The Written (31 page)

The corridor roared with noise,
but the stranger held firm, holding the disk straight out in front
of him and muttering the last few words of his spell. And at the
very last moment, mere seconds before the spears and swords cut him
into pieces, the stranger swung the disk in a wide circle and
completely disappeared, slipping into the bouncing, shaking air and
vanishing completely. The air in the hallway wobbled like a plucked
string and then slowly came to a stop. The Sirens skidded to a halt
and stumbled over eachother amidst shouts of surprise and rage.
They looked about them, bewildered, for any sign of the mage. But
he was gone.

Back on the beach, the wind
howled and the rain lashed the stones and shale. The crew in the
boat had done well to bring the boat into shore again, and they
crouched by the pale hull of their wooden vessel, and waited. They
did not have to wait for long.

Further up the beach a pile of
pebbles started to shake and jitter, rocking back and forth as the
air began to hum. Suddenly there was a loud sound, like the
cracking whip or a tree snapping in half, and the air split in two,
leaving a hooded man standing in the darkness. He looked down at
the gold disk in his hand, now caked in blood, and turned it over.
Shouts rang out from the cliffs behind him, and he heard the sound
of arrows against the wind. A few barbed shafts slammed into the
gritty sand next to him, and he started to walk briskly back to
where the waves crashed on the shore. The men in the boat were a
short distance away, but the archers were slowly getting used to
the range. He wiped rain and spray from his face and threw a quick
look behind him. There were soldiers running along the beach from
the west, and the black shapes of dragons were circling the
darkened summit of Hjaussfen. Their eyes could pierce the darkness
like an owl hunting a mouse, so the stranger doubled his pace, and
fled towards the sea.

The men beside the boat had
already pushed it into the water, and were now plying their oars
against the turbulent seas. The stranger was getting closer by the
moment, and he hopped from rock to slippery rock to dodge the
buzzing arrows. His hands were numb from the cold, and the wind
constantly buffeted him and tore at his cloak.

As he reached the shoreline he
looked back at the Sirens dashing after him across the rain-lashed
beach. A rancourous smirk crept across his lip, and he looked again
at the bloodied disk in his hand. With a chuckle he flung it
towards them and it clanged against the slippery stones. Lightning
flashed above him and caught the face of the gold, and he leapt
into the boat with a huge lunge. Oars and paddles instantly dug
deeper into the dark water, and the vessel lurched across the
roiling waves with the wind gnashing in its wake. The hooded man
stood upright in the bow of the ship, peering back at the shore and
holding onto his hood. A member of the crew pawed at his heel, and
shouted a question over the howling wind.

‘What?’ snarled the man.

‘Where d’ye want us t’ go your
Mage?!’ the man asked again

‘Around the coast, and to the
north. And be quick about it too if you don’t want to be speared by
the Sirens!’ shouted the man, and the sailor nodded, blinking as a
wave splashed against the side of the boat. He made to turn around,
but his master grabbed his shirt sleeve before he got away. The
hooded mage reached inside his cloak for the satchel.

‘Put this somewhere safe,’ he
said, and with a flick of his wrist he tossed it at him The sailor
caught it awkwardly, narrowly avoided dropping it into the iron
sea, and clutched it to his chest while he cast around for a dry
spot between the rowing men and the supplies.

An arrow thudded into the hull
of the boat, and the crew immediately started to row faster with
urgent hissing shouts. Perhaps it was the current and the winds
that pushed them, or maybe it was something to do with the mage at
the front of the boat, but either way they sped across the choppy
seas and into the stormy night. Snatches of words, fuelled by rage,
could be heard on the wind, yells, and banging. Bells and horns
shook the mountain of Hjaussfen behind them, distorted and muffled
by the weather. The men rowed on, and watched the dark skies with
wary eyes.

Part
Three

You only come
Alive in the Dark

“
As a whole,
the people of Albion are without a doubt utterly dimwitted,
displaying an idiocy only just surpassed by the foolish pomposity
of their so called “Dukes”. The citizens of this drab land seem to
spend their time standing on street corners scratching themselves,
or gambling, and gawping at the rest of the world flying past
without them. In all my years I’ve never met a more dull set of
people. But then again it’s probably why I enjoy hunting them so
much, they’re as slow as their cows...’

From the diary of Durnus
Glassren

Farden awoke when the bright
sunlight climbed over the rooftops and pierced the darkness of his
room. The rain had stopped in the night, and now an early morning
mist filled the streets and fogged the dirty windows.

The mage, however, hadn’t
noticed any of this yet, and he closed his eyes tighter against the
offending sunshine. The fading tendrils of the dream hovered behind
his eyelids. They confused him, annoyed him, ruined his sleep. They
were dreams without meaning and the mage tried to dismiss their
strange words as nonsense, but he couldn’t help but wondering why
the voice sounded so familiar, why he felt as though he should pay
attention. Farden shuddered as the hazy memories of the darkness
and the sand and the falling fire came back to him. He would keep
an eye on the weather, he decided, whatever that meant. Rolling
over he reached out for the beautiful girl in his bed but found
only empty space next to him. Farden shrugged. He had expected her
to disappear during the night, careful to keep their secret a
little longer.

Farden had often pondered what
would happen if they were discovered, what the magick council would
do, what would happen to them, and more importantly, what her
father would do. Cheska was a princess and very soon she would be a
Written, and that would make her by all reasons and definitions,
forbidden. A wave of anxiety washed over him, but after a moment it
was gone, replaced by a glimmer of hope and the feeling that his
life was finally starting to make sense. He felt the small dragon
scale amulet tapping against the skin of his neck, and thumbed its
rough surface contemplatively. From now on, he said quietly to
himself, things would get better, and then for once he let his mind
go quiet.

Farden smiled to himself and
put his hands behind his head, still refusing to open his eyes and
admit it was daytime. He let the events of last night wander
through his head. With a smile the mage stretched and his hand
knocked against something small and metallic on the pillow beside
him. Farden grabbed at the object and held it in front of him,
blinking his sleepy eyes into focus. It was Cheska’s fjortla, left
for him to keep until she had passed through the gruelling Ritual.
He gripped the bracelet so hard that it hurt his hand, and then
forced himself to sit up. He said a small prayer to the gods to
keep her safe and then got up to gather his scattered clothes.

The bar area was filled with
snoring or unconscious men, most of whom were sleeping under chairs
and on table tops, some covered in vomit, others lying flat on the
stone floor, swollen bellies rising and falling laboriously with
deep drunken breaths. The two bards had fallen asleep leaning on
each other, voices and fingers raw from performing. The innkeeper
had disappeared. He was probably nursing his own throbbing head
somewhere upstairs, Farden thought. He had to step over a huge man
in a guard’s uniform that lay blocking the doorway. His beard was
still wet with ale and his chest rumbled like a storm cloud. Farden
could smell the beer on his breath as he passed.

The streets were buzzing, and
everyone seemed to be rushing around. It was still early morning
and yet the roads were packed with noisy, bustling crowds. The mage
pushed his way into the street and joined the throng of teeming
citizens. Carts pulled by donkeys crowded the thoroughfares, and
their drivers yelled angrily for people to move and give way. The
whole city was in uproar.

Farden hoisted his hood over
his head and weaved through the crowds, pushing people aside with
his strong arms. Everywhere he looked he could see guards
frantically running back and forth, spurred on by the shouts from
their captains and sergeants. Vice and the magick council had been
busy this morning, Farden thought. He dug out a piece of dark dried
meat from his belt, the same fishy stuff he had eaten in Nelska,
and nibbled as he walked.

Even though he was only a short
distance from the Arkathedral it took him the best part of an hour
to reach the tall gates of the fortress, and even there people
clogged the roads and gathered at the foot of the walls. Farden
squeezed through a crowd of citizens that were angrily yelling at
the phalanx of soldiers standing at the gates. The armoured men
repeatedly shook their heads at the people and their captain was
pushing them back with a short wooden stave. Farden elbowed his way
forward.

‘What’s going on here?’
demanded Farden, once he was close enough to the officer.

‘Get back from the gates!’ The
soldier shouted at him.

Farden yanked his hood back and
held up one of his wrists to the man. The captain looked at the
mage and then at the symbol on his skin and bowed instantly. ‘My
apologies sire, these citizens are demanding refuge in the
Arkathedral, but we’re under orders from the Undermage not to let
anyone in besides soldiers or mages.’

‘Why?’ Farden looked at the man
with a quizzical expression.

The man shrugged. ‘They didn’t
say, but orders is orders and I do what I’m told. You’re better off
asking them inside, sir,’ he nodded towards the tall gates.

‘This city is a madhouse,’
Farden muttered, and the soldier laughed without any humour. ‘If
you think this is bad, then you’re not going to like it in there.’
Farden nodded grimly and the man bowed. He called to his men to let
the mage through and their ranks parted. Behind him he could hear
the captain poking and shoving the people away with his stave.
‘Back! Get back I say!’

Farden walked under the massive
gateway and instantly realised the soldier had been absolutely
right; the whole Arkathedral was alive and buzzing like a hornet’s
nest. The mage groaned. It was as if war had broken out while he
had been asleep, and now the grand marble atrium was stuffed and
crammed with all sorts of people. Servants scurried this way and
that through clusters of workers, their arms full of supplies and
boxes or pulling little carts behind them. Soldiers ran back and
forth lugging armour and bundles of weapons, yelling “move!” and
“mind out!” and pushing others to the floor. Guards stood at every
doorway and entrance. Everybody was shouting and rushing around.
Only a small few stayed relatively still amongst the disorder, and
they gathered in the corners of the marble hall, hooded and
conspiratorial in their little groups. Several of them noticed
Farden as he stood alone in the gateway watching the chaos. One man
in particular, a very thin willowy man with white-blonde hair,
broke away from the group and waded through the masses towards him.
The man proffered a hand, and Farden shook it warmly and smiled.
The symbols on their wrists flashed momentarily as they touched
skin.

‘Modren, at least there’s one
sane person amongst this mess,’ said Farden.

The man nodded. ‘Good to see
you again,’ he said quietly. Farden could barely hear him over the
roar and clatter of voices. The thin man seemed to sway gently,
like a sapling in the breeze, and his eyes were a deep green that
watched everything with the intensity of a hunting cat. He wore a
long red coat, and there were two swords on either side of his
belt. His whitish hair was short and waxed back, and a black ring
hung from his left ear. ‘Whatever’s going on here, it’s all gone to
shit, I’ll tell you that. Thialf and the others are over there.
Freidd is coming soon. Word came to the Spire that we were needed
here as soon as possible.’ Modren suddenly paused and gave him a
strange look. ‘The order sounded like it was from you,’ he
said.

Farden inwardly sighed, and
tried to seem confident. He matched Modren’s look. ‘The Undermage
has put me in charge of the Written for now. We have something very
dangerous to deal with.’

Modren shrugged, nodded, and
then grinned, showing off a set of perfect white teeth. ‘Sounds
like my kind of fight,’ he said with relish. ‘And if you’re in
charge, well, so be it, couldn’t think of somebody more suited to
the job. Better one of us than some bureaucrat.’

Farden nodded, ‘Let’s hope the
others feel the same.’

‘Doesn’t matter if they don’t,
Undermage’s word is law.’

‘What’s this I see? Emaneska’s
most dangerous hermit is out and about for once!’ laughed a gruff
voice from behind them. They both turned to see a stocky mage with
a shaven head and tribal tattoos covering half of his face. He was
smiling lopsidedly at Farden. ‘It’s been a long time,’ said the
man. Farden nodded silently and smiled back.

Modren held out a palm to the
muscular newcomer. ‘Good to see you Ridda,’ he said. Ridda
chuckled. He still hadn’t taken his eyes off of Farden. ‘So what
brings you out of your cave then?

‘The usual,’ said the mage,
‘something needs killing.’

Ridda made a humming sound, and
then laughed, clapping Farden on the arm. ‘Don’t they always.’ He
rubbed his hands together and watched a servant fly past with a
pile of books in his hands. ‘What’s all this about then, any
ideas?