The Written Page 11

  The old man slipped out from the mage’s room and closed the door quietly with a slight click. He threw a hood over his greasy hair and kicked at his rough leather shoes as if they annoyed him. With great care he hobbled downstairs and weaved his way between the drinkers and singers that filled the noisy inn, still worshipping the ale that foamed in their tankards. The beggar shuffled past them, muttering quiet scuse me’s and comin’ through’s as he did so, and finally he made it onto the street. He paused to stretch. After a small private grin and a satisfied slap of his thigh he disappeared down the nearest alleyway, suddenly seeming taller and more nimble with every step.

  Soon a loud drunk came around a corner and careered down the narrow alley towards the strange beggar. The drunken man leaned into his path, shouting and singing loudly in his face. He smell of his wine-soaked breath was a little overpowering, and the beggar fended the drunk off with a light push, but in a fit of sudden anger, he cursed and violently swung his arm in a wild punch. The beggar reacted with a speed that belied his years. A short black knife darted out from under his patchwork cloak and plunged into the drunk’s side with a thud. He clamped his palm over the man’s mouth and threw him hard against the nearest wall, pausing only to viciously twist the knife. The man grunted in pain and shock. Stabbing him twice more in the chest, he let the dying man slump to the floor. Without a moment of hesitation or remorse he pulled his cloak about him and silently disappeared into the night once more. Left to die alone in the cold and muddy street, the drunk gradually slipped away, a bewildered look plastered onto his pale face.

  Chapter 6

  “Dark magick is the scourge of Emaneska. Let no Written ever be involved with it, and seek to use full force against those who practice it. Those who wield it should be warned: We will chase you into the mountains, hunt you down, and bury you under the rocks. The council has spoken.”

  From a speech by Arkmage Åddren in the year 879, addressing the Written after the Neffra Incident

  Farden was dreaming again. He stood in the shadow of a black mountain. A hot breeze lashed his bare skin and the dust stung his eyes, and he found himself wearing only his vambraces. He could feel the sand between his toes.

  The mage looked behind him and saw razor-sharp crags of rock hanging over him, a bare, faceless cliff of jet and obsidian coming straight out of the sand and towering into the sky. Shadows played in the darkness. The wind whistled through the rocks, making an eerie sound like a faraway horn crying for help, or a wounded animal wailing away its last few hours. Even in the dry heat, Farden shuddered. He looked out, away from the mountain, where the sun shone and the heat waves danced. He watched the bare earth stretch on for leagues, further than even his eyes could see. The horizon shuddered and wobbled.

  Farden looked up at the sky, that pure empty sky, and felt a tranquility he had never felt before suddenly wash over him. The mage felt as though he could melt into it, into the vast blueness of it, and never have to wake up again. He could forget about the council, the book, everything, and just melt away.

  A black shape fluttered in his peripheral vision, and Farden turned his head. A crow, or a raven, some sort of black bird, flapped aimlessly around the rocky ledges of the black cliff, trying to stay out of reach of a skinny black cat that danced below it on its hindlegs. The bird dithered in midair, narrowly avoiding the clawing swipes of the mangy cat, and desperately tried to find a safe place between the rocks. The cat crouched and watched its prey. Farden tried to shout and scare either of the animals away, but the hot wind snatched the words from his lips, and he yelled in complete silence. The cat hunkered down and its haunches twitched and wiggled, until suddenly, choosing its perfect moment, the cat shot into the air and dragged the bird to the sand. The thing flapped and cried, but the cat was merciless. It pinned the crow-thing to the ground with one paw and sunk its yellow teeth into its neck until it moved no more. The bird’s head sagged and its beak lay open and motionless. Farden tried to move, to try and chase the cat away from the corpse, but his legs and arms refused to shift. He was glued to the sand. Something flitted from rock to rock above him, and a cackle floated on the wind. Farden looked at the cat, and saw her staring back at him with those obsidian eyes. Blood dripped from her fangs, and a black feather hovered at the corner of her mouth. The sand had become a red pool. She ripped some more flesh from the birds neck, and chewed, slowly, staring at him without emotion or even a hint of remorse. She threw her head back, swallowed, and then made a howling whining sound deep in her throat. As quickly as it had began it stopped, and the cat took a slow step forward towards him.

  You’re between a rock and a hard place... So to speak, it said, an echoing voice in the back of his head. Farden tried to answer, but no sound came from his mouth. The cat continued to move forward. Blood decorated her chin. Things moved and flapped above him.

  They’ve got you all in a flap, came the next cliché. The flapping became the sound of a landslide of wings. Black shapes and beady eyes hid behind the crags and watched him. Farden struggled in vain. He looked at the desert behind him, and it had become a desert of fire. The wind blew hot dusty air in his face, and whipped his naked skin. Shapes began to fill the empty sky above him and the mountain became a black whirlwind of even darker birds, wheeling and careening through the blueness and cackling hideously. The cat had come to a halt in front of him, and she threw a curious look up at the storm of wings and beaks and claws flooding his dream. They filled every space on the rock face, stood on every inch of rock and crag. A thousand of them flapped around him.

  It’s you they want, just as they once wanted me. A talon sliced across his back and he felt the drip of hot blood down his skin. Farden winced, and tried with all his strength to move. Another claw across his thigh and a beak tore a hole in his side. Wings buffeted his face. Claws ripped flesh from bone.

  Follow the dragons said the voice.

  No more than a handful of hours after he had collapsed into his bed, the first streaks of dawn started to stretch across the dim sky, and Farden awoke with a pounding headache. He fell out of bed and collided with the cold wooden floor with a groan. The mage quickly shrugged on his clothes and armour and massaged his temples in a vain attempt to get rid of the waves of pain coursing through his head. He tried to cast a small healing spell and the magick smashed against his skull like a sledgehammer. Farden cursed and flinched, feeling the pain all the way to the tips of his toes. Every movement seemed to be a strain. He blearily looked at his surroundings. The candles in his room had burned to their bases, and the dim morning light barely illuminated his room. The smell of acrid smoke hung in the air, and the stench made the hungover mage retch. Stoically, he hauled his sword over his back, wincing, He fastened his cloak around him and slammed the door much to the dismay of his head. He stood in the hall and rubbed his head. All seemed to be quiet in the inn, but something gnawed at the back of his head, underneath the headache, something that escaped him every time he got close to identifying it. Shadows of his dream taunted him, not daring to show their true faces. He remembered rocks, birds, or a place with sand. Farden shook his head gingerly, and tried to forget the strange nightmare.

  The streets of Krauslung were gloomy in the early dawn light, the shadowy clouds hung like a blanket over the mountains and the slumbering city by the sea. Men moved around the streets, cleaning the refuse from the muddy roads while shops and houses started to wake up. A few candles still peeked through the cracks in thick drapes.

  ‘Spare a coin sir?’ whined a beggar that was slumped in a wooden box by the side of the street. Farden looked at him, after a moment realised he wasn’t the same beggar, then coughed, winced, and dug a little silver piece from his pocket. He flung it into the tramp’s lap, and walked off. The man bit the coin and grinned a toothless smile. ‘Gods be with you sire!’ he called after the mage. Farden wondered why everyone kept wishing him that.

  Dawn shined in the east, and the chimneys began to belch their sooty breath over
the city. Smoke mingled with granite clouds. Squawking, cackling chickens scattered around Farden’s legs, and a lone goose wandered through the crowds, trailing a velvet leash in the mud behind it. People were now beginning to fill the thoroughfare, laughing and talking loudly despite the early morning. A short bearded man, who seemed to still be drunk from the night before, shouted impatiently at the closed doors of a bakery while clinging to a lamp post to keep from falling over. Farden watched an attractive peasant girl leave a rich-looking house and skip down the street with a coy little smile. She was still doing up her blouse and wiping smudged makeup from her face when she disappeared around a corner. Such was the way of Krauslung society.

  Signs told Farden to head right down an alleyway if he wanted to reach the west side of the port. He walked for another half an hour before he came to a short balcony that overlooked a square and the west curve of Port Rós. The mage stood against the stone railings and sniffed the salty air, feeling the fresh breeze try to work its charm on his headache. A cold mist had crept across the sea in the night, and now it lingered in thick wisps and trails at the edges of the harbour walls. The ships in their docks rolled gently on the calm blue-green swell, crowded side-by-side and tethered by thick ropes. Wooden jetties and gangways ran vein-like through the bay, boardwalk capillaries keeping the ships alive with supplies and sailors. The muffled sounds of the ships’ bells and the creaking of the docks was a gentle background noise compared to the shouts and banging of people working around him. The hammers of the shipyards were loud and clamouring. Everywhere Farden looked cargo was piling up on the side of the jetties and sailors rushed around their ships and ropes like termites over spindly tree trunks.

  Seagulls mewed overhead and caught the morsels thrown into the air by the crowds of people at the dockside. The inns in the city may have closed for the night, but the inns there in the port were still thriving with raucous conversation and snippets of atonal singing. Stalls had started serving fried meat and bread, boiling cheap moss tea for the sleepy sailors. The smells of farska and fish soup and the infamous sea-serpent pie, was thick in the cold air.

  Farden waited in line at a stall, hood pulled low over his baggy eyes, and grabbed a quick bread roll stuffed with cheap greasy venison. He bit into it ravenously and tried to chew in a way that didn’t cause sparks to fly behind his eyes. The food tasted like ash in his mouth. A swig of brackish tea just reminded him of the herby charcoal taste of the nevermar.

  The mage walked further along the wooden jetty towards the west pier. He munched on the cheap snack and dodged his way through crowds of bustling dock-workers. His sword felt heavy on his shoulders and he swayed drunkenly against the elbows of the men. He stopped for a moment by the side of a wall and slowly finished his tea. A few slow deep breaths later, the wave of nausea had passed and Farden felt a little better. He looked ahead and spied a ship flying the golden scales of the Arka. He headed off in its general direction. Farden was slowly realising how much he was dreading the ship, and the turbulent, churning journey that was waiting for him. If he hated anything, it was the open sea, and all of its grey rolling vastness. He shuddered momentarily.

  ‘Farden!’ His own name surprised him and he turned to see Åddren and Helyard flanked by a dozen or so armoured soldiers. They were heading through the crowd towards him, so he made his way in their direction. He bowed formally and then stood with his hands behind his back. Helyard didn’t even look at the mage, but Åddren smiled warmly at him. He had a large sack at his side, hanging by a strap around his shoulder. The soldiers looked at him impassively.

  ‘I trust you slept well Farden?’ asked the Arkmage.

  ‘I rested well your Mage, thank you.’ Farden wanted to throw up on his expensive green robe.

  ‘Good, we need you vigilant and well prepared for this trip. I have convinced Helyard to provide you with fair weather for as far as he can manage,’ said Åddren. Helyard just grunted. Farden had heard the rumours about the Arkmage’s power over the local weather, and it had been known, that on occasion, summer days would be surprised with freak snow. That had been before the days of the Long Winter.

  Farden looked at the powerful man, and he wondered why he hated the Sirens so much, but Åddren was talking again. ‘Meanwhile, a hawk has been sent to Nelska and the citadel of Hjaussfen to warn them of an emissary from the Arka. I did not mention the true intention of your mission in the letter.’ Åddren stopped. ‘Here is the tearbook.’ The Arkmage led the mage away from the others and put an arm around Farden’s shoulders. With his other hand he lifted the travelling sack from his shoulders and handed it to the mage. There was an earnest tone in his voice. ‘Keep it safe at all times. These sailors are loyal, as are the soldiers, but greed may change their minds,’ he said. Farden nodded wordlessly. Åddren gestured to the others and they walked on towards the ship.

  Helyard cleared his throat noisily, and spoke up in a hoarse lecturing voice. ‘Make sure you read it first, mage, and with the dragon-riders. Most importantly don’t let them hold information from you, and don’t you dare jeopardise this ceasefire,’ he growled.

  ‘I think he means don’t lose your temper and kill anyone, Farden,’ said Åddren calmly. He halted in his steps. Farden tried not to let his eyes betray him. He hadn’t expected that the magick council would put any truth to the gossip about his exploits.

  ‘Arkmage, I…’ Farden began, trying to quickly conjure a lie, but the kind man held up a hand. He pointed to the ship nestling up against the wooden walkway, and the mage looked. It was a low carrack, a dark mahogany brown in colour, with tall decks and pine rails. The ship lurched on a wave and brown bilge spewed from the holes on its bow. The mage looked upward at the tall decks piled on top of each other like a deck of cards. He could see the stained glass of the captain’s cabin in the stern, and briefly pondered if he could bunk there, but the sight of the crow’s nest made his stomach perform a somersault, and he looked down at the waves. Barnacles and green algae festooned the battered hull, and a sad looking unicorn that had seen better days was the figurehead. Farden marvelled at the lengths of rope that seemed to hold the fat ship together, wrapped around its stout rigging and sails like a spider’s web on a hedge. A string of sailors hauled boxes of lemons and hard tack bread up the steep ramp, along with an equally depressed goat, which was bleating tediously. About a score of men worked on the ship, a few already halfway up the mast, others piling up cargo on the decks and making ready to sail.

  Farden eyed the ominous weather hiding behind the mist, and cast a brief look at Helyard, whose glazed eyes stared at the clouds with a concentrative look. Cold winter spray splashed over the nearby harbour wall and hissed in the wind. The harsh metallic seas pounded the black granite of the port defences like legions of icy waves drumming eagerly at the gates of the harbour. The mage was thankful that the dock was so sheltered. Someone was talking to him again.

  ‘Farden, this is Captain Heold.’ Åddren welcomed a grizzly old man to their party. He looked like an ageing pirate, who sported a grey beard that was even bigger than his round belly, with a kind weathered face and eyes as hard as blue diamonds hid behind bushy white eyebrows. He looked as though he had been born at sea. He wore a rough uniform of sorts, in the green tunic of the navy, with a black cloth hat pulled down over his head. Captain Heold offered his calloused hand and Farden shook it with a smile. ‘Good to meet yer Farden, the Sarunn is a good ship, we should be there in about five or six days, travelling ‘round the coast,’ he said. Farden had met his type before, a real northerner, harsh spoken, blunt, and as superstitious as they came, but a true master of the rocky seas.

  ‘Excellent. Thank you, Captain.’ The mage struggled to return the man’s vice-like grip, feeling as if he were greeting a huge crab, but fortunately before anything could be broken, the captain released him and turned to shout loudly at his motley crew.

  ‘Right, let’s step to it lively lads, prepare to cast off as soon as we can!’ He bowed stiffly to th
e Arkmages and strode rather decisively up the ramp, still shouting.

  While the accompanying guard made ready to get onto the vessel, Åddren took Farden aside again. The two men walked towards the ship’s gangplank and the Arkmage whispered quietly into his ear. ‘Farden, I honestly wish I didn’t have to ask you to carry out this mission, but if I thought that a man better suited to the task existed, I would ask him.’

  ‘Thank you, your Mage.’ Farden didn’t really recall being asked, but he still wanted the opportunity.

  ‘And you may think that Helyard and the rest of the council are against you in this, but believe me you are doing the right thing. Not only could we have a chance to stop this malicious plot in its tracks, but we could finally have a chance of peace with the dragon-riders.’

  ‘I know how important this is for our people Arkmage, and trust me there is no measure I won’t take...’

  Åddren held up an interrupting hand. ‘Just…be careful mage. Helyard may be rash and swift to anger, but he does have a point. We do not yet know that the Sirens weren’t responsible for the murders,’ he said.

  ‘You think that and still voted yes?’ Farden looked at Åddren quizzically, and he nodded with a solemn expression.

  ‘There are certain risks that need to be taken Farden, Vice and I saw that, and that’s one of the reasons the Undermage is on the council. Sending you to the Sirens could bring peace to our people, but if Helyard is right and they were behind the atrocities at Arfell then we will find out very soon. It’s a gamble in trusting them Farden, and I regret that you are the tool we must use. But now we must pray to the gods, and wait for your message,’ the Arkmage looked up at the tumultuous sky and thrust his arms into his robe. ‘The old ones still have sway over these lands,’ he smiled and turned his gaze to the hooded Farden.