The Written (14 page)

‘I said I don’t smoke, and I
don’t chew it either.’ Farden narrowed his eyes threateningly. His
patience was wearing thin.

‘Wasn’t talkin’ ‘bout tabaccy
now was I...?’ a sparkle in his little eyes suddenly caught the
mage’s attention, but he shook his head.

‘This conversation is over.’
Farden stared at the fire.

‘I don’t think it is mage,’
chuckled the beggar. He cocked his head to the side like a pigeon
assessing bread. ‘Yew never smoked it before, ‘ave yer?’ He leaned
forward slightly, confidentially. He looked around at the
unfamiliar faces at the bar and sniffed. ‘Yer wastin’ yer time,
only chewin’ it. Nevermar’s meant to be smoked, mage,’ said the
beggar, and tapped the bowl of his pipe on the arm of the
chair.

Farden opened his mouth to say
something, and then closed it again. He reached out towards the
fire with his hands and felt the heat creep over his skin. A loud
bray of laughter came from the others at the bar. He took a deep
breath through his nostrils and let the smell of pipe and wood
smoke fill his head. ‘How much?’ he asked.

The beggar waved a bony hand
and shook his head, as if he had just been insulted. ‘Sometimes an
old man jus’ likes a body to smoke with, ‘stead of bein’ on his
own, see? Makes a change don’t it, mage,’ coughed the man, with a
skeletal hiss and a waft of bad breath.

‘Don’t call me that,’ Farden
warned and the man shrugged again. ‘As you wish,’ he said.

Farden’s mind raced while he
swirled the wine around like a whirlpool in his cup. Temptation
billowed in low clouds over his head and he chewed the inside of
his lip. Unwelcome thoughts gathered, memories and dead faces
laughed at him. Cheska hovered in his mind, pale, and still. He
wanted to stop thinking.

‘Fine,’ he said, and then stood
up to gulp down the last dregs of his drink in one swift move. ‘I’m
in number sixteen, if you can count that high, the one with the red
door.’ And with that he swept up the nearby staircase and
disappeared into the shadows of the corridor. After finding his
room in the gloomy hallway he opened the door and lit the fireplace
with a quick spell. He opened the windows to let the cold night air
chill the room and reclined in a nearby chair. He impatiently
played with flashing sparks on his palm.

A short while passed and then
there came a bony knock on the wooden door.

‘Come in,’ Farden whispered
gruffly.

The old beggar shuffled through
the door, hunched and crooked. Farden thought the man could have
been tall once, but now his long years had bent his back and added
lines to his face. In the firelight his face looked like weathered
oak, and he now wore a grey cloak, also made of patches, over his
rags.

‘Have a seat,’ gestured Farden,
to the chair opposite him.

‘Give me a moment.’ The man
ignored the offered chair and squatted in front of the fire. He
pulled a few items from his pockets and placed them on the brick
hearth. He toyed with them with gnarled hands. Farden pointed to
one, a strange pipe, curved like his other one, but coiled in the
middle. It looked like a cross between a snail and a horn. ‘What’s
that?’ the mage asked.

‘Gim, skiff, redraw, blagg,
nevermar, you always smoke it in a pipe,’ the grey character
muttered. He unfolded a little bundle of cloth and started to peel
something apart, placing little crumbs of red moss into the bowl of
the pipe and pushing it down with his little finger. Once the bowl
seemed to be full, the man sprinkled some of his cheap tobacco on
the top, and tapped the thing on the edge of the fireplace. He
looked at the fire, shook his head, and then cast around for flint
and tinder, then he had a sudden thought and looked up at the mage.
‘D’ye mind?’ he said, waving the pipe in little circular
motions.

Farden fixed him with a
murderous look, and then grudgingly accepted the pipe. ‘If I find
out that you’ve told anyone,
anyone
about
this, then I will find you, old man, and I will kill you.
Understand?’

The old man shrugged and shook
his head and tried to portray the image of sincerity and trust.
‘Don’t know no one to tell, mage, yew can trust me.’ The beggar
winked.

‘Don’t call me that,’ said
Farden irritably. He held the pipe in one hand, and with the other,
keeping an eye on the beggar, pointed his finger at the bowl of the
pipe, and with a little flame, made the stuff crackle and hiss. He
sucked on the end of the pipe and felt the acrid smoke burn and
scrape his throat. He coughed and spluttered.

‘Tastes good don’t it,’
chuckled the old man. With great difficulty he got to his feet and
then instantly placed himself down in the threadbare armchair.

‘It’s harsh,’ Farden groaned.
He took another painful drag and tried to relax in his chair,
feeling a slight headiness tingling all throughout his skull. He
offered the pipe back to the old man and he grabbed at it with
grubby fingers. After a few quick puffs he passed it back to Farden
with another knowing grin. They sat in silence, listening to the
music from downstairs escape into the street below the window. The
man watched Farden smoke the pipe with a hungry expression, but
Farden didn’t even notice. He held the smoke in his chest and felt
the back of his eyes shiver and his temples quiver. His arms felt a
hundred feet long and his fingers moved through sickly honey.

They passed the pipe back and
forth, and soon enough Farden found himself melting into the chair
like an icicle in the morning sunlight. His mind ran through fields
of the absurd, random music scattered between his ears, and strange
shapes moved about his room, searching for reality under the bed
and behind the curtains. The old tramp shook and bounced, and his
jittery bed shifted around in an imaginary earthquake.

At some point Farden looked up
to find the pipe in front of him again. The thing glittered like an
angry torch, sparking and puffing fumes into the air. Smoke filled
his eyes. Lungs burned. An intense feeling of dizziness pounded
against the inside of Farden’s skull. He closed his eyes to watch
colours collide, and opened them to find he was suddenly alone. The
old beggar was long gone. The bed evaded him for a while but then
he caught it, and fell into a lake of pillows and sheets. He kicked
off boots that were hot and heavy, and his tunic was made of thick
soup. A pillow hijacked his head and he drifted off into a heavy,
drug-laden sleep. Gods danced around his room, and daemons watched
from the corners and rafters, quoting something about blood and
history. Darkness took him.

The old man slipped out from
the mage’s room and closed the door quietly with a slight click. He
threw a hood over his greasy hair and kicked at his rough leather
shoes as if they annoyed him. With great care he hobbled downstairs
and weaved his way between the drinkers and singers that filled the
noisy inn, still worshipping the ale that foamed in their tankards.
The beggar shuffled past them, muttering quiet scuse me’s and
comin’ through’s as he did so, and finally he made it onto the
street. He paused to stretch. After a small private grin and a
satisfied slap of his thigh he disappeared down the nearest
alleyway, suddenly seeming taller and more nimble with every
step.

Soon a loud drunk came around a
corner and careered down the narrow alley towards the strange
beggar. The drunken man leaned into his path, shouting and singing
loudly in his face. He smell of his wine-soaked breath was a little
overpowering, and the beggar fended the drunk off with a light
push, but in a fit of sudden anger, he cursed and violently swung
his arm in a wild punch. The beggar reacted with a speed that
belied his years. A short black knife darted out from under his
patchwork cloak and plunged into the drunk’s side with a thud. He
clamped his palm over the man’s mouth and threw him hard against
the nearest wall, pausing only to viciously twist the knife. The
man grunted in pain and shock. Stabbing him twice more in the
chest, he let the dying man slump to the floor. Without a moment of
hesitation or remorse he pulled his cloak about him and silently
disappeared into the night once more. Left to die alone in the cold
and muddy street, the drunk gradually slipped away, a bewildered
look plastered onto his pale face.

“
Dark magick
is the scourge of Emaneska. Let no Written ever be involved with
it, and seek to use full force against those who practice it. Those
who wield it should be warned: We will chase you into the
mountains, hunt you down, and bury you under the rocks. The council
has spoken.”

From a speech by Arkmage Åddren
in the year 879, addressing the Written after the Neffra
Incident

Farden was dreaming again. He
stood in the shadow of a black mountain. A hot breeze lashed his
bare skin and the dust stung his eyes, and he found himself wearing
only his vambraces. He could feel the sand between his toes.

The mage looked behind him and
saw razor-sharp crags of rock hanging over him, a bare, faceless
cliff of jet and obsidian coming straight out of the sand and
towering into the sky. Shadows played in the darkness. The wind
whistled through the rocks, making an eerie sound like a faraway
horn crying for help, or a wounded animal wailing away its last few
hours. Even in the dry heat, Farden shuddered. He looked out, away
from the mountain, where the sun shone and the heat waves danced.
He watched the bare earth stretch on for leagues, further than even
his eyes could see. The horizon shuddered and wobbled.

Farden looked up at the sky,
that pure empty sky, and felt a tranquility he had never felt
before suddenly wash over him. The mage felt as though he could
melt into it, into the vast blueness of it, and never have to wake
up again. He could forget about the council, the book, everything,
and just melt away.

A black shape fluttered in his
peripheral vision, and Farden turned his head. A crow, or a raven,
some sort of black bird, flapped aimlessly around the rocky ledges
of the black cliff, trying to stay out of reach of a skinny black
cat that danced below it on its hindlegs. The bird dithered in
midair, narrowly avoiding the clawing swipes of the mangy cat, and
desperately tried to find a safe place between the rocks. The cat
crouched and watched its prey. Farden tried to shout and scare
either of the animals away, but the hot wind snatched the words
from his lips, and he yelled in complete silence. The cat hunkered
down and its haunches twitched and wiggled, until suddenly,
choosing its perfect moment, the cat shot into the air and dragged
the bird to the sand. The thing flapped and cried, but the cat was
merciless. It pinned the crow-thing to the ground with one paw and
sunk its yellow teeth into its neck until it moved no more. The
bird’s head sagged and its beak lay open and motionless. Farden
tried to move, to try and chase the cat away from the corpse, but
his legs and arms refused to shift. He was glued to the sand.
Something flitted from rock to rock above him, and a cackle floated
on the wind. Farden looked at the cat, and saw her staring back at
him with those obsidian eyes. Blood dripped from her fangs, and a
black feather hovered at the corner of her mouth. The sand had
become a red pool. She ripped some more flesh from the birds neck,
and chewed, slowly, staring at him without emotion or even a hint
of remorse. She threw her head back, swallowed, and then made a
howling whining sound deep in her throat. As quickly as it had
began it stopped, and the cat took a slow step forward towards
him.

You’re
between a rock and a hard place... So to speak,
it said, an
echoing voice in the back of his head. Farden tried to answer, but
no sound came from his mouth. The cat continued to move forward.
Blood decorated her chin. Things moved and flapped above him.

They’ve got
you all in a flap,
came the next cliché. The flapping became
the sound of a landslide of wings. Black shapes and beady eyes hid
behind the crags and watched him. Farden struggled in vain. He
looked at the desert behind him, and it had become a desert of
fire. The wind blew hot dusty air in his face, and whipped his
naked skin. Shapes began to fill the empty sky above him and the
mountain became a black whirlwind of even darker birds, wheeling
and careening through the blueness and cackling hideously. The cat
had come to a halt in front of him, and she threw a curious look up
at the storm of wings and beaks and claws flooding his dream. They
filled every space on the rock face, stood on every inch of rock
and crag. A thousand of them flapped around him.

It’s you they
want, just as they once wanted me.
A talon sliced across his
back and he felt the drip of hot blood down his skin. Farden
winced, and tried with all his strength to move. Another claw
across his thigh and a beak tore a hole in his side. Wings buffeted
his face. Claws ripped flesh from bone.

Follow the
dragons
said the voice.

No more than a handful of hours
after he had collapsed into his bed, the first streaks of dawn
started to stretch across the dim sky, and Farden awoke with a
pounding headache. He fell out of bed and collided with the cold
wooden floor with a groan. The mage quickly shrugged on his clothes
and armour and massaged his temples in a vain attempt to get rid of
the waves of pain coursing through his head. He tried to cast a
small healing spell and the magick smashed against his skull like a
sledgehammer. Farden cursed and flinched, feeling the pain all the
way to the tips of his toes. Every movement seemed to be a strain.
He blearily looked at his surroundings. The candles in his room had
burned to their bases, and the dim morning light barely illuminated
his room. The smell of acrid smoke hung in the air, and the stench
made the hungover mage retch. Stoically, he hauled his sword over
his back, wincing, He fastened his cloak around him and slammed the
door much to the dismay of his head. He stood in the hall and
rubbed his head. All seemed to be quiet in the inn, but something
gnawed at the back of his head, underneath the headache, something
that escaped him every time he got close to identifying it. Shadows
of his dream taunted him, not daring to show their true faces. He
remembered rocks, birds, or a place with sand. Farden shook his
head gingerly, and tried to forget the strange nightmare.