shrugged. ‘It’s mostly practice, or accidental. Thanks to that bastard Vice, our Books contain a lot more magick than we know, and usually it’ll find a way out on its own. No doubt you’ve cast a few unusually large spells before without really knowing how? Hmm, thought so. The magick will find a way out, you just have to practise and push yourself,’ replied his uncle, moving to stand near the wall. ‘And of course, there are spell books. Durnus has collected quite a few over the years, ever since the spellsmiths were dismissed. He even saved a great deal from Albion before the Dukes could burn them all. Most of them are useless, but there are a few that have some interesting spells.’ Tyrfing chuckled then. ‘I actually found one in Paraia that had a cantrip for making a man bald from fifty feet away. Don’t ask me why. But, if you want the best spell books, then find a Siren wizard, and good luck prying one away from them,’ he said. His uncle was right; the wizards were a secretive bunch.
Magick was commonplace throughout Emaneska, and from the lowly peasant to the highest of Arkmages, even to the superstitious, spell book-burning Dukes of Albion, everybody used it. More often that now it was in the form of a simple spoken charm or a magickal trinket bought from a market, a flicker of magick in a leaf or plant, or a blacksmith’s or jeweller’s cantrip, but if a person could tolerate and control the feeling of magick coursing through their veins then they could learn to read the words of a spell book. As everybody knew, the spell book was the oldest method of wielding magick. The first spell books had been written by the gods and rewritten by the first humans. It was no surprise then, that spell books were still the traditional tool of choice for the Sirens wizards. It was a small but essential difference; wizards still read aloud, sorcerers and mages memorised, and the Written embedded words into skin. What the rest of the world knew very well indeed, however, was how dangerous and valuable the latter was. Magick for Written like Farden and Tyrfing was intrinsic, unbridled, and automatic, like Farfallen had pointed out all those months ago. Writing spells directly into skin is what made the Written so powerful and so unstable. Luckily for the rest of the world, unluckily for the Arka, the secret of the Book had died with the Scribe.
While Farden had been thinking, Tyrfing had positioned himself against the wall and was in the process of letting his fingertips roam over the cracks in the stone as if searching for something. ‘What are you doing now?’ asked Farden, intrigued. He crossed his arms and watched.
‘Darkness makes it much easier, but it’s possible under bright light…’ mumbled his uncle, concentrating.
‘What are you on about?’
‘I’ll show you… ah, here we are.’ Tyrfing smiled, and pressing the back of his head against the stone, he melted into the wall. Farden rubbed his eyes, more than a little surprised, and walked forward to examine the spot where his uncle had vanished. There was nothing but a slight bulge in the wall, and the more he looked at it, the more it shivered and escaped his eyes. ‘Confused?’ said the bulge, and two sapphire eyes emerged from the dark grey stone and winked at the mage. Farden flinched and then sighed, fighting to hold back the smile that threatened to curve across his lips. ‘I give up,’ he said, holding up his hands.
The wall shivered and rippled and Tyrfing reappeared. ‘ “Shadowsift,” and it’s as close to shapeshifting as you’re going to come,’ he said, with a chuckle. The chuckle was quickly replaced by a cough, and then an awkward and concerned expression. ‘Look, Farden. I know what Farfallen said to you, and I know what he’s asked…’
‘Demanded,’ Farden corrected.
Tyrfing made an uneasy face. ‘Mistakes are always best corrected by their maker. I thought you wanted to fix the world, Farden? Would you rather have me or Durnus do it? Or one of the other Sirens? Would you rather have a stranger kill Cheska and the child, or do it yourself so you know it’s done right, and so you can make amends? If you ask me to, I will do it. Just please tell me now, Farden, so that we don’t waste any more of our time.’ There was no reply. Farden’s face turned dark and threatening and Tyrfing slowly shook his head, trying to hide the relief he felt. ‘I thought as much. I’m not going to tell you what you already know and I’m not going to repeat myself, all I’m going to say is don’t make another mistake. I can only imagine what you’re thinking, nephew, but I hope it’s the right thing.’
Farden glared at the ceiling. Tyrfing was at it again. The mage fumed. ‘Could you do it? Could you ki
ll a single child to save an entire world? One life for hundreds of thousands?’
Tyrfing sighed. ‘Until recently, nephew, it wasn’t a question I had ever asked myself.’
Farden closed his eyes. ‘It’s always the questions that you don’t have an answer for that are asked of you.’
Tyrfing wondered what that meant. He nodded and said no more on the matter. He could tell his nephew was teetering on a knife edge. The pain on Farden’s face glowed like a brand.
‘Now,’ said Farden, ‘teach me.’
And for the next handful of hours that was exactly what Tyrfing did. He taught his nephew everything he could possibly squeeze into such a short space of time, and Farden listened and practised as hard as he could. Neither of them mentioned what had been said between the mage and the Old Dragon, for neither of them had to. Tyrfing had made up his mind to trust his nephew to do the right thing, but sadly, little did he know that deep inside Farden’s troubled mind, the first inklings of a decision had already taken shape, an inkling to do entirely the wrong thing.
A skinny handful of long, dark, months had passed. The dwindling pantheon of gods had finally gathered enough strength. They had pooled their thoughts and their prayers into a single effort. Cogs and ratchets whirred away in the darkness. Machines of war crunched along.
Had you looked, had you kept your eyes peeled and stared all night, you still would have missed it. The two gods fell like rays of moonlight, flashing with fire only briefly as their skins touched the cold air of the jewel-like word below them. It had taken all the gods’ strength and all of their will, and their hope, that emotion they had once dared to feel, hung solely on the two they had sent below. Times were changing fast, and risks had to be taken. Certainty was a foreigner.
It took days for their shapes to wrap themselves in visible light, days for them to dig themselves from their own graves, and once they had, once they felt strong enough, the two set off in different directions, not a single word shared between them. Wolves sniffed the air and howled as their shadows passed their lairs, paying homage to the old ones.
Chapter 12
“I don’t know what all this fuss is about, see. So we ain’t got no food an’ there’s disease on the streets, so there are Skölgard bastards on every corner, an’ our Arkmage is an evil bastard, an’ this country’s goin’ to the dogs, so what. All that doesn’t matter. Nah, tell me when the ale ‘as all run out. That’s when I know something’s wrong.”
Overheard in a Krauslung Tavern in the year 890
There was a party going on in Hjaussfen.
Before the snow closed the roads for good, hawks and soldiers had travelled to every outlying village and town to bring the people back to the shelter of the mountain. Sirens and supplies had arrived in droves, along with a huge contingent from the northern clans, distant relatives all, carrying barrels of infamous ale and spirits and full of relatively good cheer. The mood proved to be infectious and despite the impending battle everyone was intent on celebrating. Perhaps they felt that it was the last chance to do so, perhaps the war itself was the reason. Perhaps they didn’t need a reason.
Night once again found Farden alone in the palace library scouring the shelves for interesting books, though this time it was for spell books or lost magick tomes that a forgetful Siren might have accidentally left in the library. Deep down he was secretly trying to avoid the others and their questions, and the library seemed the perfect place to hide.
Farden wiped dust from one of his vambraces and yawned. The mage’s training and his emotional day had exhausted him. Every now and again, he found himself having to sit down or yawn and stretch against a bookcase. Farden had never felt magick like Tyrfing’s before, and the depth of his uncle’s knowledge had astounded him. He understood now why his uncle had been deemed such a powerful threat to the Arka. Even the Arkmages might have paled in comparison.
Therefore, their impromptu training had filled him with a sudden thirst for magick, a thirst like he hadn’t felt since his addiction to nevermar. Such was his impulsive nature, and hence the mage prowled the shelves, pausing every now and again to rub the dust from the spine of a book that looked interesting. But, once again, he was consistently disappointed by the apparently useless library. He made a mental note to lodge a complaint with Eyrum.
Soon enough, he found himself standing at a familiar archway that led down a long dark corridor. Farden cast a light spell and jogged down the small flight of steps, marvelling once again at the rows and rows of tearbooks that lined the seemingly endless shelves. He wondered if anyone had ever taken the time to count them, and how long it had taken before they had given up.
Farden came to a halt at the end of the corridor and looked at the statue of Thron and his strange book, the Grimsayer. The book was lying closed on the pedestal just as he had left it. For a reason known only to himself, perhaps just to quell his boredom or satisfy his curiosity, Farden opened the huge book and began to idly thumb through the pages. Once more, the twin lights sprang from the pages and spun their spectral images of orange light. Names floated up from the pages, some he understood, others he did not, and Farden silently mouthed the vowels and syllables of people long dead.
Strangely, no matter how hard he tried and how many pages he turned, he couldn’t reach the end of the book. Every time he thought he’d found it, he discovered another page underneath, and then another, and another; there was always someone else. ‘Odd,’ mumbled the mage aloud, and suddenly the book shivered under his fingers. Farden recoiled, watching warily as the pages started moving on their own. Turning faster than his eyes could follow they flipped and flapped until they finally came to a stop somewhere near the middle of the book. The orange lights went to work and knitted the image of a small boy, a ship’s boy by the looks of his clothing and calloused hands, with wet hair and a tired look in his eyes. Seaweed dangled from his hair. Words rose up from the paper and spelt the name ‘Odd’ in light. Farden raised an eyebrow, and came across a sudden idea. Spreading his fingers over the page, he announced in a clear and commanding voice the name of someone he knew to be dead. ‘The Scribe.’
The Grimsayer hesitated for a moment and then its pages began to whirr past with a strange mumbling sound, like a voice stretched by the wind. Then, just as Farden had hoped, the book found the right page and the hazy image of a wizened bald man appeared, complete with intricate lenses perched on his beak-like nose, just as Farden remembered him from all those years ago. His name was written in a strange script the mage had never seen before. Farden contemplated asking to see his unborn, but he wisely decided against it. Farden tried another name instead. ‘Orion,’ he said. The Grimsayer shivered again, as if flipping to the daemon’s page filled it with distaste, and reluctantly the pages tumbled. The mage was beginning to think the book was alive.
It took a while, but finally it found Orion’s page, near to the front where the paper was a dark yellow and edged with ancient grey. Dust from a thousand disturbed pages made the mage cough. Sure enough, the lights went to work and the daemon was slowly knitted together. Unlike the others, Orion’s image threatened to take up the entire pedestal. Farden had to step back to take all of him in. A shiver ran up his spine as he watched the lights weave the daemon’s fangs and his bulging muscles, the clusters of narrow, fanatical eyes, the wisps and tendrils of his wings, his armour, and finally his curved sword, hanging limply in his six-clawed hands. The mage felt the air grow cold and watched his breath turn to steam as he exhaled. The skin on the back of his arms rippled and the hairs stood on end as he stared into the daemon’s glowing eyes, sizing up his opponent. Farden gazed at the image for as long as he could bear and then quickly chose another name, the first one that came to his head. ‘Show me the third pale king,’ he said, shivering. Orion’s image melted into the page with a sigh of relief from both the mage and the book. But the Grimsayer didn’t move.
‘Show me the third pale king, the dead one, erm, Ruin,’ repeated Farden. The b
ook’s pages twitched back and forth, as if unsure of themselves. A few half-heartedly flopped over, then nothing. The orange lights hovered over the spine for a moment, and then slunk away. A strange feeling crept into Farden’s stomach, but it was swiftly interrupted by his name.
‘Farden?’ came the shout, muffled as it was by the long corridor. Resolving to solve this matter later, the mage wagged a finger at the Grimsayer. ‘I want answers, book,’ he hissed, and the book muttered darkly in reply. The mage turned and left, and headed back to the main library.
Taking the steps in two big leaps, he found Elessi standing next to the archway, holding a lantern.
‘What?’ he asked, bluntly.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked, standing with her spare hand on her hip. She beamed her best smile but he simply looked down at the floor and brushed past her. ‘Research,’ shrugged Farden, heading towards the door. He nodded for her to follow and she tutted. ‘Well I’ve been looking for you for a whole hour now. The whole mountain is having a party and you’re the only one still working. It’s like Highfrost, or the Bartering, but even bigger! Everyone’s been asking for you.’
Farden sighed. Highfrost and the Bartering were traditional Albion festivals, the former celebrated on the longest night of winter, and the latter was celebrated in the summer, usually when the Dukes needed an excuse for a feast or the Duke of Wodehallow needed the coin. Over the years, Farden had avoided both of them like plague. ‘I’m sure they haven’t,’ he said.
‘Well, Durnus and Lerel the cat-girl have,’ she said, pursing her lips. ‘Don’t she look strange now, not being a cat? I mean it was strange enough before, mind you, being a talking cat and all, but now it’s strange to think of her being anything else see, and, well she’s pretty and everything, but still very much a cat in my mind. The whole thing is odd. In fact, thinking about it, it’s all been a bit strange since that night in the woods all those months ago, when those horrid men attacked the old Arkabbey. Don’t think I’ll ever forget that.’