by Ben Galley
The mage sighed. He leant to the right and hooked a finger around the edge of the black curtain so he could look outside. ‘I’m not going to kill you,’ he breathed, in a voice as quiet as a mouse’s. He gently withdrew his blade and sheathed it. The mage seized Olger by the wrist and yanked him to his feet. ‘We need to leave, before they search this house properly. It’s not safe here any more,’ said the mage.
‘It hasn’t been safe for a long time,’ replied Olger. The mage narrowed his eyes at the bald man. ‘That it hasn’t,’ he said. ‘But without me, they’ll kill you on sight for not being in that line,’ he nodded to the window and its heartbroken view.
Olger shook his head and began to back away, but the mage pulled him closer. ‘You’ll kill us as soon as our backs are turned.’
‘If I wanted to kill you I would have done it already,’ hissed the mage, a dangerous look in his tired eyes. Olger remembered the words of the strange woman in the sewers. ‘Are you the mage?’ he asked.
The Written fixed him an odd look. ‘I am a mage, whatever that means. My name is Modren. Were you expecting someone else?’
‘We ‘ad a message for someone. A mage, that was coming to the city.’
Modren made a humming noise. ‘Mhm, I wonder who that could be,’ he muttered.
Not sure what to say, Olger just nodded. Modren looked out of the window again. ‘We need to leave. Get Council Fessen to come out of hiding and tie each other’s wrists with these,’ he instructed, grabbing two short lengths of rope from his belt. Olger looked at Fessen, who had reluctantly poked his head out from underneath the blanket. ‘Yes that’s right, I recognise you, council member,‘ said Modren.
‘Captain,’ mumbled Fessen, clearing his throat. He looked back at Olger and Olger shrugged. Modren spoke their thoughts aloud for them.
‘It’s not like you have a better idea,’ he said, and the two men had to agree.
After their hands were bound, Modren led them to the back of the tumbledown house and opened the door. But for a few lean-to tents and a group of people huddling around a little fire, the grey street outside was empty. Every other door seemed either locked or smashed. Curtains twitched. Flickering candles hid behind them. The storm clouds above rolled and roiled like an upside-down sea of granite waves. Rain was on the way.
‘Let’s go,’ said the mage, leading them into the gloomy street.
‘Where are we going?’ whispered Fessen.
‘You’re taking me to your friends, the others,’ said Modren. At their panicked looks he glared. ‘Don’t take me for a fool; I know there are more of you.’
But Fessen tugged at the ropes and shook his head. ‘You’re tricking us…’ he began, but Modren flashed him another of his dangerous looks.
‘Don’t waste my time. I’m on your side,’ he said. ‘And I always have been,’ he added, but that was just for himself.
‘Fine,’ said Olger. ‘Follow me.’
Far to the west, night had also fallen. The disconsolate stars hid behind miles of rain-heavy cloud. It would be a wet and wild night for Albion.
The tiny town of Leath sat upon a hill. It was a villagey sort of town, and it was a rocky sort of hill, overran with granite outcrops and gorse bushes much like the surrounding countryside, which rolled and undulated between craggy tor, mumbling brook, and wild forest. For the time being Leath was quiet and still. A wooden palisade encircled its edges like a spiky crown. Frozen snow perched on the rooftops. Windows sparkled with yellow fire and candlelight. Grey woodsmoke, pestered and antagonised by the approaching winds, rose up from chimneys, giving the place a somewhat picturesque and peaceful atmosphere. It was a far cry from the angry sky above, yet the town of Leath slept on oblivious, if not fitfully.
At the centre of the town, perched on the highest part of the hill, was a proud-looking mansion with many rooms and windows and crowned by tall, arched slate roofs. A coat of arms hung over the front door; a stag’s head on crossed spears, the crest of the Dukedom of Leath. Had an inquisitive peasant wandered up the many steps to the front door and tried the handle they would have found it heavily bolted and immovable. The stained-glass windows were the same; covered by tapestries and heavy black velvet drapes. The mansion, for all intents and purposes, was a fortress of privacy.
Inside, the mansion was no less peaceful than the slumbering town behind its locked doors. Candles flickered and whispered in corners. Opulent wall hangings and tapestries rustled in the cold night-time draughts that crept under doors and through cracks and keyholes. Mounted animal heads hung on the walls. Their glass eyes twinkled. Dead teeth grinned. In the bowels of the mansion servants slept soundly in their beds. Nothing stirred in the Duke’s house.
That was of course, except for the intruder.
On the top floor of the mansion, a shadow pinched a candle-flame between two fingers and doused the corridor in thick darkness. He crept on, stealthier than the stealthiest of thieves. Like a ghost, he slunk from doorway to doorway, avoiding suspicious floorboards and extinguishing candles as he went. It was darker than the deepest night, but the intruder’s keen eyes pierced the gloom like a cat’s.
He soon found the door he was looking for; an audacious thing covered in intricate carvings and plastered in gold leaf. The man rolled his pale eyes and reached for the door-handle, muttering something under his breath. Durnus couldn’t help the tiny shiver of anticipation that crept up his spine. He had dreamt of this moment for years, of creeping into the Duke’s room and sinking his fangs into that fat and useless neck, tasting his rich blood…
But there would be no sinking of fangs that night. Much to his disappointment, Durnus was on a diplomatic mission, if diplomatic was the right word for it. He turned the door-handle and stepped into the Duke’s room.
It was silent in the room. No candles kept the dark at bay, no draughts disturbed the curtains. Only the gentle snoring of the sleeping Duke could be heard. The vampyre closed the door behind him and stepped forward. There was a stale smell of urine and dirt in the room, and it made Durnus cover his nose. A single shaft of dim light poked through the curtains and divided the room in two, illuminating the foot of a large bed. Leath lay there, fast asleep and dreaming. He was wrapped in several layers of blanket and clothing. For a moment his breath caught in his throat and he coughed a ragged cough, thick with phlegm and other things, and then slept on as if nothing had happened. Leath was sick.
The vampyre slid forward until he was standing at the bedside. He could almost feel the heat of the fever on the Duke’s forehead. He could see the blood throbbing lethargically in the veins of his neck. Durnus bit his lip. Hunger nibbled at his thoughts. No, he told himself again, and that was that. He had more important things to take care of.
Durnus made his way to the foot of the bed, where the shaft of light fell across the covers. The vampyre reached out and dug a sharp fingernail into the spot where he thought the Duke’s foot was. Leath merely groaned and rolled over. Durnus tried again, giving his leg a shake, and this time the Duke sprang awake, gasping with surprise. Seeing the ghostly figure standing at the end of his bed he scrambled behind his collection of pillows and launched himself into a coughing fit. Durnus waited for him to regain his breath. ‘Who are you?’ gasped Leath, between coughs.
‘You know who I am,’ hissed Durnus. He bared his fangs and leant into the light. Leath froze with terror. He knew exactly who this man was. The vampyre had terrorised the town for years, bleeding the peasants, or manservants, even his favourite butler, creeping unseen about the town in the dead of night and terrifying his subjects. The Duke shivered. Somewhere in his darkest thoughts he had always known this night would come. He lifted his head. ‘What do you want of me then?’ he demanded.
‘Not you, if that’s what you think.’
‘Then why are you here? Come to terrorise a sick man on his deathbed, have you?’
‘I’m offering you a truce, Duke. Your help in exchange for my leaving you alone.’
‘
You would leave?’ he asked, a slim trace of hope in his shaky voice.
Durnus snarled and Leath flinched. ‘Perhaps,’ hissed the vampyre, baring as much fang as he could. ‘It depends.’
‘On what?’
Durnus leant forward and put his hands on the bed. Out of the light his face was full of darkness and shadow. Only his eyes were just about visible, and they glinted like cold, hard, diamonds. Brimming with fear the Duke recoiled and pressed himself up against the ornate headboard of the bed. ‘The other Dukes are going to war in the east, against the Arka, and I want you to join them,’ said the vampyre.
Leath coughed and wiped his lip. ‘Me?’
‘Your army. Every single man you can get your greedy hands on.’
‘Why?’
‘Because otherwise I will stay in my forest, and every night I will come and hunt your people, every single man, woman, and child. I will bleed them dry, until there is no one left except you,’ Durnus leant further forward for dramatic effect. ‘And we wouldn’t want that, would we, Leath?’
‘No,’ said the Duke, clenching his jaw. Durnus almost pitied him. He had no love for the useless, greedy Dukes, but cowering in front of him was a weak, sick man, lying on his death bed, and still he had the courage to lift his head and meet a vampyre’s gaze. Durnus suddenly felt slightly ashamed of himself. He sighed. The world was at stake, after all.
The vampyre clenched his fist and retreated from the bed. ‘Do we have an agreement, Duke?’ he asked.
Leath nodded furiously. ‘We do,’ he replied.
‘Good,’ said the vampyre. He went to the door, sliding through the darkness like a wandering shadow. ‘You have two days. I’ll be watching,’ he murmured. He turned the door-handle and left, leaving the Duke to a fitful and sleepless night. Durnus crept out of the mansion like an escaping draught and into the quiet and cold streets of Leath, his conscience chiding him.
Durnus looked up at the stormy sky and watched the clouds being chased by the wind. They had done it; the Dukes had agreed to join them, and their armies would fight alongside the Sirens and the others in Krauslung. That left only one more thing to do, and the very thought of it chilled the vampyre to his old bones; it almost made the icy wind feel warm in comparison.
As he walked, his fingers began to furl into fists, like sails of a ship before a storm. His teeth creaked as he tightly clenched his jaw. His fangs drew blood from the inside of his lip. The vampyre took several deep breaths of the cold air and told himself to be calm. A long-awaited dread was uncoiling inside him. The day had finally come.
Surely it wasn’t time already? he asked himself. But he knew it was; the answer was like the muffled tolling of faraway bell in his mind. He hoped Farden had become bored and wandered back to the Arkabbey. It would give him time to steel his mind, he thought.
Anxious, agitated, and angry with himself, shoulders hunched like a sullen old crow, Durnus stalked the muddy streets. The sound of his boots echoing against the walls of the buildings thudded in time to his heartbeat. For the first time in a long, long age, Durnus found himself afraid, and he hated himself for it.
It is a hard moment when a man realises that there is a coward hiding inside him.
Unfortunately for Durnus, Farden had not wandered off. He was thoroughly bored, that much was true, but he had waited for his friend. He roamed the streets of Leath like a hooded ghost, taking advantage of the quiet and the keen edge of the wind. The distraction of Albion was swiftly coming to an end, and like Durnus, it was time to face up to the inevitable.
Farden had begun to wonder whether the town had been abandoned. He hadn’t seen a single person since the sleepy guard at the town gates. Even the taverns were closed, and in Albion that was a peculiarity that bordered on the extreme. There was barely any sign of life in Leath. Occasionally a curtain would twitch, or the light of a window would be snuffed, but that was all.
Hence the mage was surprised when he turned a corner onto the main street and came across a trio of figures huddling in a dark doorway, whispering between themselves. Hearing footsteps they turned and saw the mage and instantly fell silent, huddling closer. They were young, teenagers maybe, and shabbily dressed. They were hiding something close to their chests. Two of them were chewing something.
Farden cleared his throat and made a show of crossing the street, so as not to scare them off. The town of Leath had never welcomed his kind, not for all the years he had lived at the Arkabbey. The three youngsters whispered something, and out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a faint orange glow. He turned around, but their secret treasure, whatever it was, had already been hidden away again. But Farden didn’t need to see to know what it was. The wind shifted slightly and brought him a whiff of an all too familiar smell, just like the passing stranger in Paraia. Nevermar.
The mage took a deep breath and this time he kept walking. He made it to the other side of the street and leant against the corner of a house, acting as nonchalant as he could. He stared at the busy clouds above and tried to ignore the teasing smell of the drug he had once been so dependent on. Its acrid sweetness pestered his nostrils; that intoxicating sweetness that had once kept his mind so still. The three figures huddled in the doorway continued to smoke, ignoring him now, mumbling and whistling and giggling amongst themselves.
No more than a minute later, Farden took a step towards them. His legs dragged him across the street and a moment later he was standing in the doorway. They stared at him with suspicious faces. Farden looked down at their pipe and opened his mouth to say something, anything, but the sound of purposeful footsteps interrupted him, and he turned around to see Durnus striding down the street towards them.
And past him.
The vampyre didn’t even give the mage or the youngsters a second look. Shoulders hunched like a beggar he marched straight past and carried on down the street towards the town gates.
All thoughts of nevermar quickly forgotten, Farden quickly caught up with him. The mage had to jog to keep up with his old friend’s pace. Durnus didn’t look at him.
‘Did it work?’ asked Farden, in a voice just above a whisper. They were nearing the edges of town. A few guards, no more than a scruffy bunch of farmers with spears, stood sleepily at a pair of crooked wooden gates. Blearily, they blinked at the two men and waved them past, saying nothing, just squinting at the stormy skies hanging over their town. Strangers were the least of their worries.
Durnus waited until they were out of Leath before he answered the mage, and even then his answer was short and clipped. ‘Most probably.’
Farden shrugged. ‘Good. I knew it would. You and Leath have been at odds for years.’
‘He’s a decrepit old shell of a man,’ mumbled Durnus. Farden was not sure what that meant. ‘Well, we’ll see in the morning,’ the mage mumbled.
‘Mm,’ replied the vampyre, and for the remainder of their brisk journey they did not talk. Farden followed slightly behind the vampyre, eying his purposeful gait, his sullen posture, wondering what had gone wrong with his friend. And as they strode through the darkness towards the gloomy Forest of Durn, towards their old Arkabbey, the very first drops of rain began to fall, announcing the arrival of the storm with heavy, unforgiving drips that hammered on their shoulders and pummelled their hoods. As the clouds began to cry, the men quickened their pace, quiet and pensive, feeling trapped between the oppressive storm above and the mud under their boots. Had they stopped a while and talked they might have shared their fears and troubles and felt better for it, and perhaps they might have avoided what was to come next. But they didn’t, and they never would.
Lakkin, meanwhile, was wet and hungry. The old ruined Arkabbey leaked like a creaky ship and his clothes were getting soaked. Brightshow, on the other hand, was enjoying the wet and the cold. She perched on the old bell tower and preened herself in the icy rain, letting the storm water flow over her white and gold scales. Every now and again, she would pause and look around to scan the fore
st.
Down below her in the main hall, Lakkin was trying to find anything resembling firewood and kindling amongst the piles of shattered doors and tables. Whatever had happened in the Arkabbey had been swift and brutal, or so he guessed. Scars of magick and fire criss-crossed the granite walls. Everything else in the hall had been smashed and broken. There was a shrine of a goddess against the north wall. She held a pair of golden scales in her hand. Mouldy candles surrounded her and her white marble features had collected a dark layer of dirt. Had the candles not been rotten and able to hold a flame, Lakkin would have lit one for her. It was always wise to stay on the good side of the gods, he thought, and besides, they could have used all the help they could get.
Lakkin walked on. Rainwater cascaded from the holes in the roof above. A myriad of miniature waterfalls streamed from the gloomy ceiling, meaning Lakkin had to weave this way and that between them to avoid getting a further soaking. Slippery moss made the going treacherous underfoot. Around him, at least a dozen twisted and decayed corpses littered the floor, grey mouths gaping, jawbones poking through rotten, pallid flesh. Lakkin ignored them as he picked his way across the hall.
Finally, hidden away below the main hall, he found the kitchens. They were pitch-black but at least they were dry. The smell of spoilt food was no more; the cupboards and larders had been emptied long ago by starving mice and rats and forest creatures. Stoves and pans sat unused and rusting in corners. Knives were scattered haphazardly across a nearby oak table. One was still stuck deep in the wood, point down. Lakkin flicked it and it rocked from side to side with a twang, shedding flour-dust. He crouched and found a skeleton under the table, picked clean by scavengers.