Dead Stars - Part One (The Emaneska Series)

  “This book is a work of fiction, but some works of fiction contain perhaps more truth than first intended, and therein lies the magic.”

  Copyright © Ben Galley 2013

  The right of Ben Galley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used, edited, transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), or reproduced in any manner without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews or articles. It may not be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the Publisher’s permission.

  Permission can be obtained through www.bengalley.com.

  All characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  DS1EB1:

  ISBN: 978-0-9567700-7-3

  eBook Edition – Kindle

  Published by BenGalley.com

  Cover Design by Mikael Westman

  Original Illustration by Ben Galley

  Professional Dreaming by Ben Galley

  Want a physical version instead? Not a problem. Dead Stars Part One is now also available in paperback from all major bookshops and online stores.

  Just head to www.bengalley.com/BenGalley.com/Books to find out more.

  About the Author

  Ben Galley is a young indie author and purveyor of lies. Harbouring a near-fanatical love of writing and fantasy, Ben has been scribbling tall tales ever since he was first trusted with a pencil. When he’s not busy day-dreaming on park benches or hunting down dragons, he runs the self-publishing advice site Shelf Help, zealously aiding other authors achieve their dream of publishing.

  For more about Ben, Shelf Help, or more about Emaneska, visit:

  www.bengalley.com

  Simply say hello at:

  hello@bengalley.com

  Or follow on Twitter:

  @bengalley

  After four long years I think it’s only fitting. After all the darkness and shadow, the fire and flames, the blood, the guts, and the ever-evasive glory. After all the snow and sand and steel. After all the countless wounds of both mind and body, I think he deserves it.

  Farden, Emaneska’s favourite mage. This book is dedicated to you.

  Chin up.

  Dead Stars

  Part One

  By Ben Galley

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Maps

  Prelude

  Part One – To The Lost (Rumours)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part Two – To The Dead (Revenge)

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Part Three – To The Found (Revelations)

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Did you like Dead Stars Part One?

  Prelude

  In another age, at the most northern tip of the Scattered Kingdoms, where the ice wrestled the black rock of jagged mountains…

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Names were ripped from the scroll and tossed into the air. Names were strange things in large quantities. So many could slide by, unremarkable and foreign. Meaningless, until suddenly one would jolt the monotonous roll-call into life and pluck at a particular ear in a particular way. A head would snap forward. A hand would shoot up. Suddenly the name grew flesh and clothes, colours, eyes, and the package was assembled by the beckoning of a silk-gloved finger. These names, hoarsely barked in the sweet cold of the morning mists, assumed the form of a muscular man, or a tall man, even a woman. Yes, he had spied a few women amongst the crowds. Names were funny things indeed, when you’re waiting for yours to be called amongst thousands. Especially when there are only nine to be called.

  Korrin was his, and it was a name he wasn’t particularly proud of. Who would be? It was a farmer’s name. The very pronunciation of it sounded like the coughing of his father’s mudpigs. Korrin. The legacy of some uncle or brother, worm-food before his time. A guilty nudge from old toothless grandmother to father, a suggestion with a forked tail of duty, and there it was. Korrin. How could that ever be a soldier’s name? A lord’s name? His father had doomed him with a wobble of tongue and lip.

  ‘Estina Flar?’ came another bark.

  Four.

  There, another hand flew up into the air. A woman again. Korrin tried to sneak a glance through the packed and sweaty ranks. All he caught was a flash of scarlet hair.

  ‘Fogrindle, son of Dalinast?’

  Five.

  Now there was a name. A man nearby shook his head. Positively rural. Korrin let out a little of the breath he’d been holding. Maybe his name wasn’t to be the worst after all. He saw the man and sagged a little. A beast of a man, all beard and tiny head.

  ‘Fogrindle! Son of Dalinast!’

  No hand yet. Another coward. At least Korrin had stayed.

  The black silk glove reached for a quill and scraped a name from existence with a stroke of scratchy ink. The fingertip moved to the next.

  ‘Rosiff Ro-Harg Thold?’

  This one answered. Five. Korrin counted with the crowd. Each number mouthed in silence by a thousand cracked, tired, mud-painted lips.

  ‘Lopia…’ Trouble with this one. A southern man probably. Korrin had been told in whispered mumbles that a dozen or so of the dark-skinned had come all the way from the deserts for this.

  ‘Lopia K’Bephrin?’

  Six.

  Southerner indeed. A Parash by the looks of his intricate beard. And still no name to tickle his own ear. The crowd was getting tense now; not a soul moved.

  Korrin’s father had always said that no matter how the kings tried to bind a man beneath them, nothing could shackle his name. The man could be broken with the tooth of a whip, the blood-slick curve of a club, but his name was a gemlike thing, worn around the neck on a chain too thin and strong for any blade to find and slice.

  ‘Gaspid, son of Furssimion!’

  Seven.

  But names were weapons too, in their own ghostly right. Korrin knew this. A name could be a flag-wrapped halberd drenched in ichor, a warlord’s name to be whispered in fear among waiting ranks. A name could be sullied and dipped in shame by deeds. A fallen hero perhaps, whose name could never be forgotten thanks to song and tune, could be driven into the ground like a stake at dusk by whispers. Others, like Korrin’s, were thorns worming their way slowly in.

  ‘Balimuel, son of Gorvid!

  Eight.

  Another hand shot up, a giant hand, with huge sausage-like fingers waggling in relief. The man that held them was a veritable giant, almost twice as tall as any other in that endless crowd.

  One left. Korrin shrugged and began to look for a gap to escape into. His father had been right; even though it stung to admit. A waste of time Korrin! You’re a farmer’s son, a farmer’s boy, not a warrior. You’ve got your own life to live. Stop dreaming! His father’s words echoed in his ears. They had flown from the doorway and pelted him in the back as he had left.
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  His name had picked him up as a child and placed him on the back foot. It had turned him around and pointed him at the farm rather than his grandfather’s swords. Korrin looked up at the sky, imagining the last name falling to earth as a pebble, striking some lucky person in the forehead. Korrin lifted his dusty hand up to search the sky. A pale saucer of sun, curious behind the mists, looked back at him. A lone rabbithawk hovered by a nearby flagpole. The flag hung limp in the still air. It dangled from its hook like a thief from a noose, waiting to be resurrected by a fortuitous breeze. A storm maybe. It would soon have its chance. Summer was slowly sinking into the earth.

  Korrin reached for the handle of his haversack, feeling his tired, strained muscles ache. Wasted. Farm-bred. He knew his name had not been a soldier’s name. It was a farmer’s name, like all the other children in his village. It was time to leave, he told himself. Go home. His father would be pleased. His old grandfather not so much. Strange, how men can differ in just one generation.

  ‘Korrin, son of Ust!’

  Nine.

  Part One

  To The Lost (Rumours)

  1563 years later

  9 years after the Battle of Krauslung

  Chapter 1

  “What wants to stay hidden, oft gets found, and what wants to stay found, oft finds itself lost, and forgotten.”

  Albion proverb

  ‘Wine,’ grunted a cracked voice, a tired voice, hoarse with the scars of copious late nights and alcohols of questionable purity. A rough hand ventured out across the wooden bar-top and then slowly retreated, leaving a silver coin in its wake, its edges notched like an old sword blade that had seen too many wars. It glistened in the dim light of the smoky tavern’s torches, where the sweat of the hand lingered on its metal face.

  ‘You sure, friend?’ replied the landlord, standing at the end of the bar. The glass in his hand squeaked against the cloth he rubbed it with. His face was lopsided but kindly. He had kind eyes too, of a soft, glazed green like the rows of bottles that lined the greasy bar behind him. A little beard sprouted from his chin, which made up for the lack of hair on his bald, freckled head. His skin was the darker hue of his country and its men, and his forehead was adorned with the creases of frequent frowning. Not surprising, given the calibre of the tavern’s usual patrons. Patrons like the man sitting alone at the centre of the bar, the owner of the cracked and tired voice.

  The man in question lifted up his head, groggily, and fixed the landlord with a narrow, impatient gaze. ‘I’m not your friend, I’m your customer, barkeep, and I say I want more wine,’ he slurred.

  The landlord sighed and reached for the half-empty bottle of purple wine that sat waiting behind him. He sauntered over to the foreigner slumped over the edge of his bar. He looked like a man clinging to the edge of a precipice, trying to decide whether he should just let go. The landlord held the bottle with both hands and topped up the stranger’s glass. When he pulled away, the man irritably tapped the bar-top with the butt of his finger. The landlord sighed and filled the glass to the very brim, so that the purple liquid teetered at the lip of the glass.

  ‘You can leave the bottle,’ grunted the stranger, as the landlord reached for the coin.

  ‘And you’ll be lucky, for a silver,’ replied the landlord, quietly. The others in the tavern, maybe four men at most, all sitting alone and separate, watched from the corners of their curious, wary eyes. Locals all. Strangers were common in that dusty corner of Jorpsund, where the Fool Roads led east, but not usually tolerated for long. This man had been in town for a day, and already his welcome was wearing thin. A few of them eyed the box sat at the stranger’s feet, the box wrapped in thick grey cloth that occasionally rattled, as if all by itself.

  The man sighed, rubbing tired eyes with his grime-thick fingers, almost black with dirt and char. He had the look of a man perhaps too young for his skin, as if his body had seen a few decades more than his dull eyes. What skin was not covered in clothing was weathered and tough, almost leather in itself, and there were more than a few scars to be counted. Most of his head and face was covered by a wide-brimmed cloth hat, dyed black to match his cloak. In terms of build, he was a stocky man, with a beer belly larger than his belt would have preferred. A foreigner by the paleness of his skin. Arka skin. Maybe Albion at a push. His winter clothes seemed too small for his ample build; his wool shirt and tunic were stretched to the point of unravelling, and his cloak barely cleared his shoulders. There were leather bracers around his forearms. The tavern owner sniffed. He had encountered enough mages in his life to recognise one sitting at his bar. He also knew well enough not to trifle with them. He waited patiently while the mage rubbed his tired eyes, careful to keep the wine well out of arm’s reach.

  His eyes suitably chafed, the mage reached into the inside pocket of his cloak and dug out a battered coin-purse. After a musical rummaging, he produced a shiny gold coin and flicked it at the landlord, smiling. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Now leave the bottle.’

  The landlord didn’t argue. He held the coin to his lips and pinched it between two yellow teeth. It was real. ‘Right you are,’ he said, and set the half-empty bottle and the silver down with a thud.

  There was a creak and a bang and a sudden gust of crisp, cold evening air as the door to the tavern opened and shut again. The mage didn’t bother turning around; he had no enemies in those parts that he was aware of. Nobody else would be stupid enough to try him, even as dog-drunk as he was. He just sipped his poison, and watched out of the corner of his wine-glazed eyes as a woman and her child approached the bar.

  The landlord greeted them with a smile that was missing one tooth. He bowed slightly, stiffly. ‘Ladies,’ he said. ‘The finest of evenings to you.’

  ‘And to you, sir,’ whispered the woman, lips numb with cold, her accent a hint of southern. At the sound of it the mage turned his head ever so slightly.

  The woman tossed back her hood and ran a hand through a tangled fringe of jet-black hair. The landlord couldn’t help but smile at her. She was stunning, though not in the traditional sense. Striking would have described her better. Her features were sharp, angular even; every bone, feature, and measurement seemed to be accentuated in an odd, yet strangely attractive way, as though she had been sculpted rather too vigourously. Even her obsidian hair was extreme; had it not been apprehended and clasped in a tight knot behind her head, it would have reached to her hips. She was a foreigner as well, by the looks of her pale skin. Her cheekbones and the cheeks that hid beneath them had been pinched red by the cold evening air, and her smoky blue eyes twitched back and forth between the landlord, his wines, and the man sitting to her right, slumped over the bar.

  The landlord leant forward and peered over the edge of the bar at the child by the woman’s side. They were quite obviously mother and daughter. She too had long black hair, and had huge, unblinking eyes like blue-green marbles. She couldn’t have been older than eight, nine maybe.

  ‘I am sorry,’ began the landlord, smile fading, ‘but there’s no children allowed in here. ‘specially not little girls like that ‘un.’

  The woman frowned and pulled the little girl tight to her side with her left arm. She held the other close to her side. She looked worried. ‘Oh, she won’t be any trouble.’

  ‘Sorry, miss. Rules is rules.’

  The woman bit her lip, concerned. She looked around at the others in the inn, the handful of men reclining in corners, mumbling to themselves and sipping ale, pretending not to watch and listen.

  ‘Well, who makes the rules here?’ asked the woman.

  The landlord flicked his cloth over his shoulder and stood a little straighter. Another smile sneaked onto his face. ‘That would be me.’

  At this news, the woman smiled right back, flashing two rows of very white teeth. ‘And what is your name, sir?’

  ‘My name?’ blinked the landlord. Strangers didn’t usually ask his name. ‘It’s Darnums, lady, and, er, what might yours be?’


  The woman leant forward a fraction, almost imperceptibly, and put her hand on the bar. ‘You see, Darnums, sir, we’ve been travelling along the road all day. We had intended to travel on all night you see, but we heard rumours of bandits in the woods to the north, and so we’ve had to stop here in your most lovely town. The man at the stables didn’t have enough space for our bears and so we’ve had to tie them up outside, and as we’ve just found out that the inn across the road has no rooms left, we thought we might come in here, save ourselves from the wind and the cold for an hour at least, before we go back to camping with our bears in the street.’ Here the woman paused to wipe a strand of hair from her eye, sniffing. ‘We were just hoping to get a mug of warm brandy or ale you see, just to rid the cold from our bones for a short while,’ said the woman, shivering. ‘But I understand, Darnums, sir. Rules are indeed rules. I’m sorry to have bothered you. Come, Samara, let’s leave. Back to the bears.’ The woman took the child by her hand and pulled her gently towards the door. The child looked up at her mother and then back at Darnums, and her eyes glistened in the torchlight. The mage was smirking surreptitiously around the rim of his wine glass. He almost wanted to clap, the performance was so good.

  Darnums winced as they opened the door. The influx of air was cold and sharp like little knives. He could feel it even at that distance. The woman and her child hovered at the door, tucking their sleeves into their gloves and pulling their hoods up. Just before they closed it behind them, Darnums shook his head and rapped his knuckles on the bar. ‘Wait!’ he called. The woman turned, door half-closed, cold air rushing in. ‘Yes?’ she asked, in a small voice.

  Darnums beckoned them in. ‘Come back! And close the door!’

  The woman hurried back indoors, the subtlest of satisfied smirks hiding at the corner of her wind-bitten lips. She ushered her child back towards the bar, both shivering violently. ‘Yes?’ she asked, hope glinting masterfully in her eyes.