Dead Stars - Part Two (The Emaneska Series) (47 page)

Loki raised a finger to the sky and let the snow caress it. He could feel a little shiver run through him. Not the cold, no, something else in the air besides that. Something surging and undulating. Magick.

The god turned east and squinted into the near-pitch darkness until his eyes closed. Slowly, gently, he bent down to the snow and held the mole tight under his arm. The thing wriggled, but only gently, still half-asleep.

From one of his deeper pockets, Loki drew a thin blade, no more than a spike, and held it to the mole’s neck. The creature barely made a sound as Loki pressed upwards into its windpipe and opened its neck to the cold. ‘I know you will feel this,’ whispered the god to the silence. ‘I know you can hear me. Tomorrow, we will meet. They will all be here, just for you.’

Loki bled the poor mole until every drop of its life lay in the snow. With a sniff of disdain, he wiped his hands on its milky fur, and then walked away, feeling the magick change slightly as the darkness sagged, and faded.

Faraway on the ice, a daemon got to his feet, and withdrew his claw from its hole in the ice. Hokus lifted it to his chin and listened to the melt-water hiss as he touched it to his neck.

‘How interesting,’ he said. ‘Valefor?’

‘Yes, brother?’ he replied, unfolding from the night itself. Behind his smoky wake, two figures lay on a nest of dragon saddles and bear fur. One lay asleep. The other lay awake and counting the stars, occasionally plucking at the sky as if fingering unseen harp strings. In her other hand lay a half-sharpened blade, whetstone idly held at the ready.

The two daemons touched heads. ‘It is time. You know what to do,’ said Hokus. ‘Call them.’

Valefor nodded, for once not a trace of mirth on his slippery lips. He wiggled his jaw from side to side, slowly unhinging it piece by piece until it hung at a sick angle. He then took a breath so big it sounded like his ribs would crack. He seemed to swell and grow until his body was ballooned out in every direction, ready to rupture. He grit his fangs together, and then let a roar, a great, screaming roar, burst forth.

Half the dragons took to the sky at the sound of it. The rest wriggled their spines and snarled as the roar deafened them. Lilith sat bolt upright and clapped her hands to her ears. It sounded like rocks being ripped apart. Only Samara stood still, blade in hand, smiling at the roaring daemon.

All across the ice fields and beyond, in the crags of the black Tausenbar Mountains and those beyond, in the scattered copses and frozen deep of the sea beneath, all manner of creatures stirred. Some crawled, dripping from their shells. Some began to pull themselves from their own graves. Some peeled themselves from the rocks, tasting the grit on their tongues and granite lips. Others felt their hackles rise, and felt their fur tingle. The rest weren’t animal enough to mention.

All who heard it rose, and began to head north. The sides could be decided on the way.

“The wild vampyre is a skittish beast, one that doth require the company of a pack, or a coven, for any hint of boldness! Watch ye for pale skin and raking nails, and the pointed ears which betray its nature. Travel only by sunlight in coven territory! Beware the fangs, tipped with a horrid poison. To be bitten is to be cursed, and should you survive the feeding, you shalt find yourself a beast, no longer a man!”

From “Death and all her Beasts” by Master Wird, an old-fashioned and rather outlandish account of Emaneska’s creatures, first published in 504. Master Wird was a secretive fellow, a farmer by trade. He fell into writing by accident after he sent a letter to the magick council detailing the apparent existence of the so-called ‘Weregoat’ of the Össfen Mountains.

F
arden awoke with a start.

Something was smothering him, trying to drown him in something wet and icy cold. Farden reached out and felt only asphyxiating cloth, heavy and dark. He could breathe, so he wasn’t drowning, no, not yet, but he still couldn’t get up. The darkness was bearing down on him, pressing down. He groped for air and found something hard and rough instead.

That was until somebody ripped it away.

Farden blinked in the sudden sunlight, finding the dark shape of Roiks staring down at him. ‘Gods, you’re an ugly one in the mornings,’ he said. ‘That’s why we have private cabins, mage. Now stop floundering in your own tent and rise an’ shine.’

Farden lay on his back like an overturned tortoise, gawping at the mid-morning sunlight. Reality blinded him along with the sunlight. He lifted his head and found a dark green, waxy tarpaulin half-covering him, heavy with the snow that had fallen in the night. Heavy and dark. Farden ran a hand through his wet hair and sighed. Just a tent, fallen in under its own weight.

Breakfast was some salted meat from the
Waveblade’s
larders and a barrel of fish the snowmads had caught. They liked their fish half-smoked and stored in seal blubber. The smell of it bubbling and spitting in the iron pans of the column was enough to bring a man back from the dead. It dragged Farden to his feet in seconds.

He was surprised to hear the sound of whetstones sliding across steel accompanying the rattle of pans and the murmur of morning conversation. Roiks explained for him. ‘Seems that everyone had a bad dream or two last night. A strange wind howled in the night. Or, might’ve been the cold. Might be somethin’ else. Either way it’s got ‘em all on an edge.’

Farden sat down beside the campfire and grabbed a slice of bread and some of the oily, smoky fish. It was music to his stomach. ‘It’s a good thing. We’re in dangerous waters now, after all,’ he said.

Roiks grinned. There was a fish bone stuck in his teeth. ‘Hark at ye, mage, sounding like a right sailor. You’ll be cursing on Njord’s balls before the sun goes down.’

Farden ate in silence while Roiks licked his plate clean. It wasn’t long before the bosun was stoking the little fire up, trying to coax some warmth out of it. It was tough going, in the frigid northern air. ‘So,’ he said, conversationally. ‘What’s all this I hear about you going to rescue a soul or two, then?’

Farden paused, his fish half in, half out of his mouth. Roiks tapped his nose. ‘Sailors talk, mage. More than women, they say. Gods know what women sailors are like. Have to ask Lerel, when she’s up an’ awake.’

‘So everybody knows?’

‘Not everybody, mage. Just a handful. Hundred or so,’ he smirked.

‘For f…’

‘Are you really goin’ to do it?’

‘Yes,’ said Farden, without hesitation.

‘Then you’re a braver man than I, Farden,’ Roiks said. ‘I leave the other side to the other side. Don’t do to go messin’ with souls and gods and all that.’

Farden couldn’t help but notice how ironic Roiks’ words were, with Heimdall sitting no more than a stone’s throw away. He was probably listening. ‘I never used to be,’ he said.

‘What changed?’

Farden gazed into the spitting pan. ‘The old me was lost for a long, long time. Very lost, in the darkest places he could find. Then the old me died. I came back in his stead. Then I made a promise. Now I’m here.’

‘Sounds simple enough,’ Roiks said, unfazed by the vagueness of it all. ‘An’ I hear other rumours too.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘About the girl you’re huntin’. It’s your daughter ain’t it? That’s what the talk is. But that can’t be true, I told myself, but then I remembered you at the table, that night before Hjaussfen, when…’

Farden cut him off. ‘It’s true, Roiks.’

The bosun sighed, eyes wide. ‘Well, Njord’s ballsack, what a pickle you’re in, mage.’

Farden had never heard it put quite like that, but he had to agree. ‘I am that.’

Roiks shook his head. ‘I didn’t think it were actually possible. Not after what you already been through. From the stories I ‘ear about you, you’ve had quite a run o’ bad luck, Farden. Not fair, if you ask me. If I were you I’d be still sat in Krauslung harbour, with me arms crossed, yelling I’m not going. Takes a man to make a promise. Takes even more of a man to hunt down his own daughter for the good o’ the world.’

Farden nodded. The simple honesty of the bosun’s words was almost as refreshing as the air. He didn’t know what to say apart from, ‘It’s not over yet.’

Roiks nodded, and was silent for a time. He kept tapping the handle of the pan, making a strange sort of music between that and the silence. Then he piped up, and said something that Farden hadn’t heard in a long time. ‘Thank you, Farden,’ he said solemnly.

Farden was more than a little overwhelmed. He struggled to swallow his mouthful of smoked fish, and then mumbled a quick, ‘You’re welcome,’ before the moment got too long.

‘Well,’ said Roiks, slapping his knees. ‘We’re leavin’ with those snowmad types soon, accordin’ to that big Siren of yours. Better get packing I s’pose.’

‘Mmm,’ said Farden. He was still a little bit bewildered. He just kept eating, and tried to ignore the feeling of Heimdall’s eyes upon him.

‘Don’t think I’ve ever travelled by mole before,’ said Lerel.

‘I think you would know if you had,’ Loki snidely remarked.

Roiks was sitting in the front of another nearby sled. ‘Ain’t there one missin’ on yours?’ he said, counting the moles of his sled, then theirs. ‘Yep, one short.’

Lerel waved a hand at him. She nodded to one of the snowmads, who was kicking at the ice, head bowed low. ‘Shh. The man’s distraught. One escaped in the night.’

Farden strode up, and quickly hoisted himself aboard the sled. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Time waits for no mage.’ The inside of the sled was strewn with warm seal-fur blankets and a myriad of pots and pans and other cookware. It was surprisingly warm, under its fur canopy.

‘Except a dead mage,’ said Loki.

Farden glowered. ‘And you’re sure there isn’t another sled free, Loki?’

Loki quickly climbed the steps before anybody could object. ‘What an abject shame for me that there isn’t.’

‘The shame is all yours,’ Farden hissed. Lerel made a confused face, and decided to ride up front.

With the crack of whips and the frantic rattling noise of mole-claws on the ice, the sleds jerked forward at a surprising rate, far faster than any trudging could accomplish. Unfortunately, they were limited in their speed; there was not enough room in the sleds for all of the column, so the majority still had to walk. The sled drivers kept it slow to allow them to keep up.

Their sled was second from the front. Farden sat next to Lerel for most of the morning, talking through the years of her life that he had missed, and idly dodging the subject of his own years. Every now and again, Loki would throw in a sly or sarcastic comment, and was rewarded with icy stares from Farden. Lerel was polite. She knew what he was, and didn’t dare share the same disdain for him. She kept it deep inside instead.

It was about midday when Farden finally snapped.

The mage whirled around, infuriated by yet another snide comment. ‘Why are you even here, Loki? What purpose exactly are you serving?’

Loki smirked and looked away, meeting the disapproving eyes of Heimdall in the sled behind. ‘Our reasons are not the business of mortals,’ he sighed, aloofly.

Farden began to clamber into the back of the sled, but Lerel held him back. ‘How about I make it my business?’ he threatened.

‘Calm yourself, Farden. You should be conserving your strength.’

Farden spat at him, and Loki wiped the front of his coat.

Lerel was wide-eyed. The man was a god, after all, no matter how annoying. ‘There’s no love lost between you two, is there?’ she whispered, as quietly as she could. The rattling of the sled and scuttling of the moles drowned out most of her voice. ‘Come sit down.’

‘None,’ muttered Farden. ‘As far as I am concerned, he was brought to this earth simply to piss me off.’

‘Maybe you’ve just answered your own question,’ she suggested.

Farden shook his head. ‘No. There’s more to him than just being infuriating.’

‘Maybe he’s goading you for a reason. Trying to bring the magick out of you.

Farden shook his head.

‘Then maybe he’s heard the stories of the old Farden.’

‘He met him already. And I think the new Farden is still very likely to slit his throat. If he asked.’