Pale Kings (Emaneska Series) Read online

  There was a bubbling feeling of despair deep in the mage’s chest, a sharp dagger inside his stomach, and a lack of words on his wooden tongue. What had the Old Dragon just asked him to do? He could only stare at the snowy landscape.

  ‘Farden?’ asked the dragon, obviously concerned. Farfallen could feel the grief radiating from him.

  The mage nodded, once, and said nothing.

  ‘We will deal with this when the time comes. You have four days until we attack. I trust you will do the right thing,’ instructed Farfallen. He didn’t have to say any more. He sighed a deep sigh. ‘Why don’t you go blow off some steam? Get back in shape before you leave for Albion tomorrow?’

  Without a word or a nod, Farden turned and walked towards the door, boots crunching in the icy snow. Farfallen watched him until he had disappeared behind the closed door.

  ‘Has he gone?’ came a voice from nearby. The Old Dragon took a deep breath.

  ‘He has,’ he replied. Tyrfing and Durnus emerged from their hiding place, a little room towards the end of the balcony, neighbour to the room that Farden had stayed in during his first visit to Nelska.

  ‘How did he take it?’ asked Durnus, shivering beneath his coat. Concerned was etched on his wrinkled face.

  ‘Better than I’d hoped,’ answered the dragon. ‘You were right, Tyrfing. He is still very much in love with her, and the idea of this child. Nevertheless, I have given him four days in which to make up his mind. I wish we had known sooner. From what Eyrum said she could give birth within the week.’

  The mage pursed his lips. ‘I should have sent a message, instead of trusting to fate and to Farden. Mistakes seem to infest our family like a plague,’ he sighed. ‘Do you think he’ll do it?’ he asked.

  Farfallen stretched his wings, and the snow halted for a moment. ‘I hope that for our sakes he does. This is his mistake, as you say, and he must be the one to end it. If, however, the time comes and he falters, I leave it to you, Tyrfing, to take care of the princess and her child. If this brat is as dangerous as you say it will be, then we cannot allow them to live. I believe our decision to instruct Farden to right his own wrongs is one of fairness and mercy, but some part of me says I am wasting precious time, and that we should kill the child now before it is too late. Despite your previous arguments, Tyrfing, part of me wants to send you to the Arkathedral this very moment, to put an end to this. Four days may be too late.’

  Tyrfing visibly winced. The Arkathedral meant Vice. He flinched fearfully at the thought and attempted to ignore the tinge of guilt he felt. At first he had been hesitant to give Farden this task, but his fear of Vice had blinded him, and he had convinced the others Farden was their only choice.

  Durnus cocked his head to the side. ‘Are we completely sure this child is the same as the One in the Song? What if Ilios is wrong? Even he did not see it until recently.’

  Farfallen’s expression was stern and grave. ‘I will not take that chance. The child dies, the mother too. That is the only way we can be sure this prophecy is not fulfilled.’

  ‘At what cost?’ asked Durnus. ‘I think Farden might be right. We’re playing into Vice’s hands by attacking this early and this rashly, and even with help I doubt we will have the strength to defeat them. I hope your dragons know what they’re getting themselves into.’

  A brief growl rumbled in Farfallen’s throat and his golden eyes flashed with anger. ‘You would do well to keep your opinions to yourself. You have no right to criticise my efforts, old man, seeing as you are so reticent to fulfil your own tasks. Perhaps it is your stubbornness that is forcing our hands, not Vice. If you were a lesser man I would rip you limb from limb this very moment and throw your pieces in the sea,’ snarled the dragon. Durnus held the golden gaze firmly, and clenched his fists by his sides. Farfallen continued. ‘My dragons will do what I tell them to do. Unlike you.’

  Tyrfing nodded, swiftly interjecting and flicking his eyes towards Durnus. ‘You needn’t worry, Old Dragon, Durnus knows his part.’

  The old vampyre ran his tongue around one of his fangs and crossed his arms. ‘So you keep telling me,’ he muttered.

  ‘Well I hope you do. Time is running out for all of us, old friend.’ Tyrfing rubbed his hands, silently praying he was right about everything. Their plans seemed to dangle in the wind on a fraying thread. It depended on too few people with too many problems. Tyrfing hated uncertainty with a passion.

  ‘It is high time that both you and Farden stepped up and faced your responsibilities, no matter how afraid of them you are. I hope you both realise that,’ Farfallen warned in a low voice. He stepped up to the balcony railing and spread his wings wide. His scales glistened like the snow, and slithered as they slid across each other. ‘For all our sakes,’ he added. Without another word the dragon flapped his wings and dove into the snow-filled air, disappearing below the balcony edge.

  As soon as he was gone Durnus stormed off, heading for the door and the warm. Tyrfing walked behind him, trying his hardest to keep up. ‘I think I did the right thing by leaving the desert. How you two would have handled this by yourselves, I don’t know,’ he muttered.

  Farden found himself in a foul mood. Fouler than foul. In fact, foul didn’t even describe it. His mind hadn’t been as dark and full of anger as this since the fire at Manesmark. He had wandered along the beach, he had thrown stones at the angry sea, he had kicked at the rocks, he had stalked the clifftops, smouldered driftwood in his palms, and at one point he even had a rather bitter conversation with a curious gull. It was no use; Farfallen and Tyrfing were right. Farden just wished they weren’t. It made him hate them both for it.

  Try as he might, Farden couldn’t accept the fact that his child was part of Vice’s plan. It was as though admitting it would leave him cornered, out of answers. And that would mean the obvious. Merely thinking of killing his unborn, let alone its mother, his only ever love, threatened to bring tears to the corners of his salt-rimmed eyes, something that Farden could only count happening three times in his entire life, and something he hated with a passion. How had it come to this? Did he truly blame his uncle for it all? Farden wasn’t sure.

  It had all happened too quickly, he decided. That inner peace and direction he had found by escaping Vice and Krauslung all those months ago had slowly been chipped away, hacked at, and dissolved by every inch that Cheska’s belly grew, and now Farden felt lost again. He was the lone wolf once more, trying to fix the world on his own. Surrounded as he was by friends and allies, he still had nobody to lean on, and now those he had trusted in had demanded he do the impossible. How could they ask him to kill the only person that had ever loved him, and murder his own child? Farden knew it had been Tyrfing’s suggestion; he could at least blame him for that. He would have put coin on Tyrfing orchestrating Farfallen’s and Durnus’s decision. The coward, thought Farden, clenching his fist. However, deep down, Farden couldn’t condemn him for it. Even if Tyrfing were to blame for it all, the responsibility still fell on Farden. Who else was there? His fear-shackled uncle? A dragon whose mind was slowly slipping? His old and withered friend Durnus? In a dark and perverted way, Farden was the obvious choice.

  The mage knuckled his eyes and told himself over and over again that there had to be another solution. Half-thought prayers tumbled from his mouth as he sat on a boulder with his head propped up by his fists, ignoring the snow and staring out to sea, mentally scraping together other ways of solving this incredibly painful problem, and once again, like damp rising in the bowels of a creaky ship, that slim and persistent possibility that Cheska could still love him slowly forced its way back into his thoughts.

  A tear managed to squeeze its way out his right eye, but the mage foiled its escape with a hasty swipe of his finger. He forced himself to pull together, and he did. He got up from his cold, snow-covered boulder and went back indoors where at least it was warm. Farfallen was right on one account, at least; he needed to blow off some steam.

  Farden made his way in
side, remarking the sudden hustle and bustle that had taken hold of the mountain fortress. It was as though someone had shaken a hornet nest. People hurried to and fro and in all directions, carrying all manner of equipment and supplies. Wagons of firewood and scrap metal were being dragged along the corridors by teams of men, and more than once Farden had to dodge out of the way to avoid being trampled.

  As he ascended to the next level, he was deafened by the sound of hammering and banging. The forges were hard at work, and hurriedly-made weapons and armour were beginning to fill the clamourous corridors. Farden watched as one man tried desperately to save a leaning tower of helmets from falling while his friends, oblivious to his struggling, frantically filled straw-lined boxes with arrows, knives, and other sharp implements. The mage walked on briskly, eager to get clear of the chaos. He found the next available stairwell and escaped the bedlam.

  After an hour or so, he found what he guessed to be an unused room, hidden away down a relatively quiet corridor in the depths of the mountain. It was a rectangular room with a high ceiling, empty but for flaming torches and a row of straw targets at the far end of the room. Their arms and legs and heads bristled with arrows like a hedgehog did with spines, and in their slumped postures they looked rather forlorn. Farden decided to put them out their misery. Closing the door behind him he removed his cumbersome fur jacket and threw it to the side. The mage cracked his knuckles and flexed his arms. He began to rub his vambraces together in little circles. The metal began to whisper and sing. Farden closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, and gradually the air around him began to grow hot and crackle with energy. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as magick flowed up his spine and into his brain like a boiling, bubbling liquid. He felt it swirl around his veins, enjoying the heat of it as it trickled into his arms and made his fingers tingle. The tattooed words on his back, his Book, began to flash and glow intermittently. The mage was ready.

  Farden slid his hands over each other and there came a sound like a cracking whip. The air bent and buckled, and as he stretched his curled fingers towards the straw targets blue lightning surged from his hands. Within seconds the straw dummies, and the wall behind them for that matter, were scorched and smoking. Farden raised his hands and watched the fingers of lightning flit from his hands to the walls, the door, and the roof, jumping here and there and wherever he commanded them.

  The mage clenched his fist and the room suddenly went quiet. The air shivered with heat. One by one, Farden began to go through every spell he knew as he moved around the room in a dance of magick and death, one he had been trained in long ago, one that had been designed to test the measure of a mage’s strength. It took barely a minute, and after it was done, Farden did it again and again, over and over until his muscles ached and the magick throbbed painfully in his temples, as though he were punishing himself. Fire, lightning, wind, and light poured from his hands. One moment he was surrounded in a glittering halo of icicles, the next his hands were consumed with pulsating green and yellow light. Dust filled the room as the granite bricks tried to bear the brunt of the magick onslaught. The flagstones under his feet wobbled and undulated under the powerful waves of energy that burst from his body.

  At long last Farden finally stopped. He was breathing in quick, laboured gasps. His heart beat a frantic pace. The mage lowered himself to his knees and watched the drops of sweat splash on the dusty stone floor. He felt good, and for a brief moment, all dark thoughts had been forgotten.

  ‘Not bad,’ said a voice, and Farden turned to see his uncle standing by the door with his arms crossed. A flicker of hatred ran through him for a split-second, but then it was gone. For some reason, Tyrfing had taken his faun’s shape. With a flick of his hairy wrists, he took off his old coat and threw it on top of Farden’s. He strode forward, hooves clicking on the stone. Farden stood, still breathing hard, and wiped the sweat from his brow and the hair from his eyes.

  ‘Got to keep practising,’ he mumbled sullenly.

  ‘That you do,’ said Tyrfing with a knowing smile, and then, without any hint of warning, he swung his fist into Farden’s stomach with a burst of white light. Farden’s reflexes thankfully saved him, and he caught the blow at the very last moment, blocking it with two hands. But before he had a chance to complain or blink the spots from his eyes, Tyrfing swung again, his fist this time crackling with sparks. This time the mage was ready. In a blur he slid backwards and knocked his uncle’s hand away with one of his quick shield spells.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Farden managed to gasp between breaths.

  ‘Speed magick. Interesting. You’re good, but you can do better,’ answered Tyrfing. He held his wrists together and the scarred symbols hiding under his hairy wrists burnt a bright white.

  ‘That sounded like an invitation to a challenge,’ breathed Farden.

  ‘It is,’ replied the faun, sucking his teeth. He clicked his fingers and the light of his tattoos became blinding. Farden shielded his eyes with one hand and with the other launched a fireball in his uncle’s direction. Tyrfing caught it with ease and extinguished it by clapping his palms together. Farden made a face.

  ‘What else do you have?’ asked his uncle. Farden narrowed his eyes. He spread his hands in front of him and a ring of sharp icicles spun over each palm. With a flick of his wrists, they darted through the air like arrows, their keen edges whining as they flew.

  It was still no use; Tyrfing marched forward unfazed and let the icicles, which would have speared a lesser man, shatter against an invisible wall inches from his face. Green light hovered around his fingers. With speed that not even Farden’s eyes could follow, he ran at his nephew and knocked the legs from under him with a hammer-fisted blow. The mage crumpled to the ground. He rolled to the side but Tyrfing was suddenly behind him. His uncle clapped his hands and thunder rolled. His foot glowing green, he stamped downwards and the shockwave sent Farden flying.

  Farden landed on all fours like a cat. He looked up to find Tyrfing once again only mere feet from him, now with ribbons of water coursing over his hairy arms like translucent worms. Farden threw a punch at him and missed, flung a fireball that was enveloped in a ball of hissing water, and finally when he tried to dart behind his uncle with another speed spell, he found Tyrfing had seized his shirt in an immovable stone-like grip. The water poured from his uncle’s wrists and began to freeze as it wrapped around Farden’s feet and ankles, locking the mage in place. Farden struggled and lashed out, but yet again it was no use. It was like trying to stab a shadow.

  ‘Still, not bad, but not good enough if you want to fight Vice,’ murmured Tyrfing.

  ‘I’m not finished,’ muttered Farden angrily, as he fought to free one of his feet. His uncle released his shirt, and before he had time to react, Farden grabbed his wrist and sent sparks coursing through his veins. Tyrfing winced and recoiled, just in time to see Farden lift one of the flagstones from the floor with outstretched hands, lifting with his mind and magick instead of his fingers and muscles. The slab of rock collided with Tyrfing’s chin and he fell backwards. He sprawled, dazed, on the floor.

  Farden strolled over to help his uncle up. ‘Told you I wasn’t finished,’ he said. He reluctantly held out a hand. ‘Come on, old man.’

  ‘Lucky shot and a cheap trick.’ Tyrfing grabbed his proffered hand and got to his hooves. The symbols on their wrists glowed brightly when they touched fingers.

  ‘It has been a while since that has happened,’ confessed Tyrfing, with a strange smile.

  ‘Why the hooves?’ asked Farden, pointing to his uncle’s faun shape. Tyrfing shivered, and the hair and the horns slid back under his tanned skin, and his legs returned to their normal shape with a horrid clicking sound. Tyrfing rubbed his knees and winced, one eye twitching yet again.

  ‘Not a pleasant feeling, that one,’ he muttered, and then shrugged. ‘I was going through my drawings with the Sirens. I felt, well, nostalgic.’

  ‘Missing your cave already?’ as
ked his nephew.

  Tyrfing shook his head, deflecting the question. He was, of course, but he wouldn’t have admitted it. He tapped his forehead. ‘Keeping the old mind busy. Otherwise it rots.’

  ‘Mm, and I’ve got a feeling you’ve a lot more hiding up your old sleeve,’ said Farden, still trying to get his breath back. ‘I saw what you did in the desert. That sandstorm wasn’t natural, and like I said before, I know the stories about your Book and its five runes.’

  His uncle shrugged and scratched his shoulder. ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you hear. Anyway, sand is easy to manipulate with vortex spells, as I’m sure you know. I saw your little glass hut. And I think I’m not the only one hiding things up my sleeve, nephew. We share a lot more than blood, you know,’ said Tyrfing, clapping Farden on the back. His eyes had a sparkle in them. ‘I can teach you how to use it.’

  Farden raised an eyebrow. ‘Who says I need to be taught?’ he asked, sourly.

  His uncle wagged a finger. ‘Control, for one thing. You lack it. And subtlety. It’s not all about fire, force, spark, and quake, Farden. To be a great mage you have to learn tactics, sleight of hand, patience, and the lesser schools like illusion, shadow, soultearing, voiding, spellcatching, zeal, foolery, brawn, thunder, resonation, divination, transmutation, cessation…’ his uncle trailed off.

  Farden snorted. ‘Half of those were banned by the Manesmark School and branded as dark magick by the council.’

  Tyrfing chuckled. ‘And why do you think that was?’

  How could he be in such a good mood? Farden wondered, inwardly fuming. Farden shrugged. His uncle carried on.

  ‘Because they were “dark magick?” Or because they didn’t want you learning too much and becoming a menace? The Scribe wrote specific runes into our Books, yes, and perhaps I have more than you, but that doesn’t stop us learning to expanding our powers. The runes just meant that those specific schools, fire, wind, ice, quake, whatever, came easier to a certain Written.’