Emaneska Read online

  “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 2014

  The right of Ben Galley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with 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.

  EPUB Edition

  Published by BenGalley.com

  Cover Design by Mikael Westman

  Professional Dreaming by Ben Galley

  About the Author

  Ben Galley is a young indie author and purveyor of dark fantasy from rainy old England, and isn’t shy about admitting that he still believes in dragons.

  As well as being the author of the epic and gritty Emaneska Series, Ben also works hard as a self-publishing consultant, sharing his passion for writing and publishing with upcoming authors. His newest book: Shelf Help – The Pocket Guide to Self-Publishing, can tell you all you need to know about self-publishing. Ben is also the proud co-founder and director of indie-only eBook store Libiro, which can be found at libiro.com.

  When he’s not causing mischief for the local populace, Ben can be found being loquacious and attempting to be witty on Twitter (@BenGalley), or at his website www.bengalley.com.

  Emaneska Bundle

  The Written

  Pale Kings

  Dead Stars Part One

  Dead Stars Part Two

  By Ben Galley

  The Written

  By Ben Galley

  Part One

  It begins with snow

  Chapter 1

  “…when the sons of gods went to the daughters of man and had children by their wombs, they became the giants of old, the nefalim, “men” of renown and infamy, dangerous like wolves amongst sheep…”

  From the ‘Gathered Prophetics’

  It was snowing outside. The white flakes drifted lazily in the chill night breeze, dusting the rocky mountainside with an ivory blanket. Ice crystals flurried and spun, dancing through the cold air, skittering along the windowsill. By all rights, it was a foul night for Arfell.

  The tall spire rose like a forgotten nail from an outcrop of quiet buildings huddled together between the snowy crags. A single and lonely yellow window glowed brightly through the white-out. Framed in the light was a silhouette of a very old man. He stood at the windowsill with his arms crossed. He sighed with tiredness and fought back yet another yawn, staring at the snowflake lingering on his fingertip. He shivered, but he stayed put, pressing his warm palms to the frigid stone. After a long day of hard study, the weather was calming, and above all, cooling. And it had been a hard day of study indeed.

  Behind him, gathered around a desk awash with papers and maps, sat a group of four equally aged men, each of them poring over a small black book. It sat in its own circle of polished wood, isolated from the papery chaos surrounding it. Alone and aloof.

  The room around them was cavernous, packed floor to ceiling with bursting bookshelves, each one filled with an impossible amount of paper and knowledge. Loose pages poked out from every crevice. Scrolls lay under chairs and side-tables. Old maps and notes littered the floors and shelves like dried autumn leaves. One single candle, almost at the end of its wick, clung to life on the corner of the wooden desk, throwing yellow light and distorted shadows against the walls whenever the breeze toyed with it.

  ‘What makes us so sure it is Siren?’ asked the man at the window. He absently twisted a strand of his long white hair around a wrinkled finger as he reached for a nearby cup of warm wine. The papery wattle of skin around his neck made his chin nonexistent.

  ‘Of course it is, Innel, just look at the scales of the front cover!’ replied one of the others, avidly. He waved his hand in a somewhat dismissive gesture. He coughed hoarsely, as if the cough had caught him by surprise, and then dabbed a careful handkerchief to his lips. Spectacles made from thin slices of rare crystal balanced precariously on his nose and a long beard, streaked with grey, cascaded down his neck and chest. ‘Dragon. No doubt about it. And one doesn’t simply go around borrowing their scales for book covers.’

  The group of scholars mused for a few moments. ‘Where was it found again?’ asked another, peering at his colleagues from under wiry grey eyebrows.

  The bespectacled man spoke up again. ‘No one knows exactly. Some village in southern Nelska,’ he said, and there was a silence.

  ‘Fifteen years later and only now do we get to study this manuscript. Who knows the incalculable value of the magick held inside this book,’ said Innel, tugging his long blue robe about him. It was now too cold. He shivered as he pulled the stained glass windows shut with a bang. He turned and sighed, leaning back against the stone sill and looking to the man with the tiny glasses. ‘The only real question is this. How do we get the confounded thing open? Have we had a reply from Krauslung yet, Gernn?’

  The scholar with the wiry eyebrows answered. ‘No, no not as yet. They’re always late…’ he trailed off, distracted. He leant forward to take a closer look at the book lying on the desk. It was small; no wider or taller than the span of a man’s hand. Black dragon scales adorned the cover, overlapped and pressed flat, then trimmed to fit its square shape. Probably from an infant wyrm, thought Gernn, as he let his fingers trace the ridges and dips of its cover. A thick gold lock, simple but firm, held the small book tightly around the middle, sealing it tight, and there wasn’t a keyhole or opening mechanism in sight.

  The ancient pages poking out from the edges were scored and dirty. Gernn tried once again to split a few pages apart with a long yellow fingernail, but the book was locked fast, and not even the tip of a knife blade could squeeze between them. After a rather dramatic sigh that was probably much louder than necessary, he entwined his fingers and leant back in his chair. The ornate wood creaked as he did so.

  ‘Well nothing’s changed since this afternoon. The bloody thing’s still locked tighter than a vampyre’s coffin. And as none of us here possess the skill to unlock it, or could even guess what spell might force it open, I suggest we just wait for…’ But Gernn was interrupted by the sounds of heavy boots on stone.

  A loud voice made them all turn in unison. ‘Having trouble, wise men of Arfell?’ A tall figure stood in the doorway, hooded, with hands clasped behind his back. The newcomer walked from the door to the desk in just a few long strides and stomped the last bits of snow from his black leather boots. The scholars were a little startled to say the least, but as the man moved from the shadows and into the candlelight they recognised a familiar face. The man threw back his hood and a chorus of respectful smiles followed, even a few groaning, creaking attempts at bowing.

  Innel jumped up to greet the man with a warm handshake, the wattle of skin beneath his neck wobbling like a turkey’s. ‘Your Mage, what an unexpected honour! What, with the weather and all, we didn’t expect yourself or Åddren to arrive for another two days,’ he rattled.

  The tall mage kept his smile as he removed his hooded green-gold robe and folded it neatly over an armchair with one fluid movement. There was a long sword at his waist, sheathed in an ornate scabbard, and his expensive tunic was made of a fine emerald cloth trimmed with white and gold. ‘Do not be ridiculous, scholar. The weather has never stopped me,’ he chuckled. ‘When we heard that you had uncovered a long-lost book of secrets, I decided that no time should be wasted in coming to examine it!’ The man crossed his muscular arms and looked at each of them with hard, hazel eyes. ‘Please, show me what you have found,’ he told them, as Innel retreated slowly to a chair.

  Gernn rose, obviously eager to impress, while the others remained silent and seated, fingers entwined in their long flowing beards. ‘It is most definitely Siren, your Mage, as we thought.’ He paused to throw his fellow scholars a quick sideways look. ‘But this book is not from the time of the war, and it seems to be very different from the other texts we have recovered from the dragon-riders, perhaps older…’

  ‘Continue,’ said the man.

  Gernn took a quick breath before carrying on, and pointed to the gold on the black cover. ‘It does have some sort of magick lock on the cover, but there is no key or keyhole with which to unlock it. We’ve come across this type of thing before, but this is too powerful and too ancient for our minds, or the library mages, so as yet we have been unable to read it,’ Gernn shrugged, gazing wistfully at the little book.

  There was a moment of silence while the man let a satisfied smile creep over his wind-burnt face. ‘Perhaps I could help with that part,’ he offered. His hazel eyes flicked around the circle. ‘If I can get it open, can you translate it?’

  ‘If it’s legible, your Mage, then we can read it. We scholars of Arfell have come across almost all of the languages that Emaneska has ever spoken or written. There’s hardly a book we’ve come across that we couldn’t translate,’ answered one of the other scholars, with a slow and constant nodding of his head. He looked to be the oldest by many a mile, greyer than a winter’s day and waiting
patiently at death’s doorstep.

  The others murmured their assent with a symphony of throat-clearing and more rubbing of chins and facial hair.

  ‘Good.’ The mage strode forward and flexed his hands. He briefly took a moment to think and then leant over the oak desk, humming and musing and making a sucking noise with his teeth. The scholars watched him think, looking between themselves with a mixture of intrigue and uncertainty.

  The tall man muttered something as he reached towards the book, his fingers rigid and outspread. A tiny ripple of air pulsated from his hand, like a wave of heat over a fire. A purple spark danced over the cover and he whispered something, muttering again, louder this time. ‘This book is strong,’ he mumbled between pursed lips. He seemed to be straining to keep his fingers spread now. The mage’s hand pulsed again and he took a firmer stance, spreading his feet and gripping the edge of the table. More sparks fizzed over the cover and then, quite abruptly, the thick lock made a little click, and smoothly rolled open.

  The scholars all leant forward with open mouths and wide eyes, eager to see what the dark book held between its dusty yellow pages. The tall mage wiped a single drop of sweat from his brow and smiled, clenching his fist a few times to get rid of the numbness. ‘Now read your book, gentlemen,’ he said, smiling.

  The oldest scholar wiped something from his nose and moved to carefully lift the scaly cover. With agonising slowness he turned it and then he paused, smoothing out the first page with his hands. Peering through misty eyes at the thick writing, he nodded and scanned the script. ‘It’s elvish, dark elf, if I’m not mistaken. A very strange dialect. I… I haven’t seen a text like this for years,’ he said, somewhat shakily.

  ‘Elvish. That is an old language indeed,’ commented the tall mage. It may have been the flickering candlelight, but it seemed to Innel that the mage’s eyes widened ever so slightly at the news.

  ‘One of the oldest, your Mage,’ he answered.

  Beside them the old scholar shuddered as he read onwards. He coughed briefly and turned the next page. ‘It reads…’ he paused, tracing the script. ‘The Testament of… Bringing? But that word could also mean, erm creating, or…’

  Gernn adjusted his crystal spectacles and peered at the writing. ‘Summoning.’

  The mage turned to him, looking down his nose at the scholar. ‘Summoning?’

  Gernn nodded eagerly, almost losing his glasses. ‘Yes, as I’m sure you know sire, the dark elves were powerful creatures, capable of controlling the darkest of all magicks.’

  ‘It’s a summoning manual?’ asked the man.

  ‘Yes your Mage. Their acolytes could summon huge beasts from the darkest places of the world at the cast of a single spell.’ Innel went to a bookshelf and brought back a rare slice of tapestry covered with crude pictures. They depicted battles with strange goblin-type animals and giant winged creatures with many horns wearing what looked to be golden crowns.

  ‘I remember,’ muttered the mage as he turned the tapestry to face him. The others looked up questioningly. ‘I said I remember seeing something like this before, in other books and old paintings at the citadel.’

  ‘Of course sire,’ Innel nodded, wondering if he had seen any such paintings in the Arkathedral. There was something like an itch in his mind.

  ‘Where are the keys?’ The mage asked quickly, tapping the page with a finger. Keys could be found in every spell book and any book without them was useless. They were the start of any incantation, the unlocking words to begin a spell.

  The oldest scholar turned a few pages carefully, where more runes were scribbled. ‘For this spell? This is a very old spell indeed. Very powerful.’ He pointed to a few random symbols hiding at the corners of one page. ‘For the spell? Erm, there, and the other, there. These are the main words, me and hear. Saying them in the other order, of course, would open the spell. I don’t dare to read aloud any further; it seems we have uncovered a very special book indeed. It must be over a thousand years old, maybe more.’ His voice cracked and his words trailed off into silence. The scholar’s hand was shaking more than usual.

  ‘This needs careful translation, look, it seems to reference something called thy darkness swallowed, or… mouths of darkness, yes that’s it, over and over again on these two pages.’ Gernn waved his hands as he gingerly prodded at the page. His eyes were wide.

  ‘And you are sure this book is not another fake?’ The man asked, looking hungrily at the men. The wolf and the grey-haired rabbits. His arms were crossed still, but his voice was now low and dangerous, eyes roaming the pages and pictures spread over the desk.

  Innel nodded. That itch was bothering him now, something he had missed, something he couldn’t begin to put his finger on. ‘It’s real, my lord, an elven summoning manual, if you asked me.’

  ‘It’s dangerous, whatever it is,’ said Gernn.

  The man smiled, flashing teeth. ‘How interesting this all is.’ He drummed his fingers on the desk absently. ‘Well, it seems you have been most useful to me this evening. I am sure Åddren will be as pleased as I am to hear about this.’

  The oldest scholar rose shakily from his chair and bowed his head. ‘Thank you, your Mage. We will continue to study this manual with diligence. There is much more knowledge to be gained from it, and without you, my lord, we would probably still have a locked book.’ He smiled, and the other scholars managed a polite laugh. The air had become stale and thick.

  The tall man laughed heartily, startling them slightly as the noise rang out in the small room. ‘Haha, and without you, old fools, I would have nothing!’

  The smile was instantly gone, replaced by thin lips and a narrowed gaze. With a sudden burst of speed, the mage drew his sword, and in a silver blur, furiously slammed the blade into Innel’s chest. He fell with a terrified gurgling scream.

  The man swung right, brutally cutting the throat of the old scholar with a single swing. Dark blood painted the books and pages scattered across the desk. Sparks of electricity now danced around the man’s fingers and with a snarl and a flick of his wrist, a bolt of lightning surged into the others, burning them to a crisp in a matter of seconds. An acrid smoke filled the room.

  His business concluded, the man calmly sheathed his sword and lifted the black book from the desk. Wiping the blood from its cover, he turned on his heel, picked up his robe from the chair, and left without another sound.

  Hundreds of miles away, in the west, a yellow dawn was breaking over an empty, snow-laden countryside. The cold morning light shone through the skeletal trees and scattered across winter snow drifts and dead leaves. The still wilderness was undulating, with rolling hills and patches of scrawny woods springing up between boulders, frozen streams, and endless snow. Apart from the drip of melting ice and the rattle of wind in the finger-like branches, not a sound could be heard.

  A broken castle rose from a tall mound, crowned by concentric rings of ruined walls and dilapidated stone ramparts. A round tower squatted in disrepair at the centre of the castle, still sporting an empty flagpole. The massive stones of the walls were covered in brown moss and hanging icicles; the crenellations adorned with cuts and gashes forged by the war engines of old.

  Soon the pale morning was disturbed by the faint noise of a heavy-breathing newcomer. A hooded figure came from the south, trudging through the deep snow towards the castle, his long brown cloak billowing behind him in the icy breeze. Hot breath escaped in smoky plumes from his mouth, and the sound of his labouring was loud against the dripping silence. The man stopped and pulled his clothing around him. He took a minute to catch his breath. In the half-light of the early morning his grey-green eyes could pick out a low arched door set deep into the thick outer wall.

  ‘Carn Breagh,’ muttered the stranger, lowering a plain red scarf from his face. Clearing his throat, he checked the woods to the left and right with a wary glance, and then trudged on through the deep snow. Beneath his cloak, the man wore light steel plate armour over his shoulders, chest, and thighs, which clanked softly as he moved. A black and brown tunic lay underneath it, with a thick leather belt holding onto his supplies and an old sword encased in a dark red scabbard. Something gold and scarlet and metal peeked out from beneath the sleeves of his thick cloak. The man’s sturdy black boots wearily plunged into the pure white snow, making creaking noises with every step.