The Written (28 page)

‘What’s wrong with him now?’
Farden sighed. He remembered suspicions about Helyard, but he
decided to hear what Durnus had to say first before telling
Vice.

‘Your disappearance my good
mage! The whole council has been in uproar over the apparent loss
of the tearbook. It was only when your hawk arrived that Åddren
finally managed to bring peace to the council, and I was sent to
get the quickdoor ready for your arrival.’ Vice leaned back even
further into the massive chair and smiled at Farden. He entwined
his fingers and hummed thoughtfully.

‘Well it wasn’t all fun and
games for me either, but I can assure the tearbook is safely back
in the hands in the dragons, and they have promised me that within
the week we will have our answers.’

‘ “Safely back in the hands of
the dragons…” is that you talking Farden? I thought you said they
couldn’t be trusted?’ Vice spluttered.

‘Well I wasn’t treated kindly
at first, the Siren queen Svarta wanted to lock me up and throw
away the key.’

‘But what about the message we
sent to them warning them of your arrival?’

‘It never got there, I think it
had to do something with the sorcerer on the boat.’ Farden rubbed
his chin and stared into the flames again. The cup was warm in his
hands.

‘Right, I’m completely lost.
Start from the beginning.’ Vice scrunched up his eyes as if the
confusion hurt him and rubbed his eyes slowly.

‘Sorry.’ Farden laughed and
launched straight in, shuffling in his chair to face the Undermage.
‘A few days before the end of the journey I caught one of the
sailors in my room trying to steal the tearbook. I thought he was
just a thief, but he was a sorcerer, and a good one at that, and it
turns out he had been sent by the same people who had stolen the
summoning manual. I managed to fend him off but a wave hit the ship
and she went down.’ Farden was glad Vice wasn’t as good as
detecting lies as the dragons were. He sipped his mörd wine.

‘So how did you get to Nelska
without a ship?’ asked Vice.

Farden shook his head and
thought, something he had spent many hours thinking in Hjaussfen.
By all rights he should have been dead. ‘By some sort of absolute
miracle I was washed up on the beach near the palace and a guard
found me. And let’s just say that there were some complications
after that…’

‘Tell me.’ Vice said and leaned
forward out his chair to listen more carefully.

Farden rolled his eyes. He had
hoped to skip this particular matter entirely. ‘One of the Siren
healers read my Book while I was unconscious, so they locked the
poor lunatic in a cell with me. When I finally came to half a week
later they dragged me in front of the dragons and interrogated me.
They weren’t the least bit happy after that debacle.’

‘It was his fault, not yours,
if you were unconscious. It was people like him that started the
war in the first place.’ Vice scowled.

‘Either way, the queen, Svarta,
was overruled and they let me stay in the palace, free to wander
around and train,’ said Farden.

‘You can’t be serious,’ he
scoffed, sceptical.

Farden nodded. ‘I swear to the
gods. I told them the Arka finally wanted peace and after seeing
the tearbook they were convinced I wasn’t there to cause any
trouble. I was as surprised as you were. There’s a lot more to the
dragons that we’ve come to assume, Vice.’

The Undermage scowled again,
and quaffed his drink. He put the glass down on a nearby table with
a sharp tap. ‘That’s another matter for another day. What will
happen to the tearbook now?’ he asked.

‘It will stay with them for the
time being, and within a week we will have the location of the
well. They have every scribe in the city working through every old
scroll and historical account they can get their claws on, and now
that Svarta and the other dragons are working beside them I have no
doubt. If there’s a dark elf well left in Emaneska then they’ll
find it’ Farden matched Vice’s intent gaze and nodded slowly as if
to reiterate his point. ‘There must be so much knowledge in
Farfallen’s memories, so many lost things, places, people,’ the
wine stole the mage’s words, and he sipped some more.

Vice nodded slowly. ‘That’s why
Helyard never wanted it to leave Krauslung, even though it was
blank, the stupid fool,’ he paused, then slapped his hand on his
thigh. ‘If you can trust the Sirens, then so shall I. I just hope
you know what you’re doing Farden, and so does the council.’ Vice
shrugged his shoulders and leaned back into his deep chair once
again.

‘I have their word,’ said
Farden.

‘Fine, but if the dragons are
too late, then we must be ready to fight this creature face to
face. I don’t care how many men it takes, we can’t let this thing
survive. Åddren and Helyard share my sentiments, and I’m sure the
Sirens feel the same way about the matter.’

‘They do, and that’s why I came
back,’ Farden assured him quickly.

‘Good, then by tomorrow night
the whole army will be ready to march. I will leave it up to you to
gather the Written, old friend. You will have all the hawks you
need at your disposal, and I will send word to the Spire that you
are to lead the others.’

‘The other Written, Vice…’
Farden began, but Vice held up a silencing hand and stopped him
with his mouth open.

‘No, Farden I don’t want to
hear another word, it’s about time you had your own command, and I
can’t think of another better suited for it. It’s time to put all
these rumours and gossips behind you and stop playing the hermit.’
The mage looked like he was about to protest again but Vice cast
him a look that said
my word is final
, so
Farden sighed resignedly and swilled the last of his wine around
the bottom of the cup.

‘For now, you will rest Farden,
I will have a room set up for you.’ Vice rubbed his hands together
and stood up.

He gulped down the last of the
warm drink and an idea unfurled in his head. The mage grinned.
‘Thank you friend, but there is a comfy bed in a comfy inn that has
my name on it.’

‘Hah, you like the old
Bearded Goat
then? It’s one of the oldest
taverns in the city,’ he said, and pushed himself up from the
chair. Vice strode across the room and left Farden to gather his
things. The supplies given to him by the Sirens still threatened to
burst out of his haversack, but at least he would not have to pay
for dinner tonight, he thought. Farden watched the tall Undermage
shuffle some scrolls on a desk and hum to himself. In a lot of ways
Vice was very similar to Durnus, both of them knew him too well and
cared a little too much. He was starting to realise how much he
needed such friends. Farden chuckled to himself; the wine always
made him think too much. Vice waved a hand at him dismissively.

‘Be gone with you then, you
hooligan, be here bright and early tomorrow. I’ll inform the
Arkmages later tonight and tomorrow we will speak to the council.’
Vice said and joined the mage at the door. They shook hands warmly
and the Undermage looked his friend in the eye. ’It is good to have
you back with us. I was worried.’

‘It’s starting to seem like
you’ll never get rid of me.’ Farden winked and turned to leave.

‘I bloody hope not,’ laughed
Vice. He watched the door close behind the mage, then he stretched
with a yawn and went to find where the rest of the mörd had gotten
to.

An hour later and true to form,
the blue glassy skies above Krauslung were becoming crowded with
billowing grey clouds rolling and piling on top of each other,
blotting out the first stars of the evening. The city was starting
to sparkle and glow with candles and torches and the cobbled
streets were as cold as the early twilight. Farden wandered on
through the streets towards his favourite inn. A spot of rain
landed on the back of his hand and he licked it, tasting the cold
water on his burning tongue. The wine had warmed his belly. He
tilted his face to the turbulent sky to feel the soft cold rain on
his sweaty skin. Thankfully there was no wind to chase the
raindrops, and Farden found himself in good spirits. Even though he
missed the dragons, it was good to be back in his city again, no
longer under the untrusting eyes of Siren soldiers and just another
hooded stranger in the street. He felt good, and strangely calm,
whole even. However brief, his stay in Nelska had done something to
him, and the mage allowed himself a small smile.

Farden quickened his pace, and
strode briskly through the rain and the darkness. The gloomy
puddles in the street rippled with orange light under the
flickering street lamps. A few passers-by coughed and shuffled on
the wet flagstones but they paid him no attention and the hooded
mage continued on through the night.

The
Bearded
Goat
was lively that evening, Farden could hear the noise
echoing through the dark alleyways from at least half a mile away.
At first he had thought a fight had broken out, as there were
several city guards leaning on their spears in the road, but then
the mage realised it was actually singing he had heard, not
fighting. The guards kept leaning and laughed at the drunkards of
the inn. Farden kept his hood down and passed them silently. The
rain splashed in the puddles and soaked the city to the bone.

A man had collapsed in the
gutter outside the inn, and he was still clutching his ale and
singing random lines with little bursts of energy and volume. One
of the guards tried to move him on with the butt of his spear but
the drunk refused to be uprooted from the wet cobbles, and argued
loudly how sober he truly was. He would probably still be there in
the morning. Farden chuckled to himself, and looked through the
windows at the commotion inside.

Had Farden wanted a meal and a
drink in the bar he probably would have cared a lot more, but
seeing as all he wanted was to get to his room, he greeted the
chaos with a bemused grin. Not one, but two bards had arrived that
night, and both were belting out old songs and
eddas
to the bustling crowd gathered at the bar. The
mage managed to make it through the door and slowly squeezed past
the drunken men, heading towards the stairs. He threw a sympathetic
look to the inn-keeper as he passed the bar. The man looked
stressed, and furiously doled out tankards of ale and wine in every
directions. Silver and copper coins clinked together in his
bursting pockets. At the end of the bar the two bards danced on a
tabletop, getting faster and faster and louder and louder with
every passing second, each trying to outdo the other with longer
and louder tales of war and heroism. The noisy drunk men sang the
bits they knew, and shouted the bits they didn’t, and drowned out
the ljots with the banging of bottles and tankards on wooden
tables. The whole inn was a deafening cacophony of noise, music,
and laughter. Farden watched the mayhem with wonder and slowly
shook his head.

To his right a man was trying
to cook a half-eaten sausage on the roaring heat of the fireplace,
while another skinny fellow was hidden under a table throwing up in
a hat. The gentleman whose hat it was laughed and pointed, and then
rambunctiously demanded he get another beer to compensate for the
vomiting. The skinny man kept at it. A few soldiers were leaning
against each other and the stairs, long off-duty but still in
armour. They stank of cheap wine and sang their own songs over the
chaos. They cheered as Farden nudged them aside with his elbows and
told him to join them. The hooded mage ignored their offers and
skipped up the steps to the second floor. They would be in for a
surprise in the morning, he thought, when Vice assembled the
army.

Once his door was shut and most
of the noise had been drowned out Farden threw off his wet cloak,
dropped his pack, and dropped into a nearby chair with a tired
sigh. The music was like a muffled droning under his floorboards,
and it permeated the walls and windows. Rain dripped and splashed
onto his windowsill from the lofty gutters above. Farden stared at
the wet night outside his room, thinking of the dragons and the
last few days. It was a blur, and he wasn’t sure what had really
happened. He rifled through his bag and looked at the things the
Sirens had given him. Most of it was still dry. He held the vial of
ice water in his hand. It was still freezing cold. The little book
on flying looked interesting, even if it was in a strange dialect.
The illustrations were detailed and depicted diagrams of how to
hold onto a dragon, and how a dragon moves in the skies. He tossed
it on the bed for later.

After a while Farden suddenly
realised that he was cold and that he needed to dry his clothes, so
he shuffled into a sitting position and tossed a bolt of fire at
the cold hearth. The dry wood there burst into flames with a snap
and a crackle and began to burn. He went to pull the window shut
and clenched his cold fists to warm them. The mage stretched out
his hands to feel the warmth of the sputtering logs and then threw
his cloak over the chair to dry. Farden perched on the edge of the
bed, near the fireplace, and wondered what the hour was. His head
still swam with the warm wine, and he could feel himself growing
tired. The bed and its blankets behind him looked inviting, and he
contemplated melting into it. With a grunt he allowed himself to
lean back and sprawl out across the mattress with his boots still
on the floor.

Farden let his mind rove and
wander through the dizzy sleepiness of the alcohol. Nights like
this were usually spent worrying and thinking too much, and the
last night he had spent at the inn he had met the grubby old man
with the pipe. But Nelska had calmed his thoughts, and the idea of
nevermar seemed distant and useless. Just what the dragons had done
to him he had no idea, but it had worked, and he was grateful.
Farden played with the dragonscale amulet around his neck, and
wondered what it would feel like to lose a dragon, or a loved one.
He thought of her face, and her skin, and her mountain-lake eyes.
Farden sighed. He would lie there for a moment, then unpack his
things, and then head to the Spire to see the girl that had been
stuck in his mind ever since he had left the city. The mage smiled
to himself, and stretched. He would get up in a moment, he told
himself, and closed his eyes.