The Written (4 page)

‘Jergan. Who is he?’

‘It would seem that he was once
a scholar in his own right, who lived at Arfell before the war. He
might have come across this book before when he lived with the
dragon-riders.’

‘Jergan worked with the
Sirens?’

Durnus made a face. ‘He is
Siren. He returned to Nelska and studied in Hjaussfen before the
war broke out. But apparently ten years ago he was attacked by a
lycan somewhere on the ice fields and fled to Albion, living in the
mountains to the north where he’s been under the wolf-curse ever
since. I’ve just heard word that a year ago he took up residence in
the Dornoch hills in the south and is now living alone somewhere on
the moors. It would seem the locals have lost many a sheep,’ he
paused. ‘Even the thought of a lycan makes me sick. Ugh.’ Durnus
shuddered. Farden smiled, distracted. A lycan in Albion sounded
dangerous. ‘When do I leave?’ he said, and stood up to stretch. But
as much as he tried to shake himself awake, the more he could feel
the tiredness creeping over him. The fatigue spell he had cast the
day before to keep him moving was finally starting to wear off.

The vampyre wagged a finger at
him. ‘Tonight Farden, you rest, and no arguments. You have plenty
of time for a good night’s rest and slumber. It’s not as though the
Arka will fall apart overnight,’ said Durnus.

‘As long as nothing happens to
their gold, then I think we’re safe,’ murmured Farden, and the
vampyre laughed. ‘Politics, Farden, politics and rules. That’s all
they care about. People like us belong out here on the fringes,
where it matters. Somehow I can’t see us cooped up in a hall
debating the finer points of civilisation,’ he said.

The mage nodded. He wandered
around the vampyre’s room and flicked through interesting-looking
parchments and book covers. ‘So you don’t miss it then?’ he asked.
Durnus threw him a quizzical look.

‘The city?’

‘Being in the thick of it,’

Durnus shook his head. ‘No. I
thought that was one of the reasons you came here Farden, like I
did, to get away from all the pressure and the gossip and the
politics.’

Farden muttered something to
himself as he picked up another book. ‘I know,’ he said aloud.
Durnus looked at the sleepy mage. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

The mage shook his head wearily
and he managed a smile. ‘I’m fine, don’t worry.’ The vampyre nodded
and grinned, showing a sliver of fang between his chalk lips.
‘Fancy some wine?’ he offered, and pointed to table in the corner
of the room. An ornate green bottle filled with a dark liquid sat
there, with two glasses nearby. Farden picked up the bottle and
wiggled the wooden stopper until it came free, and gave the liquid
a careful sniff. ‘As long as it’s not the blood of some poor local,
then yes, I would, please,’ he said, narrowing his eyes at his
friend. Durnus laughed, and gestured to the chair. Farden sat.

Despite his tiredness the mage
remained holed up in Durnus’s room for the rest of the evening,
their tongues wagging over war, peace, murder and magick, washing
their words down with plenty of wine. After a while the night
stretched into early morning and Farden finally left the vampyre’s
room. His head spun with tiredness and long conversation. He could
feel himself starting down a trail of thought that he disliked very
much.

The mage wandered through the
dark corridors of the Arkabbey and tried to calm himself.

As Farden lay down on his cold
bed thoughts began to bounce around his head like insects around a
candle, second-guessing and doubts rife in his shallow dozing.
Smothered by the darkness of his room he tossed and turned until
finally he banged his fist on the pillow in frustration. The mage
got up and stumbled across the stone floor until his foot kicked at
his travelling bag, full of supplies. He rummaged around for a few
seconds before finding what he was looking for. Going to the door
he locked it quietly and started unwrapping a small scrunched up
bit of bark-cloth. He stopped for a second to listen to the noises
of the night, and then quietly put a small bit of something on his
tongue. Farden went to the windowsill and stood there looking at
the dark forest outside his room. He closed his eyes and chewed,
and waited. After a while the mage felt the numb feeling gradually
climbing his spine, and the stuff began to sour in his mouth.
Farden spat, and heard the shadowy thoughts slowly quieten, felt
himself slowly forgetting. Before he felt too dizzy he grabbed a
nearby candlestick and wedged the bundle of bark-cloth into its
hollow base. With a thud he put the candlestick back on the bedside
table and let his world begin to melt. His head felt heavy and his
breathing slowed as the drug started to make his head spin. Farden
fell back onto his bed with a bang and slowly let sleep take him
hostage, all problems forgotten.

The mage was in a desert. The
thought that he might not have ever seen a desert had not yet
occurred to him, but he stood in a desert nonetheless, and lifted
his hands to the feel the hot rays of the strange red sun dance
across his skin. He wore only his trousers and the red-gold
vambraces, and his feet were bare. The cracked dusty earth quivered
and shook in the heat. Pebbles floated from side to side and tried
to hide from him. In the haze of the distance the horizon was
darkened by huge black mountains scraping at the heavens. Farden
looked up and around him, in all directions, he had never seen a
sky so big, so massive, or so empty and blue.

He felt something scratching at
his leg and looked down to find a skinny black cat impatiently
clawing at him. The thing mewed at him, and yawned cavernously, a
yawn too big for a cat that small, he thought, and he stared, and
watched the thing scratch about. It fixed him with an obsidian
gaze, eyes like two black scrying mirrors, and cocked its head on
one side.

‘What?’ asked Farden, but
nothing happened. Then, slowly at first, he became aware of his
skin starting to tingle and shiver, and sparks of pain began to
shoot up his arms, as if he had slept on them for too long.
Confused, Farden looked down to see flakes of burning skin peel
from his hands and wrists in great quantities, his arms and chest
started to brown and blacken, and the veins and arteries under the
skin melted into rivers of fire. His vambraces cracked and
splintered into pieces before his eyes, and fell to the dusty earth
with a dull clang that reverberated and roared and became an
unbearable noise in his ears, like the mountains were dragging
themselves forward, towards him, inch by inch, closing in. He
lifted his hands to his face and felt the charred bone underneath,
and watched shreds of flaming skin fill the air like a swarm of
locusts in the sudden hot wind. Farden opened his mouth to scream
but his tongue was too dry, and refused to move, and sat
smouldering between his black teeth. Before his eyes were burned
away, he looked down at the cat. It stared at him with a placid,
bored look, then its tiny mouth seemed to curl into a smile. The
mage heard a voice in his head speak clearly over the fire and the
roaring wind.

Follow the
dragons
, said the voice, and then the wind swallowed
him.

Sunlight streamed in through
the open window, piercing the sleeping mage’s eyelids like a yellow
spear, and sending a spark of pain jolting through his skull.
Farden swore darkly and hoisted himself out of bed. Remnants of a
dreams swirled around him, and dissolved to nothing in the morning
light. Soon there was a knock on the door and Elessi came in to the
cold room holding a small wooden cup of something and a bowl of
homemade porridge.

‘Good morning,’ she said with a
bright smile, her face the opposite of Farden’s mood.

‘Is it?’ Farden coughed and
tried to look awake, fighting off the effects of the night before.
He grabbed a nearby shirt and threw it on to cover his wound.
Elessi put the breakfast on a table in the corner of the room and
began to sort out clothes for his journey. Farden stalked over to
the table and sniffed the juice. Apple. He downed it in one gulp
and grabbed a spoonful of porridge. He managed one mouthful before
feeling ill.

‘How’d you sleep?’ Asked Elessi
as she cleaned part of his armour. His battered sword was on the
bed. The tired mage swept the blade from his scabbard and looked at
the notched edge, scarred from many a battle.

‘I need a new sword,’ he said
absently, then turned his attention to the maid bustling around in
his room. ‘I slept well, thank you for asking. Durnus and I talked
long into the night. Is he up yet or should I go wake him?’

‘Rumour has it he went out
hunting last night, but he should be in his room. It makes my skin
crawl when I think of what he’s been up to.’ Elessi shivered
momentarily.

‘He can’t help his nature. And
it does wonders to keep the villagers out of the forest.’ Farden
smiled wanly at his own joke. His head pounded like a drum.

‘Your armour is all cleaned,
and there’s a fresh cloak and tunic here for you. Fresh supplies
are in your ‘aversack as usual. I know how you don’t like searching
the kitchens for food, what with the other maids there,’ she said,
and made to leave. She lingered at the door for a moment.

‘Thank you Elessi,’ said Farden
as he tried another spoon of breakfast. She look as if she were
about to say something but thought better of it and closed the
door.

Farden milled around in his
room for a bit, struggling to shake the numbness he still felt from
the drug, the nevermar, the night before, and the strange remnants
of a vivid dream he could have sworn was so real. The mage rubbed
his cold skin and shook his head slowly.

He could feel the hangover
dimming his magick, like alcohol and the ability to walk in a
straight line. Farden took a warm cloth from a bowl of warm water
and dabbed it at the wound at his side. It was healing up nicely,
but was still an angry red and sore. It would be healed by the next
day. His fingers traced something on his back for just a second and
then he turned to face a bronze mirror in the corner of his modest
room and stared at his reflection.

Farden looked exhausted. His
dark, almost black, hair, was in a bit of wilder state than usual,
and from behind the tangled strands that lay across his face he
could see dark rings surrounding his grey-green eyes. The mage ran
an exploratory hand across his face, and examined the rest of him,
rubbing stubble and dust between his fingertips and blinking at his
bronze alter-ego to try and make it more acceptable. He was a tall
man, just over six foot and well built, perhaps a few years over
thirty. Nobody but Farden was sure. His arms and body bore
countless scars from blade and magick, random streaks of pinky
white criss-crossing his already pale skin like the paths of a
snail. There was a small tattoo on each of his wrists, a black
circular symbol with a line of thin script passing through it
towards his hand in a key shape. He scratched at them briefly and
then put on his red and gold vambraces to cover them up. Next came
a brown tunic made of rough cloth, and over that went his thick and
simple armour made from steel plates. It hugged his body closely,
but still allowed him to jump and move like a mountain wolf if
needed, unlike the thicker, more elaborate suits of armour from
Skölgard or Nelska. Farden strapped on a thick rust-coloured belt,
some more plate armour for his thighs, and heavy black ranger’s
boots. Lastly he donned a long black cloak with a hood and strapped
his sword into its scabbard on his back, arranging the red scarf to
wrap around his neck. Despite the pounding headache and dizzy
stomach Farden smiled a rare smile. He was ready to go once
again.

The hooded soldier slammed the
door to his room and bounded downstairs, barging past a few kitchen
boys carrying pitchers of milk. They stood dumbstruck as the dark
character swept off down the hallway, muttering only the briefest
of apologies. Farden walked into the main hall of the Arkabbey,
where a small shrine sat against the north wall and his footsteps
echoed loudly. Farden bowed his head and briefly knelt before the
effigy of a powerful looking woman holding scales in front of her,
as if asking for something. Her stern stone gaze looked out over
the myriad of candles that had been lit on her plinth. She was
Evernia, goddess of power to the Arka, and keeper of balance.
Farden whispered a standard prayer to the goddess and put a small
coin on a stone dish. The old gods didn’t interfere in the lands of
Emaneska like they did in the ancient days, but it was still wise
to stay on good terms with the fickle creatures.

Durnus dropped to one knee next
to Farden and whispered something to the stone statue. There was a
moment of silence as he finished his prayer. ‘I don’t often see you
paying homage to the old ones,’ he commented in a hoarse voice.

Farden shrugged. ‘It seems like
a good idea to keep on their good sides,’ he said. The vampyre
nodded. ‘That it does. How did you sleep?’ he asked. Durnus himself
looked tired. His eyes were even paler than usual, and the large
hooded cloak he wore did nothing to hide the fatigue hiding in bags
under his skin.

‘Everyone always asks me that
as if I were a stranger to a bed.’ Farden smiled. ‘Well, thank you.
I take it you had a good night then?’ he asked as he ran his hand
across the rough granite floor.

‘Gods damn those maids, they
have tongues like town criers. I would cast a mute spell on every
last one of them if I had the chance to do so. I take it Elessi
told you about that?’ Durnus cursed, bowing his head to the statue
as he stood up. He turned to leave and Farden followed him towards
a thin door. The thick cloth curtains shifted in a chill
draught.

‘She does like to talk that
one,’ grinned Farden. They walked down a dark corridor. The
Arkabbey was still in the process of waking up. The servants were
preparing breakfast for the slumbering soldiers, and a few scribes
wandered the halls, rubbing sleepy eyes and yawning.