The Written (2 page)

‘This needs careful
translation, look, it seems to reference something called
thy darkness swallowed,
or...
mouths of darkness
, yes that’s it, over and over again
on these pages.’ Gernn waved his hands as he gingerly flipped
through the ancient book. His eyes were wide.

‘And you are sure this book is
not another fake?’ The man asked, looking hungrily at the men. The
wolf and the grey-haired rabbits. His arms were crossed still, but
his voice was now low and dangerous, dark brown eyes roaming the
pages and pictures spread over the desk.

Innel nodded. That itch was
bothering him now, something he had missed, something he couldn’t
begin to put his finger on. ‘It’s real, sire, an elven summoning
manual, if you asked me.’

‘It’s dangerous, whatever it
is,’ said Gernn.

The man smiled, flashing teeth.
‘How interesting this all is.’ He drummed his fingers on the desk
absently. ‘Well, it seems you have been most useful to me this
evening. I am sure Åddren will be as pleased as I am to hear about
this.’

The oldest scholar rose shakily
from his chair and bowed his head. ‘Thank you sire. We will
continue to study this manual with diligence, there is much more
knowledge to be gained from it, and without you, my lord, we would
probably still have a locked book.’ He smiled, and the other
scholars managed a polite laugh. The air had become stale and
thick.

The tall mage laughed heartily,
startling them slightly as the noise rang out in the small room.
‘Haha, and without
you
, old fools, I would
have nothing!’ The smile was instantly gone, replaced by thin lips
and a narrowed gaze. With a sudden burst of immense speed the mage
drew his sword in a silver blur and furiously slammed the blade
into Innel’s chest. He fell with a terrified gurgling scream. The
mage swung right and brutally cut the throat of the old scholar
with a single swing. Dark blood painted the books and pages
scattered around the room. Sparks of electricity danced around the
mage’s fingers and a huge bolt of lightning flew into the others,
burning them to a crisp in a matter of seconds. An acrid smoke
filled the room.

His business concluded, the
mage calmly sheathed his sword and took the black book from the
desk. Wiping the blood from its cover, he turned on his heel,
picked up his robes from the chair, and left without another
sound.

Hundreds of miles away, in the
west, dawn was breaking over an empty countryside. The cold morning
light shone through the skeletal trees and scattered across winter
snow drifts and dead leaves. The still wilderness was undulating,
with rolling hills and patches of woods springing up between
boulders, frozen streams, and endless snow. Apart from the drip of
melting ice and the rattle of wind in the finger-like branches, not
a sound could be heard.

A broken castle rose from a
tall mound, crowned by concentric rings of ruined walls and
dilapidated stone ramparts. A round tower squatted in disrepair at
the centre of the castle still sporting an empty flagpole. The
massive stones of the walls were covered in brown moss and hanging
icicles, the crenellations adorned with cuts and gashes made by the
war engines of old.

Soon the pale morning was
disturbed by the faint noise of a heavy-breathing newcomer. A
hooded figure came from the south trudging through the deep snow
towards the castle, his long brown cloak billowed behind him in the
icy breeze. Hot breath escaped in smoky plumes from his mouth and
the sound of his labouring was loud against the dripping silence.
The man stopped and pulled his clothing around him. He took a
minute to catch his breath. In the half light of the early morning
his grey-green eyes could pick out a low arched door set deep into
the thick outer wall.

‘Carn Breagh,’ muttered the
stranger, lowering a plain red scarf from his face. Clearing his
throat he checked the woods to the left and right with a wary
glance, and then trudged on through the deep snow. Beneath his
cloak the man wore light steel plate armour over his shoulders,
chest, and thighs, which clanked together softly as he moved. A
black and brown tunic lay underneath with a thick leather belt
holding onto his supplies and an old sword encased in a dark red
scabbard. Something gold and scarlet and metal peeked out from
beneath the sleeves of his thick cloak. The man’s sturdy black
boots wearily plunged into the pure white snow, making creaking
noises with every step.

The stranger reached the old
wall and the small stone archway and spread his hands over the
thick oak door, feeling the splintered wood and the thick spikes
that held the gate together. The man gave it a light push but
nothing budged. It was locked tight from the inside. He shoved a
shoulder against it in a futile attempt to move the ancient wood.
But still nothing. He looked at the door quizzically. The planks
were weathered from hundreds of years of wind and snow, yet for
some reason they had not rotted away like the other wooden features
of the ancient castle.

The hooded man stretched his
back and neck and rolled up the sleeves of his cloak. Adorning his
wrists and lower forearms were thick vambraces made of interwoven
red and gold metal scales that glittered faintly in the dawn light.
They clinked as he held them together. He closed his eyes briefly
and then placed his palms on the door. All of a sudden a pulse
rippled across the wood and there was a dull clang from the other
side. The man gave it a little push and the door swung open with a
creak.

He allowed himself a faint
smile and pulled his cloak around him as he peered into the gloom.
The man wrinkled his nose. It smelled like a thousand years of damp
and there was the faint sound of dripping on stonework coming from
somewhere in the darkness. Mould hid between the cracks in the
walls. Without a sound the man ducked under the thick stone archway
and stood in the dim corridor, listening. He made a fist. White
light shivered around his fingers and suddenly the corridor was
bathed in a pale moon-like glow.

Surrounded by his light the
stranger began to investigate the old castle, poking around in
holes and long-lost underground chambers. Cavernous halls and old
rooms spread out like a warren left and right as the explorer went
deeper and deeper into the castle. Everything was rotting and damp.
Old curtains decayed where they had been thrown, chests and
furniture had been smashed against walls and lay in dark heaps and
broken postures. In old abandoned barracks benches and tables were
pushed up against splintered doors. Rusty swords hid under the
rubble.

For hours he searched the dank
castle and found nothing except darkness and ruin. In a tiny room
deep underground, the cloaked man carefully took a seat on one of
the less broken chairs and rested his feet for a moment. He was
beginning to get a little tired from keeping up his light spell,
but he was sure there had to be something inside the old castle.
Absently he picked up a small piece of rubble and toyed with it for
a few moments before tossing it across the room in boredom. To his
surprise the stone sailed straight through a frayed tapestry and
disappeared, landing with a clang somewhere far behind it. The man
clenched his fist again and a fresh wave of light penetrated the
gloom. Eagerly he tore the tapestry from its rusted hangings and
threw it on the dusty floor. Hidden behind it was a staircase that
spiralled down into the dark shadows. Curiosity sparked in his mind
he jogged down the steps, his footsteps echoing against the narrow
walls.

All of a sudden the stairs came
to a halt and a long hallway snaked around a corner. Sconces
holding long torches poked out from recesses in the walls. The man
moved to the nearest one and felt the oil-soaked wick between his
finger and thumb. It was dry enough so the man clicked his fingers
over the torch. Sparks flew from his fingers and sent flame curling
up the wall.

Dousing his light spell he
continued down the corridor lighting each torch as he went, and it
was not long before he came across a huge door set deep into the
stonework, held by thick hinges and a massive bolt that seemed to
be fused to the metal bracing it. Eyes closed, the man ran his hand
over the wood, searching for the right spell to use, but when he
threw a wave of magick at it the door didn’t even move an inch.
Irritated, he tried again and the air hummed as he hit the wood
with another spell. Nothing happened. He rubbed his stubbled chin
and thought for a moment, adjusting the red scarf around his neck.
All of a sudden a deep boom rang out somewhere below his feet and
made the torches shiver in their sconces. The man slowly, and
gently, drew his sword from its scabbard as a few specks of dust
fell from the ceiling. He squinted at the torches as something
caught his eye. The flames were shifting and leaning far out from
the wall as if blown by a stiff breeze. It was time to leave.

The stranger turned and
sheathed his sword with a loud metallic ringing noise. He swiftly
climbed the stairs, turning left, then right, then left again,
running up more stairs, retracing his steps as something trembled
the paving stones beneath him. Suddenly he was out in the snow once
more and the bright morning sun was stinging his eyes. He slammed
the small door behind him and stepped out into the icy glare. He
listened and watched, ready for anything. Nothing came, and all was
silent again in the castle.

‘Hmm,’ mused the cloaked
figure. He bent to pick up a handful of snow and rubbed it between
his fingers to wipe off the dust from the castle. As he moved to
pick up another handful a shadow passed over him without a sound, a
flitting shape momentarily darkening the snow. The man sighed and
stood up straight, throwing off his cloak and drawing his sword
with a flourish. Spinning his blade in his right hand he surveyed
the peaceful countryside calmly. Steel glinted in the sunlight.

‘It’s not even noon yet and a
man has to deal with dragons,’ muttered the stranger to himself as
he let his eyes rove over the horizon.

A huge screeching roar came
from the skies above him and the man darted sideways with a running
leap, narrowly missing a massive shape that plummeted into the snow
behind him with a huge crash and a shower of snow. The man got to
his feet and disdainfully brushed the white powder from his armour.
He looked up. Out of the white haze there was a snarl and a
creature reared its ugly blue head, shaking its horns with a
rattling shiver and spreading stunted turquoise wings. A ridge of
sharp brown spikes ran from its head to the tip of its serpentine
tail. The monster’s claws dragged at the snow, razor sharp and
curved like a cat’s, and its eyes were like black pools of jet. The
wyrm let out a deafening hornlike scream and took one step forward,
hissing at the man in the snow and rattling its aquamarine
scales.

It had been a while since the
man had seen such a large wild dragon, and even though it was a
juvenile, no more than a wild wyrm, it still towered above him. The
creature stank of old meat and a musky reptilian scent. The
stranger began to circle the creature, holding his sword out
straight towards it.

‘Leave now, or this will end
badly for you,’ said the man in a measured tone, still treading
sideways through the deep snow. The dragon snarled, obviously not
understanding him, and stamped its enormous feet menacingly like an
impatient bull. It roared an ear-splitting roar and foul spit flew
into the man’s face.

‘I will take that as a no then,
shall I?’ he said, and before the words had left his mouth the
beast charged at the man with frightening speed. But the man was
more than ready, and swiftly dropping to one knee he dug his blade
into the snow with a wet thud. A solid wall of magick tore through
the snow like a rippling earthquake and knocked the terrifying
reptile flat with a low and somewhat disappointed whine. The man
jumped up and swung his sword at the surprised beast and the blade
cut a long path across its scaly back. Blue blood splashed the
snow. But then, seemingly out of nowhere, the beast’s whip-like
tail lashed out and struck him hard in the chest. He flew into a
nearby drift with a crunch of armour and before he had time to take
a breath the hungry dragon was already running at him again. It
snarled and spat and it scratched and dug, furiously lashing out at
the snow and at the man with its razor-like claws. He waved his
sword wildly in front of him to keep the claws at bay, but a stray
talon scraped across his armour and found the soft pale skin
underneath. With a pained wince he rolled sideways and managed to
escape the long claws. Red blood stained the dirty snow beneath
him.

Getting swiftly to his feet the
man smacked his vambraces together and a massive blast of flame
pierced the air. The fireball hit the dragon in the chest and sent
the creature reeling backwards. It roared with pain and frantically
shook its front legs, but the man was quickly after it. His
blue-stained sword burst into flame and it flew from his hand like
a spear while he ran. Like a bolt of fiery lightning it buried
itself in the dragon’s ribcage with a sharp thud and a blast of
scorching fire. The beast uttered a last mournful whistle and
toppled over against a nearby tree with a crash. The man slowed to
a calm walk and strode forward to wrench his blade from the ribs of
the smoking dead reptile. He put a hand to his side and winced once
more, feeling the wet blood seeping from the long cut. Retrieving
his cold cloak he sighed and began to slowly follow his footprints
back in the direction he had come from.

“
The long
winter started gradually during the years of our long war with the
Sirens. The heat was slowly taken from our days, one by one, and
the sun from our sky, until our seventy-sixth year, the year of our
last summer. The snow storms gathered and the ice fields grew,
creeping inexorably south until they almost threatened to cover
Nelska, and ever since the end of the war our weather has remained
cold and bitter, and the proud mountains of Össfen stay covered by
the eternal snow.”