Dead Stars - Part Two (The Emaneska Series) (36 page)

The cook rubbed his hands together and went to a nearby oven. With a flourish of a cloth, he whisked two buns from its hot shelves. He had sliced them in two before Lerel or Farden could blink. Next he reached into a pan and brought out several slices of a pinkish meat, shimmering with grease. He slapped them into the buns, flicked two dollops of a greyish sauce that Farden’s nose could only guess was mustard on top, and then squeezed them tight. ‘Here,’ he said, handing them one each.

Farden sniffed his breakfast. He shrugged off his hood to shed a bit more light on it. Whatever it was, it smelled glorious. Salty, meaty, and greasy, all at the same time. ‘What is it?’

‘A certain slice o’ pig. Bacon, it’s called. Came from the ship’s pig yesterday.’

Farden mumbled his thanks around an ambitious mouthful. It tasted as glorious as it smelled, perhaps even better.

‘You’re welcome,’ said the cook, tipping his cap and going back to his dough.

Farden and Lerel, enraptured by their sandwiches, wandered back out into the corridor. Tyrfing seemed to have recovered from his coughing, though his skin was still pale and clammy, still as gaunt.

‘No healing spell to sort it out?’

‘I usually would,’ Tyrfing lied, ‘but there’s a lot of magick on this ship at the moment. Mages are training.’ He gestured down the corridor and they began to walk. Lerel in front, face-deep in sandwich, the two mages at the back.

‘So I heard,’ Farden mumbled.

Tyrfing watched his nephew eat. There was something different about him, something new. ‘You look a little better today,’ he said.

‘I don’t really feel it,’ Farden grunted.

Tyrfing squinted as he led them down a level and towards the bow. ‘No, there’s something quite relaxed about you. Last night’s revelations, I assume?’

Farden tipped his head from side to side in a way that said yes and no. ‘And this morning’s,’ he admitted. ‘Ilios just unintentionally took a big weight off my mind, I think.’

‘He does that.’

Farden finished his sandwich and began to lick his fingers clean of grease. Whatever bacon and lunchfast were, he silently swore to make a habit of them both. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, uncle, but I can’t say the same of you. You look like shit.’

‘Agreed,’ Lerel chimed in.

Tyrfing nodded. ‘I feel it. I spent most of the night trying to contact Durnus via the Inkweld, to no avail. He was silent, and I can’t help but wonder if something has happened.’

‘He’s a pale king, for gods’ sake, uncle. He’ll be fine. What exactly are you worried about? Samara is heading north. Those two daemons wouldn’t attack by themselves. Who else is there?’

‘There are other snakes in the grass besides your daughter and her daemons.’

‘What, that Malvus chap? The one Modren almost ripped in two? Surely he’s all talk.’

‘That’s all he needs. He uses his tongue like an assassin uses a dagger. You didn’t see a lot of Krauslung, Farden; that city is rotten to the core and ready to buckle. All it needs is a careful push. The people have come to believe they don’t need things like councils and Arkmages any more. They’re moving onto the next best thing, but they don’t know what it is. Malvus is in a unique position to give them it. He and the rest of the Marble Copse.’

‘Who?’

‘Don’t you remember? Magick purists, or so it’s said. There’s been no proof but plenty of talk recently. Apparently they started decades ago under Arkmages Mettelsson and Barnabus. Durnus and I suspect that Malvus has taken the Copse from an inner circle of grumblers within the council to a fully fledged faction that wants to see its beliefs manifested in a Krauslung of their own. For all their talk and pomp, their greed makes them dangerous. And so do their ideas. They’d see the Arkmagehood fall if they could, magick and knowledge restricted to the point of secrecy, a ban on the magick markets, taxes lining their pockets, and worse. They’re purists and extremists. They want to return the Arka to some former glory it never had. Idiots.’

Farden wore a vacant look. It was odd hearing his uncle speak about such things, and in such a way. Tyrfing grunted. ‘Never mind.’

Farden smiled. ‘Tyrfing the politician. The Arkmage. Who’d have thought it? I don’t know what to try to believe first; that the hermitic, outcast, Written Tyrfing has taken to the throne of the Arka, or that he shares it with an ex-vampire, daemon halfbreed.’

Tyrfing paused to cough. Farden resisted the urge to clap him on the back. ‘We live in strange times.’

Farden whistled. ‘And getting stranger by the day.’

The Written had made a home for themselves just forward of amidships, down in the hold where there was room and privacy from the narrowed eyes of superstitious sailors whispering nervous nothings to Njord. They mingled with the cargo, training in twos and threes. Some fought. Some fenced. Some had set up little targets of wood and straw at the far end of the hold and were taking it in turns to hurl ice, rock, or splinters at them.

The three there for a time, wandering between the little patches of furious activity. Tyrfing ran the mages through some drills. Farden and Lerel sat on the sidelines amongst the crates of fruit and fresh water, wearing two very different facial expressions indeed. Lerel’s was one of quiet awe, while Farden’s was one of blankness, of distance. One might have glimpsed a hint of jealousy there maybe, as his eyes flashed with the reflection of fire and lightning. Perhaps it was longing.
All in good time
, he told himself. It almost sounded like a wish.

Several hours passed in the hold of the
‘Blade
, and with every hour that passed, the ship began to rock and buck that little bit more. The ship shuddered every time it ploughed into a wave in ways that would make even the hardiest sailor cringe.

A bell soon tolled throughout the ship, and the urgent order for all hands to batten down the hatches was called. Lerel began to shout orders. The Written and the mages quickly rushed for the stairs. Farden, who had finally given into temptation and joined in with the sword practice, ran alongside them, hurtling through narrow corridors and ducking through low-ceilinged quarters. With every step they took, the roar of a storm grew louder.

Outside, the world had turned a furious black. The sky was a roiling stew of rain and wind, and it battered them mercilessly from the very moment they battled their way on deck. Farden was wet through before he had a chance to think. He hoisted his hood up but the wind forced it down. Hair lashed his face like tiny whips. He grit his teeth and shielded his eyes as he sought the safety of the mainmast. Behind him, Nuka was battling the wheel, Lerel only just reaching his side. Heimdall still stood cross-armed and stoic beside them, looking for rocks or gaps in the storm with his godly eyes. Sailors swarmed the deck like bedraggled rats. The ship mages were already at the railings, trying their hardest to bring the wind into check. They weren’t having much luck.

The Written and the mages sprang to help wherever they could. They hauled ropes and slammed hatches shut. Some even scrambled up into the rigging to help drag down the extra sail before it ripped. Farden did his best to help, but whatever task he spied was already in hand by the time he had sprinted to it. He went up to the aftcastle and the wheel, to see if he could help there, but again he was lost in the commotion. As he stood there dumbly beside the ship’s wheel, he couldn’t help but gawp at the hills of grey water that were rolling past the ship on every side. They towered high above them, looking to crash down upon them at any moment. Farden suddenly felt very small indeed. Small, and endangered.

A flash of lightning split the black sky in two, painting everything a ghostly blue-white for the briefest of moments. It happened so leisurely and silently that half the ship paused amidst the busy chaos, stunned, wondering if they were imagining it. Then there came the ear-splitting crash of its sibling thunder, and a blood-freezing howl as the tip of the mizzenmast was sliced in two. Lightning flashed and sparks flew as the wooden spar, its nest, and its unlucky occupant plummeted into the freezing water. Smoking rigging fell and snarled the deck. Sailors cried out as a shower of wind-blown splinters and sparks fell with it. The
Waveblade
lurched as the tangled, fallen mess began to drag her sideways onto the waves.

‘Farden!’ yelled Nuka. ‘Make yourself useful and hold this wheel. Lerel is needed below!’

Farden dashed to the captain’s aid as Lerel sprinted to the deck. Even for a man as strong and as large as he, Nuka was struggling. The ship was turning its flank to face the oncoming waves, whether he liked it or not, and it was all he could do to make it happen as slowly as possible. He was already bent to one knee when Farden seized the wheel. His knuckles turned white as the lightning as he bent his back to it and pushed. Nuka bellowed a strangled order through teeth grit like stones in a wall.

‘Axes, Lerel! AXES!’

‘We’re turning into the waves,’ Heimdall warned, his voice somehow calm and low over the roar of the wind and the waves and the rain and the bellowing of the crew. As if to prove his point, the
‘Blade
lurched again, and a wave washed over her port railing, knocking a dozen men flat and Nuka to his stomach. Farden fumbled for the wheel as it began to slip and spin. His hands were thrown aside, and he yelped as the wooden handles flew past, rapping his knuckles.
Where were his gauntlets when he needed them?!

‘Grab her, Farden!’ Nuka yelled as the receding wave began to drag him away. He scrambled to get upright, but the water and the wind were too much.

Farden watched, horrified, as the wheel began to spin. The handles were a blur. The ship was pitching violently to port as the rudder was left to her merry, sadistic devices. It didn’t matter that the fallen mizzen had been hacked away and freed; the ship was now battling its own momentum. The
Waveblade
had just bared her vulnerable side to the onslaught of the waves. In any moment, she could roll, and sink.

It was a nightmare moment.

‘Farden, there’s a wave coming,’ Heimdall said, as clearly as if it were a summer’s breezy day and he were inches from his ear. In truth, he was a dozen feet away, his lips barely moving.

Farden looked up and saw it. It was a pure monster. A sheer wall of rippling grey water. It bore down on the ship like an avalanche waiting to pounce.

‘Njord help us!’ yelled the crew as one.

Not again,
was all Farden could think.

‘NOW Farden!’ screamed Nuka.

The shout ran through his body like a spark, jolting him forward. Without even thinking, he threw his hands into the spinning blur of handles. He half-expecting his arms to shatter, but instead, the wheel stopped dead, his hands firmly grasping two of the handles in a terrifyingly fierce grip.

‘Turn her!’ came the shout.

And turn her he did.

Farden stamped his feet and pushed with all his might. Strength forgotten and lost surged into his feet and arms as he pushed the wheel up and over. His hands clamped onto the next handle, and the next, and the next, until the wheel was turning. The pressure was nothing short of almighty. His bones were surely close to splintering. He could feel the huge ship bucking and straining against his arms and legs, pushing against his every muscle, but he knew if he stopped to think, he would lose hold of it. Suddenly, Nuka was at his side, and the wheel began to gather speed.

‘Wind mages!’ Nuka ordered, and down below they sprang to it, filling whatever sails were left with as much wind as they could steal from the storm. Just as the wave came crashing down, the
Waveblade
turned her bow into it, and she rose up with its frothing roar, riding it high into the sky, ready to plummet down once more. Safe, for now.

Farden stumbled back from the wheel, hands and legs half-dead. Nuka didn’t have time to thank him. He might have grunted, he wasn’t sure. All Farden knew was that he was done. He staggered back and stood dazedly, rain-whipped and wind-harried, in the centre of the aftcastle, letting the chaos swirl around him once more. He caught the eyes of the sailors and mages as they hurried by. They nodded briefly as they dashed past him.

He caught the eyes of Heimdall too. The god was looking back over his shoulder. Farden saw his lips move. His voice echoed in his head.

‘Perhaps you are fit to wear the armour of the Knights, after all,’ Heimdall said. It sounded as though it stung him to admit it.

It was all Farden could do to keep his smile from breaking into a grin. He must have looked a fool, he thought, swaying from side to side with the ship and the wind, enjoying the feeling of the rain lashing his lips and teeth.

“Make merry whilst the beer flows.”

Old Arka saying

M
alvus was wearing the marble thin. His new, expensive boots had long ago given up squeaking on the polished stone; those bits that had protested had been trodden into submission and silence. Still Malvus paced. He paced like only a nervous, impatient man could.

His visitors were late.