The Written (35 page)

‘Fine.’ said Modren, and the
two mages strode purposefully down the corridor and into the
atrium. It was buzzing, as it had been all day, and once again they
had to push and barge and shout and squeeze to get through the mass
of people. Farden waved to Modren and fought his way outside and
back onto the streets. Within half an hour he was back at the
Bearded Goat
and quenching his thirst with
fresh cold rainwater. The drunks had been turfed out and gotten rid
of, and the inn was being slowly cleaned by a set of very tired
staff indeed. The innkeeper barely said a word to the mage. He had
deep purple bags under his eyes and his hair resembled a
dishevelled haystack. Farden paid the man for his room and his
drink, and then went upstairs to gather his things. It was just
past midday, and there were at least four or five hours until
sunset. He slumped onto the bed and quickly fell into a deep
sleep.

When he awoke it was no more
than an hour later, and he felt refreshed and eager. The sun was
beginning its slow fall to the western slopes, and the city outside
his window was still crowded and turbulent. He was glad he had kept
the window shut. Farden stretched, and then yawned, and then got of
of bed. Most of his clothes were already packed, seeing as he
hadn’t quite unpacked yet, but his sword was blunt and his boots
were looking a little too worn. He checked his supplies, of which
he had plenty thanks to the Sirens. The little vial of ice water
sparkled blue in the sunlight. The maps they had given him didn’t
make much sense, but they could come in useful, so he packed them
as well. The book followed, as did Cheska’s fjortla, and then he
was ready to go. Farden grabbed his cloak from the chair and flung
it around him. Something solid knocked against his shoulder, and he
made a confused face. The mage rummaged around in the pockets until
he found the culprit: the Weight. He brought it out into the light
and ran his coarse fingers over the gold, feeling the ridges and
dents of the script. The words were strange, foreign, like the old
spellbooks he had seen on Durnus’s shelf. Farden handled the disk
as if it would explode in any moment, as if it would whisk him away
to some unknown place just by holding it. He carefully put it back
in his pocket, and made sure it was safe. With that, he was done,
and he hoisted his pack and his sword onto his shoulders. Once
again, the mage was ready to go.

Farden left the
Bearded Goat
jogging and headed towards the nearest
market. People were beginning to barricade doors and windows with
planks and boxes. Someone had left an old cart in the middle of the
road, and a man had clambered on top of it, yelling at the top of
his voice that war was coming. There was a bottle in his hand, and
he swayed back and forth as the cart rocked. Soldiers stood on
every street corner and patrols meandered through the crowds. They
seemed restrained, edgy, and Farden didn’t blame them. He looked up
at the sky. The clouds were still gathering, as they had been since
that morning. No doubt Helyard was up to something, sitting
shackled in his cell. Shadows scuttled over the city as clouds
passed over the sun, and the light of the clear day began to fade.
As he strode briskly through the streets, Farden kept an eye on the
weather.

The mage found the market, and
crammed as it was with people, he managed to make his way to the
blacksmith’s forge. Weapons were piling up on the tables, and a
backlogged queue of soldiers stood tapping their feet and fingers.
Their expressions were of impatient boredom, and they were all
silent, waiting for their turn. Farden approached the line of men.
He could feel their eyes on him. As he moved to join the back of
the queue, they moved, one by one, out of his way, and gestured for
him to move forward. Farden nodded and smiled as each man silently
shuffled aside. Word spread fast in the city.

A skinny young boy took his
sword and unsheathed it, testing its edge. He couldn’t have been
more than ten years old, but he swung it around him once or twice,
nodded, and then gave it to the man at the grindstone. He looked at
it, thumbed the blade, and then spun his wheel. A shower of sparks
flew from the steel and it hissed and whined as the metal moved
against the rough grey edges of the stone. Farden waited, running
his hands over the armour and shields on display, and thought to
himself.

After a moment, the blade was
finished, and the boy handed it back to the mage. Farden could see
the boys eyes widen hungrily at the sight of the red and gold metal
around his wrists. Farden smiled and tapped them with a finger.
‘Not for all the coin in the world, boy,’ he said, and walked off,
nodding his thanks to the line of soldiers as he left.

Replacing his boots took a
while, as it seemed difficult for the people at the stalls to find
any pairs that fit him. After an hour or so he found a pair of
black travelling boots which matched his black cloak, and they
hugged his feet comfortably. Once they had been “blessed” by the
owner of the stall, a very strange and twitchy young man, Farden
left, and headed back towards the Arkathedral. He gathered a few
more supplies on his way out, but just as he was about to escape
the clutches of the busy market, he saw a tiny little stall, no
more than a banner and a tall box, hiding under the porch of an old
building on the corner of the street. A tall woman, almost taller
than him, stood behind the stall and watched the passing commotion
with a calm and expressionless face. He didn’t have time to spare,
but there was something about her wares that caught his eye. Spread
out on the top of the dusty box was a white cloth, and dotting the
cloth were stones and gems of all different kinds. Farden walked a
little closer and looked at them.

Some had smooth surfaces, and
some were rough and spiky. One glittered in the fading light and
shined with every colour imaginable. Another looked like a lump of
gold while the rest were collections of deep molten purples and
greens, metallic mottled oranges and veiny crimson reds. Farden
couldn’t help but examine each of them, while the tall serene woman
watched him calmly. ‘Would you like help, sire?’ she asked, and
Farden looked up at her. She was pale, very pale, and had long
jet-black hair that reached her hips. Her limbs and fingers were
thin, like her face, as if her whole body had been stretched and
drawn out. The woman’s eyes were like a lizard’s, and almost seemed
to move independently of each other, dark, serene, and inexpressive
like two murky rockpools of glassy water. Farden pointed to the
small cabochon quartz that was nearest to him. It slowly changed
colour, back and forth between green and red.

‘What is this?’ he asked, and
she leaned forward as if she had just noticed the stones for the
first time. ‘The bloodstone heals feuds, and protects against
injustice,’ her voice was small and without accent, and strangely
monotone. ‘Many women come to me for it, to bring back lost
lovers.’ She pointed to a grey stone that shimmered like steel.
‘This too, they buy,’ she said, and then cocked her head to one
side like a bird looking at a worm. ‘Are you here for a woman?’

Farden quickly shook his head.
‘No, well yes, but just a present for my, er, sister. She’s gone
away for three days, and I wanted to get her something for when she
returns,’ said the mage, with a brief smile. ‘Which she will,’ he
added.

The woman grinned back at him,
but it was a tight expression that bore no emotion. ‘Well then,
Written, this would be a fine and useful present for her.’ Her long
fingers moved over the cloth slowly, and then finally rested on a
brass-coloured rock. It looked like a lump of tarnished gold, full
of angular faces and sparkling edges. ‘These fall from the stars in
the east, usually in the morning hours. Some call them the stones
of fire, others daemonstones. But they show the truth of things
hidden, give hope, and make an excellent present for a, a loved
one.’

‘My sister,’ said Farden.

The woman nodded and smiled
again. ‘Of course.’ The mage rubbed his chin. ‘How much?’ he asked.
‘Only two silver for my trouble,’ said the skinny woman. He had
never really bought a present for anyone before, but it seemed nice
enough, and Farden reached for his coins. He placed two silver bits
on the cloth and the woman snatched them away before wrapping the
small rock in a sheet of waxy brown paper. Her hands moved rapidly
over the package to the sound of crackling paper, and soon enough
Farden’s present was wrapped, and waiting in the thin woman’s
hands. He smiled again, uneasily, and reached for it. From the way
the corner or her mouth curled, and the way she stared at him, he
half expected her to pull back and ask for something more, but she
didn’t move a muscle. The mage stuffed the paper package inside his
cloak and made to leave. The woman looked to the grey skies with
her glassy eyes and muttered to herself. ‘Rain’s on its way, it
seems,’ she said.

Farden looked up at the clouds
gathering overhead, their dark bases heavy with precipitation. The
Arkmage was hard at work indeed, and it was time to meet the rest
of the Written. He nodded to the strange woman and left her stall,
feeling her strange gaze upon his back. The gem knocking against
his chest with every step he took, and every time it bumped him he
thought of Cheska. Farden would keep it for her, while she was in
the Spire, and after, once she was rested and healed, he would give
it to her as a present. He could almost see her face lighting up in
his mind. He took a deep breath, and seeing as she had kept him
safe so far, he threw a quick prayer to the goddess and made his
way towards the Arkathedral, just as the first heavy rain drops
began to fall, and as darkness gathered in the corners of the
wintry skies.

Almost an hour later he reached
the Arkathedral gates. Heavy raindrops splashed on the walls,
soaking everything to the bone, making buildings creak and swell, a
city drowned in the downpour. With the outbreak of rain the streets
had quickly emptied. The angry crowds had dispersed and the people
had gone home for the evening to shut their doors and pull their
curtains. There was no shouting to be heard, no revelling, the news
of the Arkmage’s incarceration had spread fast and the blow had
been heavy. Farden looked around and listened to his boots splash
in the bubbling puddles. Krauslung seemed strangely subdued and
quiet that evening.

Modren was waiting for him in
the rain, hood up and grinning like a fool. He watched Farden
striding across the cobblestones towards him and raised a hand. He
walked towards him and shook himself loudly with a shiver.

‘Getting cold out here,’ said
Modren.

‘You are standing in the rain,’
replied Farden. The mages walked forward to where the torches
hanging from the Arkathedral walls sputtered. The gates were barely
ajar, and there was a loud clamouring from behind them, a roar that
rose above the noise of the raindrops. Bright light poured onto the
street and the guards at the gates looked unsettled and wary.
Modren leaned towards Farden and whispered behind a cupped hand as
they reached them. ‘You wait until we get inside, mate, I haven’t
seen something like this in a long time.’ Farden threw him a
quizzical look, and then realised what he was talking about. His
heart began to beat. Without any ado whatsoever the guards pushed
the heavy doors open and the bright torchlight momentarily blinded
the two mages. The roaring noise slowly ground to a halt, and as
Farden blinked the spots from his eyes, more than a hundred faces
turned to look at him. His stomach suddenly bubbled with momentary
fear, or maybe stage-fright, Farden couldn’t tell.

Modren had been right. The main
atrium was crammed with Written. Farden wasn’t sure he’d seen so
many of them in his lifetime, and his heart filled with pride. They
were armed, equipped, eager, and ready to fight, eyes blazing with
the anticipation of battle. Farden looked over the multitude of
different faces, picking out a few he had fought with many times,
others he had never seen before. Fresh-faced confident youngsters
stood beside grim hardened men, both standing battle-scarred and
more than a little proud. Every Written wore that smile, the one
the Farden had flashed countless times, that self-assured mettle
that burned across their faces and their backs. Farden tried to
stand as tall as he could. He tried to look authoritative. He tried
to act like he belonged to this crowd. He tried to forget that they
all knew about his uncle. Any eyes that held his gaze too long he
tried to drill into them, command their respect. He tried to do a
hundred things, and he wanted to be everything everyone was
expecting.
If the Undermage thinks you’re
capable, then so should you.
Cheska’s words echoed in his
mind.

Farden spoke clearly and with a
commanding tone. ‘Listen up!’ he barked. Farden could hear his name
being whispered around the marble hall. He ignored them. ‘I’m sure
you all know me, and for those who don’t then I expect you soon
will. No doubt you’ve heard about Helyard, and the traitors who
killed the scholars at Arfell. Word has always travelled fast in
these parts.’ A few people chuckled, others nodded. There was more
whispering.

‘I’m not going to waste our
precious time talking, so here’s the problem. The ones who killed
the old scholars stole a book, a powerful summoning manual from the
times of the dark elves. Using this book, they want to release an
ancient monster that will tear Emaneska in pieces, and now that
Helyard has been thrown in jail the council have no doubt that the
rest of these traitors will accelerate their plan. The only chance
we have is to find a dark elf well before they do, and that’s why
we’re going to Albion tonight, to the port of Dunyra.’ Farden took
a breath and looked at the calm faces of the crowd, simply waiting,
staring at him, and not even the slightest bit worried. The mage
didn’t hesitate to continue. ‘We all know that we’re the best at
what we do because we’ve spent our lives proving it. And, once
again, the safety of the Arka rests on our shoulders, and we’re
going to put a stop to all this nonsense, the only way the Written
know how. I’m not ordering you to go, I’m saying let’s go do our
job, so let’s do it fucking well as always!’