Dead Stars - Part Two (The Emaneska Series) Page 7

  The sails had pushed them far in the night, past the eastern shadow of Albion and the western reaches of Halȏrn and Emaneska, almost into the Rannoch Sound.

  Farden lay on the deck and watched the sails puff and shudder. When the ship leant the right way, he could even see a lone and stoic figure in the crow’s nest, eyes fixed on the east.

  When his lungs had quenched their exhausted fire, Farden sat himself up and got to his feet. The training squad were still going. The men were shirtless, the women almost, and the Written only just covering their backs with open tunics. They jumped and sprawled, jumped and sprawled, all to the barking of the sergeant. Farden moved to join the squad again, but Tyrfing put his hand on his nephew’s chest. ‘Not today. You’re done.’

  ‘I’m done when I can’t stand,’ Farden snapped. He looked down at his feet and then back to his uncle. ‘And it looks like I’m standing.’

  ‘What’s got into you today? You seem…’ Tyrfing began, but then trailed off. Now that he had asked the question, he understood. The bottle from the day before. The still-receding effects of the nevermar. The fight to come. He couldn’t blame him.

  Farden began to unbutton his shirt. ‘Why aren’t you joining in, hmm, old man?’

  Tyrfing gave him an acidic glance. ‘Those days are long behind me.’

  ‘Surely you can just shapeshift into a stronger, younger body.’

  Tyrfing shook his head, and as he did so, his beard turned a darker shade of grey, the wrinkles faded from his face, and his eyes began to sparkle. He looked as Farden remembered him. ‘Like this?’ he asked. ‘Why pretend? Shapeshifting is like painting an old wall. You can make it look better, but it’s still the same old wall underneath,’ he smiled, fading back to his old self. He coughed then, and turned away to cough at the sea. There was a persistence in his uncle’s coughing that concerned him. Farden frowned, and left him to it.

  Stubborn as always, the mage joined the end of the squad, to the sound of a few titters from nearby sailors. He glared at them and then began to jump and sprawl with the others. He barely made it to a half-dozen before his body told him no, and promptly gave him cramp in both legs to make its point. He held himself off the floor, and grit his teeth against the pain. Damn that nevermar.

  A hand patted him on the shoulder. Farden looked up to find Gossfring standing over him, open-shirted, scarred, and smiling. The young white-haired mage from the day before stood behind him, expressionless and vacant. ‘Perhaps it’s time for some sword practice, Farden. I remember you as quite the bladesman,’ he suggested. ‘Perhaps you can show Inwick here some moves she don’t know.’

  Farden wiped away a river of sweat from his face. The offer was an escape route, and as much as it stung Farden to take it, he did. He shakily pushed himself to standing and left the squad to its exercises, following the others to the forecastle. Loki was there with Whiskers, sitting on the steps and listening to Ilios snore. The god was twiddling his tiny flute around his finger.

  ‘Here to provide some percussion?’ chimed the god. He was quickly discovering his dislike for the sea, mainly due to where he had chosen to sit. Occasionally, an ambitious wave would spray over the bow, soaking both him and the rat. Loki would grunt and wipe the sea-water from his face, muttering darkly under his breath. Whiskers didn’t seem to mind.

  ‘Swords?’ Loki asked, at the sight of the training blades in Gossfring’s hands. A sweaty Farden nodded.

  ‘You seen Farden swing a sword before, lad?’ asked Gossfring in a loud voice. He swung his training blade experimentally, testing its weight. The dull blade hummed around him. It was quieter at the prow of the ship. Most of the sailors were aft, watching the training, high above in the sails, or asleep, rocking back and forth in their hammocks below.

  Loki didn’t try to hide his displeasure at being called lad. ‘I haven’t had the pleasure,’ he icily replied. ‘Though my good friend Heimdall did tell me a rather bloody tale of Farden and a young Albion noble, a young noble who rather foolishly decided it would be wise to challenge him to a duel. Am I telling it right? Over a seat, of all things, wasn’t it Farden? At a certain Duke’s table?’

  ‘That’s enough, Loki,’ said Farden, wincing.

  Gossfring winked at the younger mage, Inwick. ‘A noble, eh? So, what happened next? I smell a story.’

  Loki scratched his head with his flute. ‘You know, I don’t recall the rest. Farden?’

  Farden sighed. ‘I put a sword through his fancy dancing shoes.’

  ‘Which ones?’ asked Loki.

  ‘Both of them,’ Farden said.

  Gossfring chuckled at that, and tossed the mage a blade.

  ‘How callous.’ Inwick gave them all a disapproving look. Farden examined the woman as he twirled his blade. She stood straighter than straight, as if the meat of her had been wrapped around an iron rod. It was plain to see that she was of old-stock; of a traditional family, mage born and bred. Farden remembered the sort from the School. Everything about her was smart. Her hair was a long shock of white, tied back in a tight tail. Her hands were folded behind her back. Her boots were like black mirrors. The model of military neatness. There wasn’t a stray hair on her head nor a speck of sea-water on her clean tunic. Only a single bead of sweat marred her perfect appearance.

  Gossfring passed her a sword. ‘After you then ma’am,’ he said, settling back into a defensive stance.

  Farden had expected something more sedate from such a groomed and polished woman. He couldn’t have been more wrong. Inwick attacked like a forest fire, a whirling dervish of blunt steel and accuracy. It was shocking to watch. Gossfring barely managed to fend off of her blows. Each one came closer and closer to touching him. He managed a single swing before she swivelled around and caught him across the throat.

  ‘Told you,’ he grunted to Farden, as she released him. ‘Fastest we ever seen. Save for Undermage Modren and you, mind.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘Try your luck,’ Gossfring replied, chuckling. ‘I think you two will be a good match.’

  Farden stepped forward. The look on Inwick’s face was that of cold invitation, as though she had spent all her life training to fight a legendary beast, and finally, here it was, face to face with her at last. Farden wondered if she wanted to lop his head off as a trophy.

  Farden balanced the blade lightly on his shoulder and sighed. The sweat still dripped off him. His body was tired. The Written dancing back and forth in front of him was young, fresh, and ready. Skilled, too. But he had one small smidgeon of comfort. One small fact that made Farden as calm as a summer lake. There was one skill he hadn’t abandoned during all his years of exile, just one…

  …Killing things. With a sword, no less.

  ‘After you, then,’ Farden grunted, blade still perched on his shoulder.

  Inwick looked momentarily confused. ‘Are you going to adopt a stance, or not?’ she asked.

  Farden just shook his head. Gossfring took a wise step back and winked at Loki. The god looked on, intrigued.

  Common courtesy would have dictated that a gentleman, even during a polite duel or practice, be gentle and courteous with a lady opponent. But Farden was no gentleman, and Inwick was not the average lady. She lunged at him, vicious even with her blunt blade, and Farden sent her spinning with a giant counterstrike. It struck her off balance, and once he had tripped her with the blade, Farden was quickly at her throat.

  Inwick looked up, sprawled on the deck, utterly bemused. ‘Unfair,’ she hissed. ‘You didn’t…’

  Farden shook his head. ‘Fighting is unfair, lady mage. The age of respect and fair-fighting died a long time ago. I’m surprised they didn’t teach you that at the School.’

  Inwick didn’t reply. She simply got to her feet, looking for all the world as though she were about to stride away. But it was then that she swung her blade, aiming high, for Farden’s head. Luckily, he saw it coming; he knew he had bruised more than her elbows and knees.

  Th
is time, Farden barely kept her at bay. Inwick swung with everything she had. Left, right, up, down, the blows rained like hailstones in midwinter. Farden parried and blocked, his arms weak but his form strong. Only battle and murder can teach a man to move like that, and Farden had seen his fair share of both.

  A full minute of furious exchange passed before he saw his opening. He whacked out at her leg and was rewarded by a shout and then a blow to the shoulder. Farden growled and pushed back. Blows now began to connect with muscles and bones. Swords clanged together like anvils and hammers. A small audience had clumped together. The duel was suddenly becoming a battle of endurance and sheer will.

  ‘That’s enough, you two!’ Gossfring warned. He could see the shining lights under Inwick’s tunic as she ducked and danced. He was about to step in when she aimed a huge downward strike at Farden. He hopped back as the blade hit the deck and showered sparks over Loki and Timeon. Farden didn’t bat an eyelid. He put his foot on Inwick’s blade and kicked with the other, nearly snapping her wrist as he kicked her hands free of its handle. He slowly and gently lowered his sword, now notched and bitten, to rest on her neck. She flinched as if it were hot.

  ‘Best of three?’ he whispered, offering a hand. To his surprise, Inwick grasped it. She didn’t say a word, she simply shook her head and went to stand by Gossfring.

  ‘Maybe we’ll practise again later,’ he said, with a surreptitious nod of approval to Farden. As he led the slightly bemused Inwick away, she could be heard whispering.

  ‘I thought you said he was half the man he used to be?’ An elbow in the ribs silenced any more of that conversation.

  With a smattering of applause, Farden sauntered to a clear section of deck and began to practise his old sword forms, twirling his battered blade in all sorts of cartwheels and somersaults. He was a blur. A tired, and shaky blur, but a blur nonetheless. Something fresh ran through his veins.

  ‘There’s the old Farden,’ smiled Tyrfing, watching his nephew.

  ‘Yes,’ hummed Loki, distracted. ‘The old Farden indeed.’ He was busy patting the smouldering patches on his cloak where Inwick’s sparks had fallen. All around his feet and legs, little black cinders hissed and died.

  Afternoon fell, swiftly chased by evening, and soon they were both nipping at the heels of the sun as it drowned in the blackness of the horizon. Nuka had driven the Waveblade and her crew hard throughout the rest of the day, barking orders and laying about with stiff ropes. As night fell, the ship was clearing the Rannoch Sound, a section of sea below the curving claw of Albion’s northeastern limits. Nelska and Hjaussfen lay due north, and the Waveblade sped towards them both.

  Evening found Tyrfing in his modest cabin, surrounded by his armour and other shiny objects. A brace of axes lay up against his bed. A shield lay in complex pieces on the cabinet behind him, surrounded by little tools and implements. The Arkmage ignored them all. He was at his desk, poring over a book, and no ordinary book for that matter. The fringes of its thick pages were a bloodshot red, while the paper itself was a pale, wan green. The colour of seasickness, or sun-kissed lichen. Its cover was made of thick copper, bound in brown leather.

  Merchants had an unofficial rule: if something was heavy, then it was worth a pretty penny. This book fitted that rule. It weighed half as much as a desk, and it had cost more than a few pouches of gold. And yet, the strangest thing about it was that it was completely, utterly blank. There was not a scribble to be found in any of the pages. Not yet, anyway.

  Untouched and uninked, the green pages were spread open before him. Tyrfing’s quill hesitated above them, waiting for something. A single droplet of black ink quivered at the nib of the quill, hovering, ready to go to work. It didn’t have long to wait.

  As Tyrfing stared down at the empty page, a line of thin script began to scratch its way across it, as if scrawled by some ghost wielding an invisible quill. Tyrfing didn’t look the least bit shocked. He waited patiently for the phantom scribbler to finish his words before reading, lips mouthing them.

  Tyrfing, all is seemingly well here. Malvus Is still waiting to close the jaws of his plan. The city is tense. The bodies have been buried and the mess of battle cleared away. How fares the voyage?

  D

  Tyrfing touched his quill to the page, under where the last message had finished. As he wrote, the ink vanished the moment it touched the paper, as though the quill was bone dry. Tyrfing had to concentrate hard on his imaginary letters:

  As quickly as possible. She is impossibly fast. Nuka tells me we should arrive by morning. Farden continues to be positive. It’s almost as if a new farden fell with the daemons. how is Elessi?

  T

  And so the strange conversation went.

  Elessi is still mocking death. Modren has grown even more desperate. He strangled one of the healers today. the Jeasin woman managed to calm him down before the poor man had the life squeezed out of him. We need to heal Elessi, and quickly. If we do not, I fear we shall lose both of them.

  D

  And of the hawks we sent to towerdawn?

  T

  No word from the dragons, or of her either. She has gone north, I know it. To either the Scattered Kingdoms or the ice fields. Gods only know why. Maybe to summon an army where we cannot reach her.

  D

  That worries me deeply. We have to catch her, before it is too late.

  T

  That I leave to you, Farden, and the others. I have every faith In you.

  D

  In the privacy of his cabin, Tyrfing winced. His quill bent to the page once again.

  Sometimes I wonder where this endless faith comes from. Perhaps it’s a Nefalim thing. It’s misplaced, friend. I’m not what I used to be. You know that better than anybody. We need more time, more Men, ships, Dragons. Anything…

  T

  It is a faith well-founded, old friend, in experience and trust. You are more than capable. As are the mages. Until you get to Nelska, You and the crew of that ship are all that stands in her way. If you cannot succeed, then nobody can, and we may as well wave the white banner now, and pray that my father orion and his ilk will show us what little mercy they have…

  There was a pause in the phantom scribbling. Tyrfing went to reply, but realised Durnus hadn’t signed his initial. Perhaps he was fetching more ink. Tyrfing used the pause to wonder how in Emaneska a blind man could write so legibly. He must have been using one of the trusted servants to read for him. Brave, considering Malvus’ deep pockets. Not that he had a choice.

  Soon enough, Durnus’ scribbling began again, hesitant this time, unsure. Broaching a wounded subject.

  …Have you told him yet?

  D

  Once again, another wince. Tyrfing put down his quill and rifled through his grey hair with sweaty fingers. In was in that uncomfortable moment that there came a rap at the door. Tyrfing quickly scribbled a large and underlined NO. on the page and then quickly flipped to an empty page, knowing full well Durnus’ sibling book would flip too.

  ‘Come,’ Tyrfing called, and in walked Farden, fresh from walking around the deck, by the looks of his ruffled hair.

  ‘Are we going to the captain’s table, or not?’ he asked quietly. There seemed to be a slight hint of dread in his voice, almost as if the last two words were two shaky fingers clinging to an escape ladder.

  ‘Yes, we are. One minute,’ replied Tyrfing, waving for his nephew to enter. Farden sagged a little and shut the door behind him. ‘I’m talking to Durnus.’

  Farden looked around, befuddled. ‘How?’

  ‘Using an Inkweld.’

  ‘Inkwhat?’

  ‘Weld.’

  ‘Well what?’

  Tyrfing rubbed his furrowed brow. ‘Just come and see, you infuriating bastard.’

  Farden did as he was told and wandered over to the desk. His hands were deep in his pockets, sullen like the rest of him. ‘It’s blank,’ he said. ‘And green.’

  ‘Watch,’ Tyrfing muttered, da
bbing his quill in the nearby pot of ink. As he wrote Durnus’ name and the fact that a certain nephew was now in the cabin, Farden leant close to watch the ink sink into the paper. It left no trace save for the fine scraping of the quill’s nib. For a moment nothing happened, and then a line of script wrote itself across the page.

  Just as I was retiring too. We shall talk more soon. Farden, your Uncle will fill you in on ElessI. Goodnight, gentlemen.

  D

  Farden had to admit he was impressed. He even found himself waving goodbye to the open book, and the distant Durnus, as if it were a scrying mirror. ‘Very useful. Though I imagine a few hawk-pedlars will be irked by being put out of business.’

  ‘This and its partner are the only ones I’ve ever seen, and they cost a pretty pouch of gold.’

  ‘How much exactly?’

  ‘None of your business. Privileged Arkmage information.’

  ‘Worth it?’

  ‘I’m not outside in the cold waiting for a hawk, am I?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘To dinner then, and enough of this conversation.’

  Farden nodded, trying to hide his reticence to follow his uncle out of the cabin. Dinner meant people. People meant conversation. Conversation meant Farden having to respond. All Farden wanted to do at that precise moment was curl up into a tight ball and let sleep kidnap him. He was tired from a long day of practice. His body was on fire again but this time it had a glimmer of the good sort about it. Of muscles worked to aching. Of blood and body ridding itself of old poisons. The only blessing about the very mention of dinner was that it carried the prospect of food. Now that, Farden did want to partake of.

  Before they entered the Captain’s cabin, Tyrfing slung a look over his shoulder and tutted. ‘Put a smile on your face, Farden. Your gloomy expression won’t make this ship go any faster,’ he said, finishing his reprimand with a harsh cough.

  Farden tried anyway.

  Roiks was deep in the midst of a story when they sidled into the captain’s cabin. He had his hands raised, as if the punch line was a cudgel he was about to slam into the table.