The Written (16 page)

He made it onto the deck,
already slick with spray, and headed to the tall forecastle of the
Sarunn
and stared weakly at the turbulent
seas whirling around the mouth of the huge port. The mage gripped
the wood of the railing and felt the rimy spray on his chin and
creased forehead. A sailor stood to the right of him, and was
staring at Farden with a wary look. He felt the eyes on him and
turned to face the man. The sailor turned slowly and made himself
busy with coiling ropes. Farden squinted at the man but he didn’t
turn around again.

‘Sire!’ The mage turned around
to find Heold briskly running up the steps, coughing steam into the
cold wind. He barked a few orders back down the steps to his men
and yelled course directions to the crewman at the wheel. The
Captain looked at the mage and shrugged. ‘Busy day fer us, mage. We
jus’ got back int’ port last night and were sent a message from the
council we ‘ad to take you t’ Nelska this mornin’. Ow are yer
accommodations?’ The man grinned, gripping the rails with hands
whose skin looked like tanned leather.

‘Good thank you captain, I
found them at least,’ said Farden. Heold nodded. The ship rose
abruptly on a wave, and Farden grabbed at the handrail. The Captain
was looking at him.

‘I guess I can’t ask why yer
off to the land of the dragons? No body’s been up there fer years I
‘ear,’ he appeared to make blithe conversation, but his keen flint
eyes roved over Farden with a powerful curiosity.

‘I’m afraid it’s a quiet
mission,’ Farden said stonily and stared out to sea. The ship was
nearing the harbour walls.

‘A few degrees to port
Thurgen!’ Heold abruptly yelled through cupped hands. ‘Excuse me.
New man on t’ wheel today, the other one ‘ad the plague, and one o’
me mates too, ‘ad to replace ‘im as well. Sorry t’ ask ‘bout yer
business Farden, ‘just the lads are a bit worried ‘avin’ you
aboard. Superstitious lot.’

‘I’m not dangerous captain,
tell your men that. I will be keeping mostly to myself over the
course of the trip, so I’d appreciate being left alone,’ Farden
said, trying to make his words sound kind and courteous. The
captain nodded with a grunt and watched the mage go, wobbly on his
feet.

‘Be some good weather comin’
soon mage, you’ll see!’ Heold yelled. He pointed towards the
breaking clouds in the distance. Farden squinted and saw the golden
sunlight glinting off the waves, but he shrugged and held his hand
to his stomach. As he went below decks he could imagine Helyard
back on the pier, grumpily agreeing to Åddren’s stern orders. The
breakers crashed around the bow of the ship again and she lurched
awkwardly. Spray decorated the deck and the
Sarunn
loitered on the first few big waves before the
helmsman got the hand of the winter swell and set her on course
again. Heold watched Farden leave, and a disconcerting cloud of
doubt filled his old mind. Mages were bad omens.

The first two days of the trip
were uneventful, and on the third, the
Sarunn
finally rounded the west coast and made for the
channel between the beaches of west Midgrir and the cliffs of
stunted Albion. The weather remained fine for the first few hundred
miles or so, but then as they rounded the coastline to head towards
the Jörmunn Sea, past the cliff cities of Halôrn, the clouds
started to pile up and darken, bringing squalls and bitter gales to
hammer down on the ship. Farden hid in his room, feeling every
pitch and roll of the vessel in his uncomfortable wooden bed.
Everything in his cabin was nailed to the floor, which made sword
practice a little impossible, and made everything creak and groan
all the more. The bucket had been filled, and emptied, several
times over the first day, and now Farden had finally got rid of his
massive headache. His magick however, had not returned in the
slightest, and he could feel his tattoo lying dormant on his back
like a heavy weight. The mage spent his time meditating and trying
to get his power back, or absently mapping the stars when the deck
was quiet enough. More than a few times Farden found himself laying
awake on the cold nights, thinking about Cheska, and waking up to
find nothing and no one beside him but faded dreams. The mage tried
to ignore the rolling ship and instead stared at the wooden
ceiling, picturing her beautiful eyes in his tired mind and
thinking long and hard about things like her body, her laugh, and a
hundred other things like their future. He wondered what she was
doing and where she was, and whether he would be back before she
started the Ritual. The ghosts of fear slowly crept back into his
mind.

On the first day a small black
cat found its way into his room. Farden assumed it was the ship’s
cat, a little good luck charm against bad weather, and let the
creature wander about his room and investigate everything. She
sniffed and pawed at his clothes and every corner of the small room
for an hour before finally curling into a neat black ball on his
pillow. Feeling a little used, the mage consented to let the thing
sleep in his room all day, until it finally disappeared at dinner
time. Once, when she had looked at him, Farden had felt something
scratching in his mind like déjà vu. Her little brown eyes gazed at
him placidly for a while before returning to lick her paws. He
dismissed it, but always found himself watching her and wondering
from then on.

Once on the second day, out of
pure boredom and curiosity, he took the tearbook from its satchel
and idly flipped through the blank pages. They seemed pure and
untouched, only yellowed at the very edges, and grey dust filled
the cracks in the spine and between the overlapping dragon scales
that were a dull metallic yellow. No trace of any script or writing
could be found in the entire book, Farden even tried holding up the
thin pages to the light streaming through his tiny window to see if
anything could be seen. Nothing. He gave up with a bored sigh and
slipped the tearbook under his pillow.

Farden walked along the decks
at dawn, accompanied by the lithe black cat, whom he had named
Lazy, and tried to cast small spells in the half-light. Much to his
dismay the magick still rebounded against his head every time.
Still, his study of the stars at night seemed to calm his mind, and
his stomach for that matter. He still hated the water. Time felt
like treacle in the ship and Farden dreaded the constant wary looks
from the superstitious sailors. The previous morning he had found a
greying crewman praying to the old sea god Njord outside his room
and trying to attach a cheap-looking charm to his door. Farden had
slammed it hard and scowled at the noises of the man nervously
scuttling away down the corridor. Everyone seemed to be trying to
ignore him and stay out of his way. Most of the weathered crew were
scared of Farden; they saw him as a powerful sorcerer leading them
towards a forbidden land, and that didn’t make them happy. Their
passenger was unlucky and unwanted.

On the first night the Arka
soldiers had made an effort to talk to the lonely mage as he sat
alone at a table. Farden hadn’t been in the mood to socialise and
his clipped answers had slighted the men. They made their excuses
and left. What rumours they might have known about Farden seemed to
have already circulated around the already superstitious crew, and
now everyone seemed to be trying to ignore him and stay out of his
way. And to a certain extent that suited him fine. Only Lazy seemed
interested in him, and the little thing was happy to curl up beside
him at night, purring away quietly like a bubbling pot all night
until their morning walk.

On the third day, dawn found
Farden making his way up to the forecastle. For once he had left
the little feline fast asleep in his room, and he wandered across
the deck alone. Fingers of light crept along the eastern horizon
amongst dark clouds and faraway cliffs. The patchwork sea of blue
green light and shadow foamed and roiled in deep swells. The mage
stood at his usual spot at the railing and wiped rimy spray from
his face for the tenth time and looked at the skies. Ahead of them
a huge bank of storm clouds lingered, and the shadow of rain
covered the sea. Someone coughed nearby. A man stood on watch to
his right, and Farden recognised him as the man he had seen staring
at him on the first day. He stood stiff and back straight, holding
his arms crossed behind him and a spyglass in his left hand.

‘Mornin’ mate,’ the man coughed
a rough greeting. He had a thick accent, probably from southern
Albion.

‘Morning,’ Farden replied. He
nodded towards the black clouds. ‘Weather looks bad.’

The man nodded. ‘Looks fairly
bad, I agree. Cap’n should ride ‘er well.’ He was a thin wiry man,
and looked strong despite his size, with heavily calloused hands.
He had a square shaped face that was punctuated by a sharp nose and
short black hair slicked flat to his head. The sailor wore the dark
green uniform of the ship’s crew. A dark mole sat on his lip. The
sailor was a head shorter than the mage, twitchy and energetic in
his quick movements. He looked like a hawk waiting for his prey, in
Farden’s mind, and he didn’t like the way the man stared at
him.

‘Good,’ said the mage.

‘Take it ye don’t like the
water then?’ A smirk painted itself on the man’s face.

‘I like it fine,’ Farden
thought of the tearbook in the sack by his side.

The sailor chuckled. ‘Karga’s
the name,’ a hand followed the name, and Farden shook it firmly.
‘Farden.’

Karga nodded. ‘Aye, I
know.’

‘You have a fine captain it
seems,’ Farden made idle conversation. He listened to the splash of
the waves beneath the ship.

The sailor shrugged. ‘I
wouldn’t really know. He seems a fine fellow, but I’m jus’ a stand
in for this voyage. Other man got sick.’

‘I see.’

‘Plague probably. A lot of it
goin’ around in the south.’

‘Mm.’ Farden began to feel the
conversation dwindling. He nodded to the man and made for the
steps. As he was walking away the sailor called to him in a gruff
voice. ‘Oi mate, look at this.’ The mage turned and followed the
direction of his pointing hand. In the clouds up ahead something
was happening that Farden has never seen before.

Between a gap in the immense
storm-front wisps of cloud began to form two shapes that towered
above the seas. They reared out of the clouds and stood upright to
face each other, looking for all the world like two brawny men
carved from cloud. And then they began to move. Thunder rumbled,
and Farden moved closer to the railing to stare in amazement. One
lashed out at the other with a gigantic fist, and lightning
crackled from its fingers. Wind whipped the waves into foam, and
the deafening burst of lightning made Farden cover his ears.

‘Storm giants!’ yelled Karga,
and the helmsman wrenched the ship’s wheel away from the stormy
duel. Sudden rain lashed the ship, and Farden ran down the steps so
he could watch the immense creatures battle each other. The giants
lunged at each other and threw punch after punch until the sky
shook and the crew cowered under the sails. But as quickly as they
had appeared, they went, and after a few more thunder claps the
giants melted back into the clouds. The sailor at the wheel calmly
resumed course, and Heold bumbled out his cabin sleepily to see
what had happened. ‘What in ‘ell is goin’ on?’ he bellowed, still
adjusting his wide belt.

Karga shouted from the
forecastle. ‘Storm giants cap’n! They’re gone now though,
disappeared into the storm front!’ Heold squinted at the clouds and
frowned. Satisfied that he had missed most of the action and wasn’t
needed anymore, he headed back to his bed. ‘Good, wake me in an
hour,’ he said. By the time he had slammed the door Farden was
already back in his cabin.

Despite the rocking of the ship
and the bad weather, the mage fell into a deep sleep until later
the next day. He awoke to find the rain still lashing his window.
He groaned and tried to pull the blanket further around his head.
He had almost had enough of this voyage. The tearbook nudged his
hand from its hiding place under his pillow and he pulled it
towards him. The big book propped up his head nicely under the thin
lump of cloth, and Farden wondered what the council would think of
him using the tearbook as a pillow, or even the dragons for that
matter. The mage let himself doze for about an hour before rising
and heading sleepily to the galley. Lazy was nowhere to be
seen.

He ducked under the door frame
of the ship’s kitchen and looked around. The goat was nibbling
something grainy in the corner of the tiny room and the cook was
cleaning dishes.

‘All right there sir?’ asked
the cook while he wiped a bowl with a dirty cloth.

Farden stretched and stifled a
yawn. ‘Fine, thanks, I was just wondering if there’s any lunch
still left over? I missed it earlier.’ He moved forward and knocked
his forehead on a beam.

The man smiled, and stifled a
chuckle. ‘
Farska
’s in the pan, or there’s
some shark ‘ere that the first mate caught,’ He lifted a lid on an
earthen bowl, and the smell of the cheap fishy stew filled Farden
with ravenous hunger. He dug in with a wooden spoon that didn’t
look too clean and filled a bowl that had a splintered edge. The
mage was too hungry to care. He had eaten worse.

‘There’ll be summin’ new
tomorrow as well…’ The cook looked at Farden and gave a faint nod
in the direction of the fat goat. The poor animal stopped chewing
and looked at the two men. There was an awkward silence.

‘Well I’ll see you tomorrow
then,’ Farden smiled briefly and swiftly turned to go. He carried
his bowl of watery stew to his room and stared at the steel waves
roll out behind the ship like angry grey foothills of ice water.
The mage sighed and consigned himself to another day of feeling ill
and empty from the lack of magick. A strange desire for nevermar
had begun to creep into his mind over the last day, a craving to
taste that acrid smoke on his tongue again, to feel that familiar
numbing in his arms and legs. Farden guiltily pushed the notion
from his head and tried to concentrate on his meal. The shark was
salty, and the meagre vegetables floating around his bowl were
bereft of colour or taste, but it was food, and Farden sipped the
hot liquid carefully. The drug was forbidden for a reason, he told
himself, nevermar’s magick-numbing power was legendary, and for
over a hundred years the council had opposed it with vicious
measures. When Farden had been in training at the Spire, a mage had
been caught having nevermar in his room. He had swiftly
disappeared, and was never even spoken of again. It had been the
death penalty for that man, dangling by his entrails from the city
gate as an example to all. Farden shuddered.