The Written (40 page)

Farden was suddenly amongst
them, striking left and right with his knife, hacking ruthlessly at
arms and legs. Men fell awkwardly crying out in pain all around.
One man landed a blow on Farden’s shoulder, but he darted sideways
and stabbed backwards, catching the man in the groin. His face
crunched up in pain as Farden quickly grabbed his throat and sent a
river of lightning through his bones. The man shook like a rag doll
and then went limp and lifeless when the spell stopped his
heart.

‘Farden!’ Durnus called out
from behind him. He was pinned to the floor and was trying to stop
a dagger from being pressed any closer to his throat. The man on
top of him snarled as he pushed his entire weight in the handle,
locked in slow battle with the old vampyre. Durnus’ eyes were wide.
The blackened steel tip began to tickle the papery skin of his
neck.

Farden leapt forward and kicked
the attacker squarely in the ribs with the thick toe of his right
boot. The crack of bone was an audible snap and the man instantly
collapsed by the vampyre’s side in a ball. Farden kicked the dagger
aside and slammed him up against the nearest wall. He tore away the
face cloth, but it wasn’t a face he recognised. Furious anger
bubbled up inside him, building and building in his chest like one
the volcanic springs at Hjaussfen. Farden shook with rage and a
deep growl burned the back of his throat. Fists clenched white, the
rumbling became a guttural roar of fury and he struck the man hard
in the jaw with a sickening thud. He slumped to the cold floor
unconscious and silent. There were none left in the corridor to
kill. The bells had fallen silent.

‘Agh!’ The mage pulled at his
hair in exasperation.

‘Farden, let’s get out of here
while we still can! Come on!’ The vampyre tugged at the mage’s
cloak as he ran limping back through the broken door frame to his
room. Durnus hobbled into the centre of the room and paused.

‘Elessi? Elessi!’ he shouted.
The damn maid was nowhere to be seen.

‘Can we go now?’ said a voice,
and a shaking hand emerged from behind one of the huge
armchairs.

‘Yes, now get up and come
here!’ The vampyre snapped impatiently. He rushed to the pedestal
standing in front of the quickdoor and flipped through the pages,
murmuring the incantations and spells.

‘Farden?’ Elessi warily crept
from behind the chair and looked around for the mage. Standing
outside in the corridor in the dark Farden was silently fuming and
staring at the unconscious stranger on floor. His mind racked every
possibility, went over every piece of information, and still
nothing seemed to offer an explanation. He felt useless in the face
of such deep treachery, confused and bewildered. Farden flinched as
a hand alighted softly on his shoulder. It was Elessi, her eyes
wide and fearful.

‘Durnus is making his door
thing work, it’s time to leave,’ she said softly.

Farden nodded and looked at the
fallen bodies around them. Some were still groaning with pain. He
wanted to dig a blade into every single one of them, just to teach
them a lesson.

A raspy shout came from the
vampyre’s room. ‘Farden I swear to the gods I will carry you
through this door myself if you don’t hurry up! It’s almost ready!’
With a grunt the mage hopped over the splintered mess of door and
helped Elessi do the same. The air in the room crackled with the
quickdoor’s energy and there was a low familiar humming. Durnus
whispered words to his pages as he flipped each one. Farden led the
maid forward and stood her next to the vampyre. ‘Keep your arms and
legs tucked in, close your eyes, and try not to think too much,’ he
said, speaking in what he assumed to be a calming voice. Elessi was
shaking already and she began to bite her nails with agitation.

‘And hold your breath too,’
Durnus slammed the heavy book shut with a forced grin. ‘You’ll be
absolutely fine dear, do not worry. Now come, you first.’

‘But...’ She raised a finger to
protest but Durnus ushered her forward to the steps. The wavering
translucent surface hissed at her and she flinched. The cold wind
from the other side was already starting to blow through the room.
It ruffled the curtains and pulled at the fire.

‘No buts Elessi, we need to go
now,’ said Farden.

‘Does it hurt?’ she asked and
the vampyre sighed loudly with impatience. Shouts echoed along the
corridor outside.

‘Not as much as I will if you
don’t move that ample backside of yours and get through that door!’
Durnus shouted and she darted forward with fright, half-stepping
half-tripping through the fizzing surface. Her scream trailed off
like a distant echo.

‘Was that a bit much?’ the
vampyre looked to Farden.

‘Maybe. You’ll find out on the
other side,’ the mage shrugged and winked. He looked behind him as
he heard the sound of a blade on stone.

Durnus put a hand on his
friend’s shoulder. ‘Thank you Farden, for coming for us. I don’t
think I would have...’he began.

‘Nonsense old friend, you
finally got the chance you were looking for,’ Farden smiled. ‘This
is a conversation for later Durnus, go, before it closes!’ The
vampyre moved forward and waited on the steps of the quickdoor,
watching his bold friend. The mage kicked an armchair aside and
stood in front of the broken doorway with fire starting to wander
over his fingers.

‘You have time!’ cried Durnus.
‘Farden! There’s no shame in running to fight another day!’

‘They can follow us! Go! Before
it’s too late and we’re both stuck here!’ Farden met Durnus’s gaze,
and the look in his pale eyes was grave. They both understood the
situation and Farden knew what had to be done. The vampyre nodded
and jumped into the quickdoor. Just as he disappeared the arches
shook and with a gurgling whine the portal vanished. Farden gritted
his teeth and smiled from the corner of his mouth. He relished a
good fight.

The first man through the door
received a face full of flame and ran around the room screaming.
The mage ducked an ambitious sword swing from the next and a punch
to the stomach winded the man. Farden’s skull smashing into his
nose made him drop his weapon. Before the men could recover he had
already disappeared down the corridor.

The mage careened around
corners and flew down stairs, jumping entire flights in windmilling
leaps. Screams and shouts now came from every corner of the abbey
and bodies were piling up in the corridors and doorways. Righteous
anger pounded in Farden’s chest as he ran to where the sounds of
battle were loudest.

‘Jus’ tell us where ‘e is an’
we won’t af to ‘urt you, will we my pretty?’ The thug’s leering
grin made the young maid shiver even more. Half a dozen other
servants sat kneeling around the statue of Evernia in the main
hall, cowering and frightened. A score of men stood around them
holding blades and eying the shadows, bedecked in scruffy armour
and raggedy clothes. The flickering candlelight threw grotesque
shadows across their faces.

‘Where is ‘e?’ asked the man
again. The servant girl shook her head and her lip quivered as he
ran dirty fingers along her chin. The thug was hideous, bald with a
scar on his brow and a recently broken nose. His hand moved down
across her breasts and down to grip her thigh, but a hooded figure
whacked him hard on the shoulder.

‘Control yourself. There’ll be
time for that later,’ he said and the ugly man retreated to stand
with the others.

Moving slowly between the
scared prisoners the stranger looked at each one of them in turn,
choosing his victim. He grabbed a young soldier with a black eye
and a nasty cut along his forehead. He lifted him up by the throat
and a strange green light started to move across his gloved hands.
‘Where is Farden?’ he whispered from behind his mask.

The boy panicked and tried to
wriggle out of the man’s strong grasp. ‘I... I told you I don’t
know, he comes and goes, we never see him!’ he choked.

With a snarl he threw him back
on the floor and pointed his finger at the others. ‘If I don’t
start hearing the answers I want to hear, people are going to start
dying all over again, understand?’ Renewed crying and sobbing broke
out amongst the terrified captives.

The ugly man spoke up again.
‘One of yer must ‘ave seen the bastard! Eh?’ When nobody answered
he shook his head. ‘By the tits of Evernia this is useless,’ he
cursed.

The hooded man sighed. ‘Be
patient. He’ll come to us.’

‘You’d better ‘ope so, mage, my
men are gettin’ restless...’ His voice trailed off as the other man
turned on him.

‘Is that a threat? Because if
it is then I can always leave you and your men to explain to my
employer why you came back without Farden’s head in a bag.’ He let
the words sink in for a moment. The other men muttered and
whispered in the candlelight ‘No? I thought not. Now get the fuck
out of my way and do what you’re paid to do.’ He barged him aside
and walked off towards the main door, leaving the thug to clear his
throat and try to to save face in front of his men.

The hooded figure strode
through the shadows towards the doors, cursing the Albion
reprobates he had been forced to work with. Give him a handful of
mages and this Farden would have been trussed up and stuffed like a
boar by now, if only he...

But a sword suddenly wove its
way between the man’s ribs with a crunch. He looked down in
amazement at the black steel poking from his chest. He could hear
the blood pooling in his lungs, and as the blade twisted and moved
the shadows leapt up to greet him. The hooded man was dead before
he hit the floor. Farden hauled the body further into the shadows
and pulled the cloak up to see the man’s back. In the dim
candlelight the mage could see the black script etched into the
pale skin, weaving across his shoulders between bloodstained runes
and symbols. Two runes meant new blood. Farden didn’t recognise the
man, but he was Written, Arka born and bred, and that made the
mage’s blood boil.

He gritted his teeth and strode
boldly into the middle of the hall where a single shaft of
moonlight pierced the shadows. ‘Hey!’ he yelled and all eyes were
suddenly upon him. Farden grinned and shouted at the top of his
voice. ‘If you want me, then come and get me!’

The ugly man went purple with
rage and waved his sword in wide circles. ‘After ‘im!’ he shouted
and with a snarl he broke into an ungainly run with the rest of his
crew behind him baying like a pack of wild animals. With lightning
swiftness Farden spun on his heel and dashed off in the opposite
direction, leading the hooded attackers away from the prisoners and
out into the cold night.

Part
Four

And it Ends
with Fire

“
Beware the
monster behind the door, watch out for the spiders all over the
floor.

Be brave like your father,
proud warrior and all,

Something is gnawing at bones
in the hall.

Maybe you’ll run, or maybe
you’ll fight,

Or maybe you’ll sleep soundly
all through the night.

Never you mind, now close your
eyes,

Pray you sleep well, not be
food for the flies.”

Skölgard nursery rhyme

Someone was screaming in the
locked room at the top of the Spire. The cries of pain were
chilling, accompanied by the howling wind that pawed at the windows
and battlements of the tower. Two soldiers holding spears stood
guard at the top of a tall set of stairs. Their gold and white
ceremonial armour glittered in the light of the flickering torches
and they stared straight ahead silent and still, seemingly
oblivious to the sounds coming from the door behind them.

Behind that door was a small
chamber and another door, and through that was a small circular
room, windowless and plain, with nothing but two wooden stools and
a bench for decoration. The walls had been painted pure white like
a new canvas waiting for an artist. Scores of candles in glass jars
were spread over the floor, making the room and the walls
dazzlingly bright, perfect for keeping a candidate conscious
through a Ritual. Dotted all around the room in little piles were
tiny bottles of thick black ink sealed with cloth and wooden
stoppers.

In the centre of the room were
the two stools, and on one stool sat a wizened man white with age
and with a beard so long it was wrapped around his belt. His head
was bald and freckled while his shoulders were hunched like the
wings of a wet crow. On his pointy nose balanced a set of intricate
lenses made of stacked slices of crystal. They made his dark beady
eyes look ridiculously massive. The old Scribe was fixated on his
work, watching his wrinkled skeleton hands wave to and fro,
pricking the pale skin in front of him with a long and delicate
sliver of whale-bone. The ancient-looking Scribe hummed in a deep
drone as he worked, singing forgotten tunes and songs of magick to
help the ink settle around the needle’s point.

Opposite him, on the other
little stool, sat Cheska. Tears rolled down her face and dripped
onto a floor that was already soaking wet from two days worth of
crying. She was hunched over and shaking, and her knuckles had
turned an unnatural whitish purple colour from gripping her knees
so hard. Her arms and legs shook uncontrollably, as if she had just
been pulled from a frozen lake.

Cheska had that sort of look in
her eyes, when somebody isn’t listening, when they’re lost in their
own private thoughts as though their mind had wandered off for a
moment. She stared vacantly at a spot on the floor and tried to
cling onto the place where the pain could be kept at bay. Cheska
willed herself to feel the cold breeze of the shore near her
fathers palace, the smell of the pines by the lake, the sound of
the waterfalls roaring past her window, but the needle kept
dragging her swiftly back to the white room. Her back stung in a
thousand places and after two straight days of sitting in the same
position the needle felt like a burning knife point. Sweat streamed
into her eyes but she blinked it away, allowing herself one
merciful look at the hourglass at the end of the room slowly
dripping sand through its tiny waist. Couldn’t be long now, she
prayed, to whichever god that would hear her. Her face scrunched up
with another shrill cry.