The Written (3 page)

From writings found in the
libraries of Arfell

The hooded stranger travelled
without rest for two days, heading south through field and forest
and river and hill. By the second day the man crested a muddy knoll
and took a moment to catch his breath. Before him in the valley lay
a small village called Leath, built on a rocky crag that overlooked
a metallic-looking river and muddy fields. He narrowed his eyes at
the tiny town. Its inhabitants had always been wary of strangers,
and feared his kind especially. They were a superstitious lot,
concerned only with their farming and their drinking. The cloaked
man decided to give the village his usual wide berth and take the
winding route back to the Arkabbey. He hopped over a few rocks and
slid over some shale, and then headed west around the town,
sticking to the wilder roads and the copses.

A few hours later the man was
treading through the thick loam of the Forest of Durn, a shady wood
south of Leath that was seldom entered or explored by the
villagers. Rumour had it that a fierce vampyre lived somewhere
amongst the dark trees, feeding off the blood of any Albion soul
that would trespass in his woods. The stranger obviously didn’t
believe in any such rumour, and paid attention only to the
surrounding forest that was still deep in the clutches of winter.
The trees were alive with the breath of a light wind, whispering
branches and creaking bark. A few animals scuttled around in the
frozen loam. Somewhere a bird cried out. The stranger kept
walking.

Soon the hooded man made it to
his destination, and found a small winding trail in between a path
of bushes and pine trees. Brown needles crunched under his feet as
he picked his way under branches and around rocks. After a while he
spotted the light of a hidden clearing ahead and he walked towards
it, still careful to follow the almost indistinguishable trail
through the undergrowth. All of a sudden the trees gave way,
revealing a small glade and a tall brick building that had been
completely concealed by the forest. This was the Arkabbey, one of
many like it that had been quietly built around the lands of Albion
and Emaneska. Smoke rose from the windows of the kitchen and the
noise of wood chopping and other work echoed over the grounds. The
tall bell tower rose high above the trees, with glass windows and
balconies punctuating its thick granite walls. The bell had been
silent for decades, and the man couldn’t remember the last time he
had heard its doleful pealing. Workers and other people were
milling around the gardens and taking in the brisk air. The man
nodded to a few familiar faces as he walked across the lawn towards
an open doorway. The cold grass underneath his boots was slippery
and looked well tended to, clipped short and tidy, if not a little
brown. There were a few beehives to his left amongst the trees.
They seemed lifeless and quiet. There was a calmness floating on
the chill breeze. An armoured soldier standing by the door saluted
him with his spear while staring straight ahead.

The man strode inside the arch
and felt the warmth of the busy building on his cold skin. He
rubbed his hands and shook the mud and ice from his boots and
listened to the sounds of cooking and working echoing on the stone
walls. With a tired sigh the man walked on, up a few flights of
stairs, down a few corridors, and around a few corners until he
came to a simple oak door. He pushed it open with a bang.

A woman jumped and dropped the
bundle of tunics she was carrying and put her hand to her chest in
fright. ‘Oh! Farden, it’s you,’ she flapped her hand like a
fan.

‘Same old.’ The man threw his
hood back and smiled at the girl. Elessi was his maid and somewhat
of a friend to him, and had done a bit more than just picking up
after him over the years. She always seemed to be wearing a
cherubic smile or a concerned frown, and her deep brown eyes were
always wide, as if she had just been handed the juiciest tidbit of
gossip. Farden would never had admitted it, but Elessi’s
stubbornness had kept him on track more than once in the last few
years.

Blowing her curly brown hair
from her round and blushing cheeks, the maid started to pick up the
dropped clothes. ‘You could have knocked,’ she said, flustered.

‘To my own room? You shouldn’t
be sneaking around in here.’ Farden threw her a quick smile to melt
her icy stare. He threw his cloak on the small bed and sat on the
windowsill, watching the trees shiver outside.

‘Gods know someone needs to
look after you magick lot. Where’ve you been to this time? Oh! Is
that blood on your side?’ Her face instantly creased up with worry
and she rushed to the window to see.

Farden glanced down at the
roughly-bandaged gash that the dragon had given him along the right
side of his ribs. He waved Elessi away as she tried to see the
damage. ‘Don’t worry about it, you know it will heal… Elessi calm
down it’s fine!’ He shooed her away gently and covered it up with a
shred of tunic.

‘Well what was it this time?
Another minotaur? It was a bandit wasn’t it, I knew it.’ Elessi
stood there with her hands on her hips like a scolding mother.
Farden looked at her.

‘Elessi, we’ve known each other
a long while, and you’ve seen me heal from worse wounds before,’ he
said. She just raised her eyebrows at him. He stretched and
grimaced as he moved around. ‘I’ll be fine in a day,’ he said, then
closed his eyes and leaned back against the stone to end the
matter. ‘It was a wild dragon. They hunt magick.’

‘Well no matter what it was, it
looks bad to me. At least let me put a poultice on it to bring out
any poison,’ Elessi asked. ‘You’re not indestructible, Farden and
gods know I’ve told you before, jus’ like his lordship in the bell
tower!’

‘A thousand times,’ muttered
Farden, listening to her earnest rustling. She moved to a nearby
jug of water and brought back a wet cloth. The chambermaid dabbed
the crusted blood from his ribs and Farden clenched his teeth.
There was a moment of silence. ‘Sometimes I think you like throwing
yourself into danger all the time,’ she said.

Farden didn’t answer. Instead
he opened his eyes and stared at the leafless trees waving at him
outside. Her hands were cold and so was the water but it felt good
on the burning skin, dry and dusty from the long walk south. He
felt her hands stray to his back and the silence became a little
too awkward. The mage spun around and deftly caught her wrist. ‘How
many times do I have to tell you?’ asked Farden in a low voice,
with more than a hint of severity. He stared into her chestnut
eyes, and slowly and gently let go of her arms.

Elessi looked upset. ‘I’m
sorry, I just wanted to s…’ she began, but Farden held up a hand.
He rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes again.

‘Enough,’ he said, and the maid
backed away. She picked up his cloak and some other clothes and
turned to leave. ‘Durnus is waiting for you upstairs,’ she
said.

Farden nodded and heard the
wooden door click shut. With a sigh he held the wet cloth to his
side. Elessi was a kind soul and she looked after him well, but her
curiosity was dangerous. It might have seemed harsh keeping her at
arm’s length but it had to be done, and her feelings had to be
sacrificed in the process for her safety. There were rules, and
even though she was his friend, rules and the Arka came first. It
was refreshing though, to be treated with respect, as opposed to
the usual uncertainty and fear he received from most of the
population of Albion. Farden was usually treated with a mild
neglect here, as more of a dark omen than a blessing, stared at
with wary melancholy eyes, at a lone foreign soldier passing
through. Farden didn’t really like people. People were rude, people
were ignorant, oblivious to how the real world worked and moved,
like ants.

He grunted and scratched at his
back and bloodied side. His vambraces felt heavy and he could feel
weariness slowly creeping over him, but with resolve he made for
the door. Time to see Durnus.

A thin old man sat with his
back to the door, watching the flames crackle and pop in the
fireplace. Drapes hung thick and heavy over the windows, making the
huge room dim and full of flickering shadows. Candles dotted the
floors and walls, ensconced in holders and perching on tall piles
of books. A massive map of Albion hung on the far wall, showing the
distant shores of Nelska, and the cliff cities of Halôrn to the
south east. Farden quietly closed the door behind him, completely
silent. His bare feet slowly crept across the cold stone floor
towards the old man in his comfy chair.

‘You’re late,’ said the old man
in a raspy voice. The noise made Farden flinch. The travel-weary
mage laughed and moved forward to an empty chair by the fire. ‘For
gods’ sake, Durnus how do you do that?’ The man laughed a
whispering cackle, and grinned widely, baring sharp fangs. Farden
slumped into the comfy armchair and sighed, wincing as his wound
scraped against his tunic.

‘You never remember that I have
the hearing to rival that of a bat Farden, whereas you have the
footfall of a work-horse.’ Durnus chuckled again and poked at the
fire with a long metal rod. ‘The sun is still up then I take
it?’

Farden nodded, and stared into
the fire in silence. The old figure in the chair next to him was
one of his oldest friends, and one of Emaneska’s sharpest
historical minds. Durnus’s eyes were a blue so pale that they
almost bordered on white, and his skin was like white paper
stretched over a thin frame. His features were sharp and bony and
his greying hair was swept back and slicked down, neatly curled
behind his tall ears and stopping just short of his shoulders. His
fangs peeked from behind pale lips when he laughed. Farden had
often wondered how old he truly was.

‘Good,’ he said. The vampyre
settled back in his chair and closed his eyes. ‘Report,’ he
whispered.

Farden went to it with a will,
recalling every detail of his journey to Carn Breagh, telling
Durnus of the strange corridor inside the bowels of the castle and
his fight with the wild wyrm. The vampyre merely nodded along,
musing at the appropriate points, occasionally clearing his throat
and stroking his sharp chin with a frail hand. After a while,
Farden ran out of information and Durnus opened his eyes. ‘I shall
send a full account to the Arkathedral in the morning, but Carn
Breagh can wait for now. Something terrible has happened in
Arfell,’ he said, and his face turned very grave.

Farden looked confused. ‘The
library?’

Durnus nodded. ‘The very same.
I received a hawk this morning from Krauslung, relaying some of the
darkest news I have heard in a long time.’ He paused for some sort
of dramatic effect. Farden knew the old vampyre loved mystery and
intrigue, and he waited. After a moment he continued. ‘Two nights
ago, someone broke into the library and murdered five of the
scholars in cold blood. It was late at night, and nobody saw or
heard anything. Two of the scholars were found burnt to a crisp. It
seems that a valuable object, a book of some kind, is the only
thing that’s missing.’ Durnus crossed his legs and drummed his
nails on the arm of the chair.

Farden let the information sink
in. ‘Well what was it?’ he asked.

‘No one knows. A message had
come to the Arkathedral only that day, saying that the scholars in
question had found a book in their collection, a powerful Siren
book that we had taken years ago during the war. The scholars had
only just begun to work at it, but requested that the Arkmages
should travel to Arfell to help with the translations.’ Durnus
leaned forward.

‘This book must have been
special to request the presence of the Arkmages,’ mused Farden.

‘Exactly. The message came to
the council, and before Åddren or Helyard had a chance to leave,
the scholars were murdered and the book was stolen. And let me tell
you, from what I gathered in the message the Arkathedral is in
uproar. Helyard is blaming everyone under the sky, especially the
Sirens, and the good Lord Vice has ordered a regiment of his guards
up to the mountains to see if the assassin returns,’ said Durnus,
his eyes wide with excitement.

‘Well what is this book about?
Why is it so powerful?’

‘Again nobody has a clue. The
hawk sent by the library wasn’t exactly full of information. You
know what the old men at Arfell are like, full of secrecy and
intrigue. All the message said was that the book was in good
condition, locked, and of the utmost importance. Apparently it was
small, covered in black dragon scales and was protected by a
powerful golden seal, with a spell that would require one of the
powerful Arkmages to crack. They assumed it was Siren or perhaps
even older, and that it might contain an immense amount of
formidable magick. That was it.’

‘Sounds dangerous,’ Farden
said. He got up and revived the dying fire with a few logs and a
spark of flame from his hands. Durnus flicked a tongue around one
of his sharp teeth in thought. ‘Indeed.’

Farden knew his friend had a
theory, but that he was waiting to be asked, so he relented, and
smiled. ‘What are you thinking?’

Durnus leaned further out of
his chair and made the frame squeak. ‘One of the explanations I can
muster is that the Sirens have a spy in the council. They were the
ones who we stole it from in the first place, it seems sensible to
assume they would want it back.’

‘A fair idea, but we can’t
dismiss that it was someone other than the dragon-riders. It’s been
fifteen years since the war and the ceasefire has never been
broken, so why would they risk breaking it to retrieve one little
book?’ Farden asked.

‘That depends on the value
hidden within its pages. But who else then friend? Skölgard has no
interest in magick like we do, nor could their sorcerers even know
of such a book’s existence. We ourselves didn’t even know of it
until a couple of days ago. If this book is as powerful as we think
it might be, then the Siren wizards would most definitely risk a
ceasefire to get it back into their scaly hands.’ Durnus’s words
made sense, but Farden didn’t like the sound of them. Something did
not feel quite right. The old vampyre spoke up again. ‘The Arkmages
have sent word that you are to find a man named Jergan in the south
of Albion. My research indicates that he might know what this book
is, and who could of stolen it.’