Pale Kings (Emaneska Series)

by Ben Galley

  Farden slowed down, letting Elessi catch up to him. Her skirts swished against the stone as she hurried to keep up with the mage’s long strides. ‘Well, she seems very human to me,’ he replied, and truth be told, he had to agree with the maid. ‘And yes, she is quite pretty.’

  Elessi huffed to herself, running a hand through her curly hair. ‘Not too pretty though, mind. Her nose is a weird shape. And she is a foreigner, and they have some strange ways about them.’ Not wishing to spark a lengthy debate, Farden nodded in quiet agreement. They reached his door and Elessi went in first, placing the lantern carefully on a nearby table. ‘Right, I’ve put out a fresh shirt, that red one, and some new trousers. Your boots have been cleaned and waxed.’

  Farden shook his head. ‘Whatever the Sirens are up to I’m sure they will enjoy it all the same without me. I won’t be a part of it. I need to sleep.’ He prodded his pillow and kicked his muddy, sea-washed boots under the bed. But Elessi wasn’t having any of it. She marched forward and batted his hand away from the pillow.

  ‘You can shake that idea out of your head straight away. I didn’t spend my day washing your clothes and waxing your boots so you can lie in bed and play the solitary soldier all over again. I’ve seen you do this before, remember, and I told you then I care too much about you to let you ruin yourself. For all you know this could be the last night you’ll see those people up there, so you better put those clean clothes on and go have fun. It isn’t right,’ Elessi scolded him, waving the shirt in his face. Farden said nothing. Faced with no reply but his icy expression, the maid held up the shirt to show him. ‘Besides, I pressed them and all. Not a crease to be seen. Be a waste of a good shirt.’

  For the first time that day, Farden’s stony face finally broke into a smile. His friend truly was a wonder, and still every inch the maid. Even in Nelska, hundreds of miles away from her home, here she was, obdurately insistent on looking after him as though they had never left the Arkabbey. ‘Oh Elessi, what would I do without you? Maybe you’re right, for a change,’ he sighed, half-heartedly reaching for the proffered shirt.

  ‘As always.’ Elessi nodded and fiddled with a strand of her dark curly hair, fighting not to smile back and turning around so he could change, and so that she could blush. ‘Erm Farden,’ she began. ‘There was something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about, it’s nothing really, jus’ something little I suppose. I tried to tell you months ago, see, that same night in the woods, before the arrows started flying and the shouting and all that,’ said the maid, a faraway look in her eyes.

  ‘Go on,’ Farden said, pulling on the fresh pair of black boots.

  ‘Well, you see, er, it’s probably the wrong time and all for this but…’ But her sentence was cut short by a smart rapping at the door. Elessi bit her lip and went to answer it, finding Eyrum standing outside in the corridor.

  ‘There he is,’ the big Siren said to Farden as Elessi opened the door, lowering his head so he could fit under the door-frame. ‘We’ve been looking for you.’

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ said Farden. ‘I’m wondering what I’ve done to provoke such watchful eyes. Everybody seems to be keeping tabs on me.’

  Eyrum winked with his good eye. He seemed in good spirits. ‘It’s because you’re always wandering off,’ he replied. ‘Come on, we’ve a party to attend. Courtesy of the Sirens.’

  Farden turned to Elessi. ‘You coming?’ he asked, but she held up a hand and shook her head.

  ‘I’ll join you in a bit. I have some more cleaning to do,’ she made her excuses and went in to the other room, wringing the front of her dress with her hands.

  ‘Strange one, she is,’ tutted Eyrum.

  Farden hummed, watching her close the door behind her. ‘Hmm, she was about to tell me something. Never mind. I suppose it can wait.’

  The Siren nodded towards the corridor, which was beginning to fill with people. ‘It can wait, now let’s get some ale inside you,’ he urged, making Farden shake his head.

  ‘What’s got into you all of a sudden?’ he remarked. ‘Normally you’d be scowling at the mere mention of a party.’

  Eyrum shrugged. ‘It’s good to be home,’ he said simply, hoisting his cloak over his shoulders. The Siren was wearing his best clothes; a blue shirt had replaced his normally bleak choice of colours. There were small slashes in its sleeves that revealed another colour hiding beneath. A silver band hugged his wrist. A smart brown cloak trailed in his wake. Farden looked up at his tall friend and noticed, against all odds, that he had even combed his hair. The mage briefly pondered if this new Eyrum was secretly his uncle in disguise, but his fears were assuaged when they reached the great hall and found the others waiting at the door.

  Tyrfing was there, looking quite uncomfortable in black trousers, a brown coat, and a freshly starched white shirt, the collar of which constantly poked him in the neck every time he turned his head. He looked as though his beard had been trimmed some more. Farden suppressed a faint smile, already reluctantly succumbing to the infectious electricity in the air. Brightshow was there, tapping her claws on the granite with eagerness, and Durnus, looking regal in a red robe, and so was Lerel, leaning against the wall wearing a slim emerald dress and a multitude of gold bracelets. She had curled her hair and painted her face, and her dark brown eyes smouldered beneath the swirl of blue and green makeup. Farden smiled at her and she smiled back, and then not knowing quite what to do with himself, offered his elbow for her hand and escorted her into the hustle and bustle of the great hall. Loud music was coming from somewhere. Brightshow leant close to the mage and whispered in his ear. ‘It’s good to have you back, even if it is ever so briefly,’ she hissed.

  ‘It’s good to be back,’ he replied.

  ‘I hear we’re leaving tomorrow?’

  Farden looked surprised. ‘Are you coming with us?’ he asked.

  The yellow and white dragon chuckled. The mage could feel her hot breath on his cheek. ‘I never miss an adventure,’ she said, and Farden smiled. ‘Better make the most of tonight then I suppose,’ added the dragon, with a nod to a nearby group of Siren ladies. Farden glared at her, but Brightshow just chuckled some more and then turned to talk to Eyrum.

  But she was right, and the people of Hjaussfen, and by the size of the crowds, the rest of Nelska for that matter, were eagerly following her advice. Everyone was making the most of that snowy night. There was a strange and unrestrained feeling in the air, wild and exciting, and the music did nothing to stifle it. For one night only, all thoughts of war and battle had been forgotten. The Sirens and the dragons had left their solemn ways and troubles at the door and had exchanged them for loud conversation, even louder laughter, and mugs of strange red ale, of which there seemed to be an infinite supply. Servants with trays slipped in and out of the milling crowds like snakes through grass, doling out ale after ale and mug after mug. It wasn’t quite the debauched and drunken chaos that one might find in the taverns of Krauslung, but the night was only young.

  It wasn’t long before one of the servants approached their little group, and Eyrum beckoned him over eagerly. Grinning rather enthusiastically, the big Siren took the entire tray and dealt out the foaming mugs. Eyrum made his excuses, which were rather mumbling and hurried, took two mugs of ale for himself, and went to find the music, leaving the others to sniff their strange-smelling beverages. ‘It smells like seaweed,’ said Lerel, wrinkling her nose at the stuff. Brightshow laughed.

  ‘That’s because it is. It’s made from fermented red kelp and brewed with hot spices and cloves,’ she explained.

  Tyrfing prodded the pink foam swamping the top of his mug. ‘Looks interesting,’ he murmured. They sipped it warily. To their surprise it tasted, quite sweet, almost nutty, and it had a kick that could fell a bear. Lerel coughed and winced at the aftertaste, while the three men merely pursed their lips and nodded to each other.

  ‘By the gods…’ began Tyrfing.

  ‘…That’s good,’ finished Farden. Durnus hummed
his agreement and took another gulp.

  Lerel handed her ale to Farden. ‘I think I’ll have the wine,’ she said.

  ‘Wait until you try the cindergin we dragons drink,’ smiled Brightshow. ‘Firejuice, our riders call it. It’ll turn you blind.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Durnus, making the others laugh. ‘Lead on dragon!’

  Brightshow led them deeper into the crowded hall and further into the maelstrom of merrymaking. Wherever they looked there was something to see. The main difference to the hall was the sudden influx of colours the party had brought with it. For one night only, the drab winter browns and greys of the giant hall had been replaced by scarlet, gold, and emerald banners, hanging from ropes and gilded reindeer antlers. Every dragon sparkled in the bright torchlight and each rider wore clothes that perfectly matched colour to their dragon. The scaly crowds were a befuddling mishmash of rainbow hues. Their eyes had trouble taking it all in. Even the food had been arranged by colour, and the smell of it all made the nostrils tingle and the tongue shiver in anticipation.

  Tables piled high with food ringed the edges of the huge hall, topped with every Siren delicacy imaginable, from fish to fruit to stew to salads and back again. Plates fought for space amongst flagons of purple and yellow wine and ice water, lanterns and candle holders squeezed between jars and bottles of every kind of preserve and jam imaginable. Steaming cauldrons of soups and butterweed stew sat besieged by criss-crossed and bulging berry tarts, iced slimrolls and stuffed pastries, mahogany breads, and bowls of strange rainbow-coloured seeds. Whole penguins, beaks stuffed with cloud and stormberries and the rare oranges from the south, slowly rotated on silver spits. Next to them glazed petrel wings, poached cod fillets, and snowfox and reindeer pies sat steaming on racks. Bags of cutlery hid under the straining tables. Droves of cooks and servants did their best to keep the platters topped up whilst peckish queuing Sirens wielded plates and spoons and tried to keep their balance as nearby dancers leapt, cavorted, and capered dangerously close.

  Music filled the hall. Bards and skalds gathered together in the nooks and corners and battled for attention, each trying to outdo the other by yelling and bellowing the most epic song and edda they could think of. In one corner there was a ljot battle going on as two skalds furiously attacked the strings of their instruments with blurred fingers. There was another big band in the centre of the hall. Dancers surrounded them, and the throbbing of their drums echoed around the hall and made the floor shake. Jets and burst of fire would occasionally billow into the air as dragons roared and trumpeted and sang along.

  It was easy to see who among the crowds belonged to the upper echelons of Siren society and who didn’t, labelled as they were by the colours of their scales and their dress, but that night it did not matter. There was a war coming, and that night peasants rubbed elbows with dragon-riders, servant-girls sipped wine with council members, and everybody in between.

  Farden noticed a huge number of strangers at the party; Sirens and riders from the northern towns who had taken refuge from the cold inside the mountain. They were wilder than the average Siren and dressed in finery made of seal and penguin and whale skin. Their eyes shone in a wild way the Hjaussfen riders’ didn’t, and while their skin was paler their scales were more numerous, thicker, and darker. The mage noticed a few of them were wearing nothing but kilts and jackets made of lemming and weasel tails. They wandered to and fro like swaying saplings, baring smiles full of sharp needle-like teeth. Their hair and beards were long and waxed into braids. Their dragons were lithe and beady-eyed and clumped together in quiet groups beside their riders. They looked wild and fierce, but they seemed friendly enough. A small group of them wandered past. One of them stared at Farden, a tall muscle-bound man with sharp teeth and yellowish eyes. The mage held the man’s strange gaze until they had passed. The Siren man winked slowly, and he didn’t see him again that night.

  ‘The Lost Clans,’ Brightshow whispered in Farden’s ear. ‘They live up on the ice fields, near the Tausenbar mountains. I’m surprised they’re here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later. Pagans and snow-worshippers, the lot of them. But we need their help,’ she hissed, and said no more. They kept walking. Every now and again Brightshow would stop to bow her head to an older dragon. Farden watched her. He had always found dragon society strange. They wore no jewellery save for their own polished scales and horns, and they ate in a separate area from their riders, from separate tables designed for their own eating habits. The dragons had a hierarchy based on age. For instance, Farfallen was leader because he was the oldest and goldest, as Svarta had informed him months ago. A dragon’s scales became golden as they age just like human hair turned grey. Like Towerdawn, there were a few dragons in the hall that were beginning to show flecks of gold in their natural colouring.

  The mage watched as a Siren servant dragged a sled of drinks past Brightshow and a group of other dragons. Brightshow lifted a dextrous foreclaw and hooked a goblet free of the sled. With a clink of metal, she touched its rim to the goblet of another dragon’s, and drank it in one slurp. Steam came from her jaws as she smiled at her friends. Cindergin, thought Farden. He wondered what it tasted like and how strong it was, and if there would be a few drunk dragons by the end of the night. That would be a rare sight and a half, the mage mused.

  Eventually Brightshow made her excuses, and they wandered on. They soon came across a circle of people and dragons cheering and yelling at something. Farden caught a glimpse of a fight going on in the centre of the circle and quickly moved forward to see what was going on.

  Two bare-chested and bloody Sirens were circling each other around the ring, cheered on by the eager crowd. At first Farden thought it was some sort of argument gone wrong and wondered if they should step in, but he quickly realised it was just another bit of party entertainment and by the looks of it also a chance to make a tidy pouch of coin. Gold flew left and right and from hand to hand as the bets were placed for the next round. Somewhere in the crowd, a small bell chimed and the fight started again. For a moment the two Sirens ducked and shadow-boxed, then in the blink of an eye one of the fighters threw an incredible punch at the other. He floored his opponent with one quick strike and the fight was over very quickly. The Siren, his face a patchwork of blood and bruises, jogged once around the ring and then went to claim his winnings. Farden was impressed. Beside him Lerel cheered and clapped. ‘I didn’t know you liked fighting?’ said the mage, smiling at her.

  ‘There’s a lot about me you don’t know,’ she slyly replied. ‘And it all depends on who’s fighting.’

  The mage nudged the vampyre on his left. ‘Come on, Durnus, fancy a round?’

  Durnus made a face. ‘I never knew the Sirens enjoyed bare-knuckle fighting as a sport. And no, thank you Farden, I don’t wish to embarrass any of these fine young riders.’

  ‘Big words,’ said a deep voice, and they turned to find a smiling Eyrum standing behind them, now clutching three mugs of ale to his chest, each at varying stages of fullness. The Siren’s upper lip was stained a reddish colour. ‘Fancy a go, Farden?’

  The mage took another hearty sip of the strong ale. He could already feel its effects swirling around in his empty stomach. He made a mental note to investigate the food. ‘Me? No, my face doesn’t respond well to beatings. Besides I don’t want to embarrass anyone.’

  Eyrum laughed, swaying slightly. ‘Ho ho, more big talk,’ he said. The big Siren then turned and pointed a finger at Tyrfing, who had been watching the fight intently. ‘How about you, old mage? Could you best one of us in a fight?’

  Tyrfing shrugged, looking for a moment as though he would politely decline, and then he began to remove his coat. ‘Hold this for me, nephew,’ he said, handing Farden the coat, and before anyone could say or do anything, Tyrfing made his way through the crowd and stood in the centre of the ring. ‘Challenge,’ said the mage, and a few chuckles ran through the circle of Sirens as they sized up this a
geing man with his scars and greying hair. Gold quickly began to change hands. Tyrfing turned to the rider who appeared to be in charge and held out his hands. ‘Challenge?’ he repeated. The rider looked him up and down and picked something out of his teeth. He looked to his dragon, a sombre looking beast who stood behind him with his eyes half-closed. The dragon nodded and the rider clicked his fingers loudly. The circle began to shout and cheer.

  ‘No shirt, no shoes, no magick,’ said the rider.

  Tyrfing smirked and kicked his boots to the side of the ring where Lerel retrieved them. He unbuttoned the stiff collar of his shirt and clicked his neck from side to side. ‘I’ll keep the shirt on, if you don’t mind,’ said the mage, pointing to his back. The rider shrugged, and then beckoned to a man standing on the edge of circle. The man grinned and stepped forward. He was taller than Tyrfing, younger, and when he removed his blue robe his arms rippled with sapphire scales and well-trained muscles. He looked at his ageing opponent and grinned even wider, rubbing his knuckles together. But Tyrfing wasn’t fazed. He simply folded his arms across his chest with a confident smile.

  ‘I hope he doesn’t use magick,’ said Brightshow. ‘They won’t like that one bit.’

  ‘He won’t,’ chorused Lerel and Durnus.

  What Tyrfing used wasn’t anything of the sort. As the bell chimed, the Siren stormed forward, shoulders hunched and fists raised. Tyrfing didn’t move. The Siren swung the first punch, a tentative swinging blow to test his opponent, but the mage leant back and dodged it with ease. The Siren swung again and missed once more. The crowd jeered his failed blows as the coin began to flow in the opposite direction. Tyrfing shrugged and shuffled his feet. Farden smiled at his uncle, realising what he was up to.