by Ben Galley
Something cold brushed past her arm. The god was no more than a shadow in a crowd of shadows. Elessi could barely see him. His outline quivered like a shimmering star hanging in a dusty night sky. Elessi held out a hand and the god touched her fingers.
‘I am,’ he replied. Elessi resisted the urge to squeeze his hand. She took a deep breath and crept down the hallway. She was good at this, she told herself. Sneaking was her strong point. She shuffled off her soaking, muddy socks, and hid them in a corner, going barefoot.
The Arkathedral was deathly still. She had expected guards on every corner, patrols at least, but there was nothing. None of the torches had been lit, no candles or lanterns to be found. Elessi was scared to death, but the god at her side didn’t say a word, and so she stayed silent. Every now and again, he would pause and sniff the air and then carry on, gently pulling Elessi behind him. She could imagine the sound of her heart beating echoing along the corridors. It sounded impossibly loud to her.
Soon, they came to a grand set of marble stairs that coiled around a pillar like a pale snake. Elessi felt for the handrail, and her toes tentatively searched for the edge of the cold steps. Thron drifted along beside her like a ghost. She stumbled once, and he caught her, and together they felt their way to the top of the stairs.
Suddenly Elessi froze and the breath stuck in her throat. Somebody was pacing up and down the corridor. She could hear the sound of their boots thudding and squeaking on the slick marble. Elessi felt for the wall and pressed herself up against it. She felt Thron’s hands holding hers. He was pressing something solid into her palm. It was the handle of the knife. ‘I can’t…’ she began.
‘You want to kill the princess, do you not?’ he quickly said.
‘Yes… but…’
‘Then hide this under your clothes, and say exactly as I say,’ he whispered. She could feel his cold breath like the tendrils of a spider’s web on her neck. It made her shiver, but she nodded and, not for the last time that night, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the corridor.
It took almost no time at all for the soldier to notice her; there were huge windows on one side of the hallway, and the dim glow of the city far below had pushed some of the shadows there aside. ‘Stay still,’ whispered a voice, and she did. Thron was nothing but a cold breeze now, a zephyrous mist in a graveyard, a wisp of nothing by her side.
‘You there!’ hissed the guard, as if he too were afraid to disturb the silence. ‘Halt!’ This time a little louder.
Elessi stood by the glass so she could see his face, but it was obscured by the visor of his helmet. She smiled her most winning smile. It was a little shaky, but it held. The guard waved a spear at her. His armour glinted in the street-light from below. ‘What’s your business here?’ he demanded.
The god whispered in her ear. ‘I’m attending to Princess Cheska. She’s in a delicate state,’ she said, standing as tall as possible. Luckily for her she was still wearing her maid’s clothes.
‘She is not to be disturbed,’ said the soldier, shaking his head resolutely. He didn’t like these country maids. They were all as thick and dull as doors. He motioned with his spear. ‘Go back down to the servant’s quarters before the others catch you. They won’t be as accommodating as I am.’
Elessi shook her head. ‘I’m here on orders from the Arkmage, the Lord Vice.’ The god’s words in her mouth.
The soldier looked around. He scratched his neck with the armoured finger of his gauntlet. ‘No. Nobody is allowed up here unless they’re the Arkmage, General Agfrey, or, or me.’
‘I was called for not long ago. The princess demanded that I come to her aid,’ said Elessi. For a brief moment, a shiver of confidence overtook her and she prodded the soldier in the armoured chest. ‘Now are you going to let me past, or do you jus’ want to go tell her ladyship that you sent one of her personal chambermaids away? Up to you.’
The soldier scratched his neck again and then sighed. He did not want to suffer the wrath of the princess, nor of Vice. He had heard the stories from the other guards. ‘Fine,’ he finally relented. ‘But you go quickly, and quietly mind. You servants should all be locked away at night. Scuttle around like rats you lot do.’ It was his turn to poke, and he prodded her hard in the shoulder. Elessi winced. ‘Count yourself lucky you aren’t in the ships with the others,’ he whispered, narrowing his eyes at her. She waited, heart beating, until he waved her past. ‘Get going. The princess is waiting,’ he said. Elessi nodded, and half-walked, half-jogged down the hallway. The soldier watched her disappear into the shadows and around a corner. There had been something decidedly odd about that one, he thought to himself. He could have sworn that most of the chambermaids had been taken away and put in the ships, like most of the other servants. The guard shivered and decided to go see General Agfrey about it. It was cold in the Arkathedral tonight, he thought.
Further down the corridor, Elessi was on the fringes of terrified. She rubbed her cold, bare feet. Thankfully, the guard hadn’t noticed she was barefoot. That would have taken some explaining. ‘That was too close,’ she whispered, hoping Thron was still there. It took a moment for him to answer. She was relieved when he did.
‘Indeed. Not far now.’
He was right. Around the next corner was another set of steps and then a long hallway with more tall windows. Elessi stared out at the city, momentarily distracted. The god put his hand on her arm and she almost jumped with surprise. He was more solid now; she could pick out his features, his scales, and his eyes. ‘We are here,’ he breathed, and at the sound of his words the maid’s heart began to beat even faster. He pointed to the door and Elessi stared at the door as though it were a bottomless well. The concept of murder had so far eluded her.
‘Well,’ she mumbled, ‘we’ve come this far.’
Thron took a step forward and touched the silver door-handle with an ethereal hand. Had Elessi not been so nervous, she might have been surprised to see his hand pass straight through the handle and the door. There was a clicking noise and he grunted. His outline faded again, almost disappearing completely, and he withdrew his hand. He clenched it and Elessi could have sworn he winced. ‘It is done,’ he whispered, looking around. The maid took the dagger from inside her apron and held it high like a torch, burning away her fears. Time to clear up that mage’s mess once and for all she told herself, angrily. Striding forward, she opened the door, and stepped into the darkness of the princess’s room.
Darkness was an understatement inside the room. It clung to the walls and curtains like a leech. Even though her eyes had adjusted to the dark, Elessi could barely make out the shape of the room. A little light spilt into the room from the corridor, and that was enough to pick out a chair, a table, and a bed.
Elessi crept forward, holding her breath, and examined the shape lying in front of her. There she was, the woman who had stolen Farden’s heart, this pretty thing lying so helpless in her bed. She could just make out a shock of blonde hair, a pale face scrunched up in the grip of a nightmare, and a bulge hiding under the soft bedcovers. Elessi stared at her pregnant belly. ‘Here she is,’ the god whispered in her ear. Elessi nodded and held up her dagger, turning it so the point was facing downwards. Even in the dark it glittered. Behind her, Thron noticed something lying under the edge of the bed. As silent as a ghost, he knelt to pick it up and held the little thing in the palm of his hand. He pursed his lips when he recognised it.
Elessi tried her best not to think. Thinking was a distraction. She knew exactly what she wanted, and anyway, she reminded herself, it was too late to change her mind. ‘Damn you Farden,’ she breathed. Elessi gripped the handle with both hands, took a short sharp breath, closed her eyes, and with all her might, stabbed downwards.
Two things happened then.
Firstly, there came a little grunting noise from behind her.
Secondly, her hands hit something solid and immovable, like a brick wall. The dagger stopped dead, hovering an inch above Cheska’s heart.
Shocked, Elessi opened her eyes to find her hands in the tight grip of a burly-looking woman in armour. She looked behind her to find Thron pinned against the wall by a tall, powerful man with his hands at the god’s throat. They struggled for a few seconds before Thron faded into nothingness and disappeared. In the doorway, the guard from the corridor held a flickering torch aloft, looking on with a mixture of shock and disbelief.
Elessi instantly began to panic. The woman in armour wrenched the dagger from her hands and threw it aside. It clattered loudly on the marble floor and spun to a halt against the thick black curtains. The maid found herself in a vicious headlock between the muscles of the bear-like woman and the cold roughness of her armour. She cried out and sobbed, wincing at the pain. Cheska woke up then, bleary-eyed and bewildered. The tall man, keeping his eyes fixed on the maid, strode forward to pick up the dagger. He held it up to the light and watched as it began to glow with a white light. ‘How interesting,’ he mused. He slipped the blade into his pocket.
‘What is going on here?’ demanded the princess, her voice cracked and hoarse, either from shouting or crying or both.
The tall man moved to the bed and put his hand on the princess’s shoulder, holding her down. ‘I knew they would come for you eventually. I just didn’t think they would send a chambermaid,’ said the tall man, in a low and very dangerous voice. Something caught his eye and he knelt to pick it up. He held it up to the light. It was a small wooden statuette, a little effigy of a serene-looking woman with a pair of scales at her side. He shook his head, and clenching his hand around the wooden figure he looked to the princess. ‘It seems that even the gods don’t want you alive,’ said the man. Cheska avoided his gaze and glowered at the maid instead. There was a brief flash of light from the man’s clenched fist and then he dusted the ash from his hands. He looked Elessi up and down, and the maid felt a different kind of chill down her spine, one that scared her very much. She whimpered in the iron grip of the woman. He moved so his face was level with hers. His eyes were dark and deep, the colour of aged hazel, and the flames of the flickering torch danced around his black pupils. This must have been Vice, she guessed, and the realisation made her writhe even more. ‘You and your precious god walked straight into my trap,’ he said calmly.
Elessi looked around, frantically hoping that Thron was still in the room somewhere. Vice smiled. ‘Oh dear,’ he said sardonically. ‘He’s very much gone, I’m afraid. It’s just you and me.’ Behind him, the princess was bubbling with confusion and anger.
‘Who is she? What’s going on?’ she asked. There were twin symbols on her wrists, just like Farden’s, and they were glowing. Vice held up a hand and the princess instantly fell quiet.
‘What lies did that god of yours sell you?’
Elessi shook her head, not knowing what to say.
Vice narrowed his dangerous eyes, eying her bare feet and her chambermaid’s clothes. ‘How did you get here?’
Elessi tried not to cry. She couldn’t have explained even if she wanted to. ‘The god, Thron…’ was all she could manage.
Vice nodded. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Waste of power and prayer.’ He stood up tall and crossed his arms. The big woman spoke up.
‘Want me to get rid of her?’ she asked. At this Elessi moaned. Tears sprang to her eyes.
Vice thought for a moment, and for the poor maid it was the longest moment of her life. ‘Put her on one of the ships, like the rest of them.’
‘Very good your Mage,’ said the woman, and Elessi was suddenly wrenched sideways. Her hands were twisted behind her back and she was pushed forward. ‘Move,’ ordered the woman. Elessi did what she was told. Tears running freely down her face she was marched out of the door and into the dark corridor. The guard at the door watched her leave, confusion still plastered across his expression. ‘You can go with her,’ Vice ordered with a wave of his hand, and the guard nodded, but before he could shut the door, a terrifying scream stopped him dead in his tracks.
On the bed, Cheska suddenly doubled up in pain. Her hands pressed on her womb as if it could help, but it didn’t, and she cried out again, even louder this time. Vice turned around eagerly, eying the blood and fluid that had suddenly appeared on the clean white sheets and the princess’s nightdress. Cheska, wide-eyed and afraid, looked to him, and in that moment, in the flickering yellow light of the guard’s torch, she saw the hungry look in his eyes, and the faintest of smiles flitted across his pale lips. Another wave of pain came, and another scream.
Vice clicked his fingers, and the gawping soldier managed to tear his eyes away from the princess. ‘Fetch me the seer, now,’ he ordered, and nodding furiously the guard backed out of the room, and the sound of running boots receded. Vice clapped his hands together and light filled the room. He closed the door and rubbed his hands together. Finally, he said to himself, the child was coming. Ignoring Cheska’s pained screams, he calmly pulled up a chair, and waited for the seer to arrive.
Dawn fumbled with the edges of the world. The storm still held sway over the dark sky. In the north, hiding in a valley in the Össfen mountains under the monochrome cover of the pre-dawn darkness, a sprawling army began to strap on their armour and sharpen their swords one last time. It had been a miracle of organisation and stubborn will, and now the gathered armies numbered in the tens of thousands. But, despite all the effort, their ranks were still nowhere near the combined numbers of the Arka and Skölgard forces. There was a tension in the air that nobody mentioned, a strain of doubt in all their thoughts. It was swallowed like hard bread and dry farska, and ignored.
The witches and wizards stood in circles, whispering and checking their potions and spell books. Flag-bearers and others holding trumpets and drums chattered nervously about anything they could think of besides the impending battle. The Sirens from the north, the Lost Clans, busied themselves with their bows and their arrows, making sure each crow feather was straight and perfect, and that each steel arrowhead was sharper than the wind. They silently chanted little prayers to themselves. The gods, had they not been so distracted with their own worries, would have been busy harvesting them that morning.
Glassthorn and his rider Reyk had managed to gather a handful of clans and tribes from the north and northwest, and they had finally arrived with their black bears, giant rats, armoured goats, and talking eagles. They sat on the edges of the bustling camps with their trained animals, roasting unidentified meats over little fires, and painting themselves with bright vegetable dyes.
The Dukes of Albion had kept their word. Hawks had arrived bearing news that they were ready to attack from the Bern Sea. Their little ships hid in the rocky bays surrounding port Rós and its harbour walls, waiting to pounce. Their land forces had met with whatever motley gangs of peasants the cliff cities of Halôrn and Midgrir and been able to spare. They now huddled with the rest of the army, muttering and wary.
High above the valley, on a wide knuckle of frozen rock, Farfallen was getting his armour ready. He had arrived sometime in the night, bearing Tyrfing and Svarta. None of them had slept, and it was obvious in their hollow eyes and drawn faces. Around the Old Dragon, his captains Glassthorn, Towerdawn, Clearhallow, and Havenhigh, and their riders were doing the same. It was an old tradition that the rider, and the rider only, fit their dragon’s armour. Each suit was especially designed and forged for each dragon, and each suit fit perfectly. It mirrored every single scale with plate and chain mail, using woven and interlocking sections that moved like a second skin. A dragon’s scales were formidably solid at the best of times, but it never hurt to wear armour, especially when facing he poison arrows and ballistas of the Skölgard.
Eyrum sat across from the golden dragon, watching Svarta strap the plates together. A giant battleaxe leant against his shoulder and a whetstone lingered in his hand. It had been an hour since she started and the queen was close to finished. The one-eyed Siren sniffed the cold mountain air. ‘Almost dawn,’ he said. His own armour shone in the nearby firelight.
Intricate and polished, it was one of Tyrfing’s designs, and it fit perfectly. In fact, half of the riders were wearing the mage’s strange armour, fresh from the drawing paper and the forges. After all, they needed every advantage they could lay their hands on.
The Old Dragon looked to the east, where the dark sky behind the cloud-wreathed mountaintops was beginning, almost imperceptibly, to lighten. He avoided the temptation to sigh, and simply nodded instead. His captains were watching him. ‘That it is, old friend,’ he said.
The whetstone slid along the edge of the axe once again and Eyrum thumbed its edge. ‘That’s about as sharp as it’s going to get,’ he mumbled to himself. Looking around him at the proud dragons and their silent riders, he grunted and stood up. He went to stand beside Farfallen and ran a careful hand over the polished metal plates hugging the dragon’s flanks. ‘There still hasn’t been any word from Farden, or Durnus. Tyrfing is beside himself.’
‘Then we have no other choice,’ said Farfallen. ‘We leave it to Tyrfing.’
‘We’ll clean up their mess, then,’ muttered Svarta. Her hair was tied back in a tight knot, and it made her face look sterner than normal. Her armour matched Farfallen’s, and a long, narrow sword hung from her hip.
Eyrum leant closer to the dragon. ‘And what of the rest of our spies, and those ships?’
Farfallen took a moment, making sure his captains were not listening. He turned to face the Siren and stared into his eye. Eyrum heard his voice deep in his head. We have heard nothing from them, and so must assume the worst. Even if there was a resistance force in Krauslung, then I doubt any of them are still alive. And we both know the ships were never my concern; that child is the only thing I care about destroying today. Vice is next in line.