Pale Kings (Emaneska Series) Page 15

  ‘And so, when they grew bored of their Hel, they too took it upon themselves to journey to the world above, and as they broke through the rock they encountered the scattered gods and, feeling challenged and threatened, they killed them in cold blood, one by one. A huge war followed, one that lasted longer than we could ever dream, Farden, a war that forged mountains, froze oceans, dragged forests from the ground and carved valleys from the churned soil. It was their war that built the world we know now.

  ‘To scorch the daemons and their offspring from the earth, the gods forged the sun and the moon, but, in return the daemons built the night to hide them. Next, led by a young goddess named Evernia, the gods harnessed the vestigial power hidden deep in the rock of the earth, in the long dead ash tree, and made a weapon out of it, calling it, believe it or not, “magick.” But once again, the daemons bent the magick of the gods to their own use and perverted it. In the darkness of their caves they forged a third race: the elves, and with their new creations they buried the gods’ magick in huge wells dug deep into the earth, and there they bred and summoned beasts beyond the wildest of imaginations, monsters of every shape and size: minotaurs, manticores, wyrms, wyverns, trolls, harpies, and hydras, like the one you so recently defeated in Albion, nephew.’ Here Tyrfing waggled his finger, as though he had just remembered something. ‘Contradictory to what the historians and skalds tell you, it was actually the daemons that created the elves, not the elves who summoned them. The daemons needed creatures that could fight under the light of the sun for them, and so they forged the elves from the void. The old histories really do get mixed up sometimes, but then again, two millennia of hand-me-down songs and stories doesn’t really help the facts,’ mumbled Tyrfing.

  ‘I suppose not,’ agreed Farden, still captivated by his uncle’s words.

  Tyrfing continued. ‘For roughly a thousand years the old gods managed to keep the daemons and their armies at bay. Their numbers fell to a shadow of what they once had been. They hid beneath the mountains, and in the dark rooms of their fortresses they raised their own armies. Thron, the fiery storm god, forged his race of dragons and phoenixes, Jötun his giants and trolls of storm and earth, Heimdall his wolves, and gryphons, and Njord his leviathans and creatures of the sea. But sadly none of them, not even combined, could stand in the way of the daemons and their elves. They remained undefeated.’

  Farden nodded. ‘I know how this story goes. We were slaves to the elves.’

  Tyrfing sliced himself some bear meat and talked around his mouthful. ‘I’m getting to that bit,’ he said, and once he had swallowed, he carried on. ‘To protect the gods, and to fight for them, Evernia and the Allfather, the Ageless, the oldest of all gods, decided to create a new race out of the ash of the ash tree, one that could simply outnumber and overwhelm the elves, one that could fuel the gods’ power with belief and prayer. And right you are, Farden, we were that race. The gods built us out of dust and ash, and with the sparks that resided within them, they gave us souls and an afterlife in the other side. With Evernia’s gifts of magick we began to drive the elves back stronghold by stronghold. We became strong and powerful and learned creatures. But, as we know, this story doesn’t have a happy ending, for the daemons were always one step ahead.

  ‘Just when the gods seemed to be gaining the upper hand, the daemons and elves summoned one of their oldest from the other side, one who had fought in the first wars when the gods and daemons were young. His name was Orion, and he was a hunter of gods, one of their oldest. One by one he pursued the remaining gods and slaughtered them until all but a handful remained. Only the very oldest of them escaped, and so the precious few hid in the great forests and regained their strength.

  ‘Meanwhile, without the protection of the gods, our helpless ancestors were captured in their countless thousands. We suffered greatly in the claws of the elves and their daemon lords. It makes my blood run cold just thinking of it. For three hundred years we were raped, murdered, enslaved, and devoured like cattle, for both our flesh and our souls. Yes, nephew, souls, and the sparks that hid inside them. Yet all the while this was happening, our desperate prayers were being stored by the gods, stored and gathered, and slowly the gods grew strong again.

  ‘Now at some point during Orion’s reign, whether by foul design or accident, some of the daemons fathered children by their human slaves, halfbreed bastards of human and daemon blood, which we came to call the nefalim, or pale kings. No doubt you’ve heard the fairytales?’ Farden nodded, with a wry look, suddenly very wary of where this story was leading. Tyrfing continued. ‘Well, Orion was one of these daemons, and with his slave he fathered three of the bastards, and they ruled alongside their father like princes for many decades. When the gods finally discovered this abomination they held a final meeting deep in the forests, and there they came up with a plan to end the war for good.

  ‘With every ounce of their strength, they burst from their hiding places and unleashed their fury on the daemons and their elves. You see, the old gods’ plan was to use the last of their power to drag themselves and their enemies back into the sky where they had come from; daemons, elves, and gods alike, so that they could leave our world in peace and be frozen in the sky for the rest of time, deep in the void.

  ‘It took every scrap of power and prayer and belief they could gather, but in the end, contrary to the fairytales and the songs, it happened in the space of an hour; the gods sacrificed themselves to save us and our world. Hel was emptied of its daemons; the tormented souls and summoned monsters returned to their resting place in the other side; and the elves and the nefalim were wiped clean of the earth. When the sun went down, the survivors were left alone in the darkness to watch strange stars appear in the sky.’ Tyrfing’s voice sounded almost emotional. He pointed at the dark sky above, at the seemingly silent stars that hung in the vast emptiness, and traced the old shapes with his finger. ‘And there they are, frozen in time, and still fighting. The gods and their daemons. See? The First Dragon, the scorpion, the hydra, Evernia, Thron, and there on the horizon, you can still see Orion, standing with arms outstretched and bow drawn, sword at his hip.’

  Farden squinted and tried to make out the distant shape, cowering at the end of the milky band of stars that snaked across the sky. He traced the ancient daemon with the point of his finger. ‘And what happened to his sons? Where are they?’

  Tyrfing cleared his throat and rubbed his hands together. He took a deep breath and sighed, and then shuffled around on his rock to face his nephew. The crisp breeze whispered in their ears and made the mage shiver. There was something in his uncle’s eyes he did not like very much at all.

  ‘What?’ Farden asked, warily.

  ‘Listen carefully Farden, because this is the hard part. During the last battle, Orion’s three sons managed to hide amongst the humans, and somehow they escaped their father’s fate. As the sun went down, the pale ones huddled around the campfires with the rest of us, perfectly disguised, and waited like we did for the return of the gods. The wolves howled and the surviving beasts stalked us in the darkness, but they never came.

  ‘It took a year for the sun to rise again, and when it did the humans began to explore their strange new world, battered and tortured as it was, and to carve out their own futures. Tribes were born and lands were claimed. Armies were made and lost as we warred amongst ourselves. One by one, the elven wells dried up or were destroyed, and gradually, over a period of a thousand years, almost all trace of the old world was lost or forgotten, and humans gradually forged the Scattered Kingdoms, the early beginnings of the Arka, the Sirens, the Skölgard, even Albion.

  ‘Almost two thousand years have now passed since the gods left, and all the while the nefalim have watched the humans prosper and grew jealous. They conspired to become the pale kings they knew they should have been.’ Tyrfing stared into Farden’s tired eyes, willing him to realise. The mage was rooted to the spot and, whether he liked it or not, the realisation was slowly and painfull
y dawning. Tyrfing’s voice was now no more than a whisper, like the cold night breeze. ‘They are still seeking that destiny, Farden, seeking it by any means necessary. They will lie, steal, and murder in a heartbeat if it gets them closer to their goal, and they’ve spent almost two thousand years honing their skill, moving into positions of power. They thrive on chaos, they can take any form they want, and they can wield the oldest and most powerful of magicks. All they’ve ever wanted is chaos, pure and simple, to dominate everything like their father did so long ago. Like day, there has to be night, and they are it.’ He paused. ‘You already know who I’m talking about don’t you?’ whispered Tyrfing. ‘I only discovered his true nature after I met Ilios, but some part of me, deep in the darkest recesses of my mind, always knew. It always harboured that sickening suspicion that there was something more to him than just a scheming war hero. I know you saw it too. You knew it as soon as he revealed himself at the inn that night, didn’t you? And again when you faced him in Carn Breagh.’

  Farden let the name tumble from his cold lips. ‘Vice.’

  His uncle nodded.

  Farden took a slow measured breath. His heart pounded with anger or fear or both. ‘All this time,’ he whispered.

  ‘You never know until it’s too late. Trust me, I should know. They’ve spent a lot of time and effort convincing us they had died out. Even the oldest of the histories dismiss them as legend,’ said Tyrfing. ‘However, they have never managed to stop the skalds from telling their tales and singing their songs, and somehow, in their fairytales and eddas, snatches of truth have managed to scrape through. I assume you’ve heard the Dust Song?’

  Farden nodded. ‘A depressing ghost story for the winter fireplace.’

  ‘Or so they want you to believe.’ Tyrfing then began to recite a verse that Farden had heard many times echoing mournfully around taverns and drinking halls, yet this time the words had a haunting chill to them. ‘ “Three stars were left, three Daemon foals, shifting shape and with it sands, sowing seeds and most immoral plans. For man shall wait betwixt the ice, for brings Pale Kings, and with them Vice.” Sound familiar now? Despite what I said, there’s still a lot of truth in those verses. Especially, and you’re not going to like this, Farden, a lot of truth about your…’ it almost hurt him to spit the words out, ‘…your unborn child.’

  Farden’s fingers slowly curled into fists. His voice became a low growl. ‘Choose your next words very, very carefully, uncle.’

  Tyrfing held up a hand. ‘We need to talk about this, whether you like it or not. This is beyond important,’ warned the older mage.

  ‘How do you know about my child? How do you know any of this?’ demanded Farden, and Tyrfing flicked his eyes to the dark sky, where a darker shape wheeled and circled, feathers crackling in the wind.

  ‘Ilios,’ he said, grimly. ‘He found out a few days ago, when they moved her, and told me. Gah! If only we had known sooner! I wondered why he couldn’t see her!’ Tyrfing pulled angrily at his hair, mumbling. He got to his feet and began to pace back and forth. ‘If Farfallen still had his tearbook and its memories were clear, he might have seen it coming. His memories can be traced all the way to before the Scattered Kingdoms. That dragon might only be a thousand years old, but the stories of his predecessors are still part of his memories. I just pray it’s not too late.’

  ‘What do you mean the gryphon told you?’

  Tyrfing shook his head. ‘He doesn’t tell me, he shows me. It’s difficult to explain.’ Tyrfing scratched his neck, agitated. ‘He can make you dream the future, or the past, or the present, or whatever you need to see to understand. He showed me all of it, the gods the daemons, as if I had been right there. About a year ago he started to show me other things, like visions of Vice and his plans for you, Cheska, the hydra. That’s how I knew how to send Lerel, and how to help you.’

  ‘And that’s how you gave me my dreams?’

  His uncle made a face. ‘Ilios did most of it, really, but they were my words. Some of it may have gotten lost in the translation, like I said, but this isn’t important right…’

  ‘But you said he showed you things.’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  Farden put a thumb to the bridge of his nose, as if thinking very hard. His mind felt all fuzzy and disconnected. ‘I think I had a dream last night.’

  Tyrfing nodded and hummed. ‘Mmm, Ilios was watching you last night. He sometimes does it without asking. No matter how many times I’ve told him he still won’t listen. Thinks he knows best. But Farden, we need to talk about your child!’

  Farden wasn’t listening either, he was piecing together the disconnected fuzzy pieces of his dream, like broken scattered pebbles on a shore. ‘I, I dreamt of Krauslung, and the others. Elessi was there, and Durnus too, they were running somewhere, or stuck somewhere. It’s too hazy.’ Farden scrunched up his face and his eyes, trying his hardest to recall the dream. Then suddenly, as though something had popped inside his head, he had it. ‘I saw her,’ he muttered. ‘I saw Cheska in the Arkathedral, with child. My child.’ Farden felt that familiar pang of hurt inside his chest and instantly leapt to his feet. ‘I have to go back to Krauslung!’ he yelled, and woozily made for the steps.

  Tyrfing jumped after him and grabbed his sleeve. ‘Farden wait, there’s more you need to know!’

  ‘I don’t have time,’ said Farden, trying to shrug his uncle off.

  But Tyrfing held on tight. ‘What happened in your dream isn’t important right now, whatever it was might never even happen,’ he urged.

  The mage shook his head. He wrenched his arm from Tyrfing’s grasp and kept walking. ‘You believed in them enough to direct my future. I have to save them,’ he stubbornly insisted.

  ‘Farden, Bane is one of them! Bane is a pale king. He’s Vice’s brother, Farden.’ That stopped Farden dead in his tracks. His foot hovered in mid-air at the edge of the top stairs. Tyrfing went on. ‘That means that Cheska is of the same blood. As is your child.’

  ‘I don’t care. She and the child are in danger. Somebody is trying to kill them,’ Farden muttered.

  Tyrfing closed his eyes as the words left his mouth. ‘Then maybe it would be best if you just let them die.’

  The mage spun around like a tornado, fist curled, eyes burning, and with a swing of his arm, he punched his uncle directly in the face. ‘Take that back!’ he yelled as his knuckles collided with Tyrfing’s cheek. Tyrfing took the blow and staggered backwards. He wiped a speck of blood from his nose. Tyrfing looked up at his nephew then and, like the gryphon, he saw into Farden’s mind and plucked out something the mage had been trying desperately to hide. Tyrfing licked the corner of his lip, tasting more blood. His eye twitched. ‘You still love her, don’t you?’

  The word blind-sided the mage. Love he thought.

  ‘I…’ Farden’s voice died on his tongue. His mind did the talking for him. In truth, truth that felt like a brick to the face, he still loved her despite everything that had happened, despite everything she had done. He had tried and tried and struggled not to feel anything, he had spent nights willing himself to simply stop loving her.

  But it had been no use.

  Nothing could turn his heart away from her.

  Not for all the magick in the world.

  Farden stuck his chest out and took a breath. ‘Yes. I still love her,’ he said defiantly. Confessing it was the hardest part. He could see his uncle’s skin turning darker, his cracked and bloody lips now drawn and tight, knuckled white. Farden had obviously struck a nerve.

  ‘You still love her, after what she did to you? What she’s part of?’

  The mage felt his temper rising again. ‘There’s a chance that she still… ’

  ‘Still what? Don’t be so stupid, Farden!’ yelled Tyrfing.

  The mage took a step forward. ‘Don’t make me hit you again, uncle.’

  But Tyrfing matched his step and thrust a finger in his face. ‘You tell me what you saw when you looked into her eyes
in that dream. Tell me if you saw any love there. Tell me if you heard any love in her voice in that dark room in the Arkathedral, when you sat beaten to a pulp and tied to a chair; you tell me if you saw any love in her smile then. Go on.’

  Farden ground his teeth together. ‘There’s still a chance,’ he said, and to his surprise, Tyrfing burst out laughing. But it was a laugh without any humour in it whatsoever.

  ‘You don’t get it, do you? She has daemon blood in her veins just like her father, and she has a Book like you or I!’ cried Tyrfing.

  Again, Farden shook his head. ‘For all I know, she was forced into this by Vice and her father! She hates Bane; why would she work with him?’

  ‘Irrelevant! She hates her father because he broke her mother’s neck in a drunken rage ten years ago, and since then has spent his time drinking and bedding every whore he can get his daemon hands on! Bane is merely a spectator in all of this. He is only involved because of the military might of his Empire. Vice and Cheska are the ones holding the rudder, not Bane.’ Farden glared at him but remained silent. Tyrfing put his fists to his temples in frustration. ‘How does the gravity of this situation escape you, Farden? How can you be so blind to her true nature?’

  ‘She’s the mother of my child.’

  ‘A child she and Vice tricked you into conceiving! You really think that Vice will let the child choose its own path? He will be whispering in its ear and manipulating that child’s future from the moment it takes its first breath. It’s what he’s wanted all this time! A weapon to help him crush this world and bring about Ragnarök, like it says in the Dust Song! The rest of it mentions a “One more terrible than Three, one to which the Stars succumb.” Believe me or not, that’s your choice, but that One is your child, Farden! It has to die!’