The Written (41 page)

Outside the Scribe’s room, in
the first chamber, Brimm sat on a low wooden bench between two
servants. They wore robes bearing the rare symbol of the tattooing
art of the Written, the scales of the Arka weighing a feather
quill. The two men seemed almost as old as the Scribe himself with
long flowing beards and calm eyes, silent and still. Shadows from
the torches danced across their still and wrinkled faces.

The servants were the only
people ever allowed near the Scribe at any time. They were his
eyes, his ears, and his mouth in the outside world, and they were
often charged with passing messages to the Arkmages in measures of
absolute secrecy. No one knew where the Scribe or his servants had
come from, or even how old they truly were. There were some who
whispered that the Scribe was a daemon from the old times, or
perhaps a man of Servaea who had escaped before it sank into the
sea. But whatever he was the withered old man was an ancient
mystery shrouded in deep secrecy, and the hidden treasure of the
Arka.

Brimm was trembling. He wished
he could put his hands to his ears and block the sounds of his
friend crying and screaming. He chewed anxiously at his lip while
fear squeezed his stomach. The young mage smoothed his white and
gold ceremonial tunic for the hundredth time that day and ran his
dry tongue along the back of his teeth. ‘May I have some water,
before I go in...?’ he asked, looking to the old men on either side
of him. They didn’t move a muscle and continued to stare at the
opposite wall. Brimm sighed, and tasted blood coming from his
lip.

Outside the door, back on the
stairs, the two soldiers exchanged concerned glances as they heard
loud footsteps coming up the stairs below them. They shuffled
forward and peered down the steep flight of curving steps and
waited to see who came round the corner. One of them lowered his
spear just to be ready. The Ritual was not to be interrupted for
any reason.

Soon a tall man in a long black
and green robe appeared on the tall steps and strode purposefully
up the stairs towards the soldiers. At his hip was a long knife in
an ornate golden scabbard. As he noticed the two men ahead of him
he smiled amiably and held up a hand. ‘Evening gentlemen!’ he said.
His dark brown eyes were warm and welcoming.

‘Lord Vice, an unexpected
honour!’ said one soldier. He saluted with his spear and the other
quickly followed suit. ‘Your Mage, the first candidate should be
almost finished,’ added the second soldier, not wishing to be to
left out.

‘Good, good,’ replied the
Undermage. Vice made it to the top of the stairs and smiled. He
folded his arms behind his back and paused. The soldier asked a
question. ‘To, er what do we owe the pleasure sire...?’

The words had barely left his
lips when the Undermage grabbed the knife from his belt buried it
hilt-deep in the man’s neck. The soldier sank to the floor with a
loud crash and choked on steel. Vice finished him off with a bolt
of fire that shattered his armour like molten glass.

‘Murder!’ The other soldier
shouted, aghast and shocked. He made to run but in a blur Vice
kicked out behind him and caught him squarely in the breastplate.
The soldier staggered backwards and tried to bring his spear level
to fend off the murderous mage. A firebolt ricocheted from his
shield and Vice spat, cursing the magick in the gold metal. He
dodged and ducked the jabbing spearpoint like a cat. The look in
the soldier’s eyes was of pure panic and confusion. Vice grinned
and winked at his prey and the man visibly swallowed. The Undermage
took a step forward and lightning exploded from his fingers. The
blinding flash struck the man in the hip and with a despairing cry
he was catapulted into the wall behind him. Vice was quickly after
him, hands still buzzing with sparks.

The soldier hauled himself up
but he soon found hot iron hands circling his neck. Vice slammed
the poor man back against the wall and the crunching sound of
bricks and bone cracking was nauseating. Vice shocked him again and
the man went limp in his grip.

Behind the door Brimm nervously
wrung his hands, desperately wondering what the loud bangs and
crashes had been. The two old men swapped concerned glances, and
the young mage felt like burying his head in his hands. All was
silent now, no shouts, even Cheska’s screams had died. Brimm’s
fingers twitched nervously.

Inside the white room Cheska
lifted shaking hands to her face and wiped away the tears for the
final time. Her back was on fire, and the smell of fear and sweat
made her gag. The pain was starting to recede from the edges of her
eyes, and the pounding in her head seemed to soften slightly.

The Scribe had finally stopped
humming and he turned his head to watch the door behind him. His
needle was on his lap, wiped clean and unmoving now, the first time
it had rested in three days. Sniffing like a rat, he wrinkled his
freckled nose and squinted through his thick glasses.

Behind him the young mage was
blinking dizziness from her eyes. The bright room stung her vision.
Cheska tried to stretch her back and sit upright but the sensation
of her skin moving and contracting felt as though she were lying in
a pit of burning coals, so she stayed put and tried to stop her
heart from racing.

Brimm cried out as the door
suddenly burst into a thousand fragments. He fell to the floor and
frantically waved his arms to keep the wooden shards from his eyes.
The other two old men rose sombrely as if they hadn’t even noticed
the door exploding. As one they moved aside their white robes and
drew long swords from hidden scabbards. Their blades were etched
with unknown words and old symbols. They stood tall, silent and
ready, with their swords held in front of their faces. Brimm
cowered at their feet and tried to remember his spells.

There was a short moment of
uneasy silence before a man in full ceremonial armour flew through
the smoking door frame and crashed to the stone floor. Brimm
frantically tried to cast a shadow spell but his hands were shaking
too much. The incantation bounced around his head uselessly.

A tall figure appeared through
the haze in the doorway and without a sound the two old servants
walked forward to meet him. As they raised their sword above their
heads the figure began to laugh contemptuously. Fire danced in the
stranger’s hands, a deep red and orange flame that crackled and
popped angrily.

The two men never had a chance.
The flames jumped from the man’s hands and consumed the old
servants with a flash of fire and black smoke. They crumpled to the
floor like burnt paper and lay there smouldering, their swords
forgotten in their hands. The room was quickly filling with thick
smoke and smothering the candles. Brimm crouched down to try to
keep from choking.

It was suddenly deathly silent,
but slowly, like out of some sort of hazy nightmare, a tall figure
emerged from the smoke with vicious eyes and an evil grin. With
abject horror Brimm recognised the black Undermage’s robe. Vice
strode calmly towards him, a long knife held low at his side. Brimm
slowly backed up against the wall and tried to invoke any spell he
could think of that would save him.

‘Any profound words in your
last moments mage?’ The Undermage sneered wickedly.

Brimm couldn’t even speak, he
just gaped and stuttered. The cold steel pressed against his throat
and he stared into Vice’s evil eyes with utter disbelief.

Cheska tried not to vomit for
the third time and focused on not letting the room spin round
again. The throbbing in her head had now turned into nauseating
pain, and it felt like her stomach was trying to punch its way out.
And now she could smell smoke. Through bleary eyes she could see
the the blurred Scribe packing away his tools. He sounded agitated,
and Cheska dazedly wondered if there was a fire.

Suddenly there was a bang from
somewhere. It sounded like it was outside. Cheska swallowed bile
and fell to her knees. Her back burned with excruciating pain and
the sound of her stool hitting the floor sent shockwaves across her
skull.

The Scribe dashed to her aid
and quickly pulled her aside. He pushed her nearer to the bench at
the side of the round room. Glass jars scattered under her shaking
limbs and candles hissed but the Scribe urged her on, making her
crawl as far under the bench as she could go. The look in his beady
eyes was urgent and serious. Cheska’s head swam. Wearily she put
her forehead to the cold stone floor and watched the Scribe from
the corner of her eye. He was rushing around the room blowing out
the candles. The room slowly plunged into darkness, candle by
candle, and Cheska wondered what was going on.

At that moment there was a huge
crash and the Scribe spun around to see the door fly inward under a
shower of sparks. A man strode through the splintered doorway and
stood in the dim candlelight with his arms crossed defiantly,
ignoring the orange flames that licked at his boots and black
robe.

There was a moment of silence
before the man took a few steps forward and spoke. His tone was
cold and formal, and there was an odd familiarity to it, thought
Cheska.

‘I take it all is in order?’ he
asked quietly.

The wizened old Scribe sighed
and clicked his neck to one side, then he removed his spectacles
and polished them slowly with the sleeve of his tunic in small
circular motions. ‘Hmm, just as you required,’ he paused and then
sighed with a soft wheezing sound. ‘I never thought it would be
you,’ he said. His voice was like the rasp of files on glass,
hoarse as though he had spent an age in silence. The dark newcomer
nodded slowly. Their eyes were now locked in a strange embrace and
both seemed to be waiting for the other to move. The etiquette
before the first strike.

But it never came. Cheska
waited and blinked, shivering in her hiding place. She tried to
make out the face of the tall man but it was now too dark in the
room, and too hot. She squirmed and tried to calm her writhing
stomach. It was too quiet.

‘Which one of us have you come
for then Vice?’ asked the Scribe suddenly.

Cheska could have sworn she
heard the name of the Undermage.

‘Which do you think?’

The old Scribe slowly turned
his head to look at the figure cowering under the bench. ‘After
your last experiment, I would say her, but the look in your eyes
speaks differently,’ he said, cocking his head on one side like an
inquisitive bird. Vice lifted his knife and casually examined the
blood-smeared blade. ‘It’s a shame that you have worn out your
usefulness...’ he offered with a shrug.

The Scribe shook his head, and
anger flashed briefly behind his black eyes. ‘The sons of Orion
will get what is coming to them in the end.’

‘I beg to differ,’ began Vice,
but the Scribe turned his back and snorted.

‘It matters not, the decision
it seems, is already made,’ he said. The Scribe seemed to let go of
a heavy weight, and his shoulders sagged a little. Cheska held her
breath. Fire licked at the walls.

The Undermage lowered his knife
again and slowly moved forward, closer to the old Scribe. ‘I take
no pleasure in doing this,’ he whispered.

‘You can’t fool me mage, I have
spent a thousand years listening to you lie,’ he said with closed
eyes.

Vice sneered and grabbed the
back of the Scribe’s neck. ‘That you have,’ he replied, in a voice
as cold as ice. There was a quick metallic crunch and the wizened
old man slumped to the floor at Vice’s feet. Cheska tried to melt
into the shadows of her hiding place, but she already knew what was
coming. When she opened her eyes again the figure was already
standing over her. He looked down and smiled at her wickedly, and
he brandished a dripping knife in his hands.

“
The mage
Farden is to be commended for his outstanding efforts in the battle
of Efjar. Without the aid of this brave soldier our men would
surely still be deep in the marshes fighting the minotaur clans. It
has been a long time since I have seen such a skilled mage in our
proud ranks, not since the days of his unfortunate uncle. Let us
hope he does not follow the same path as Tyrfing.”

Letter to Arkmage Åddren from
Lord Vice in the year 884

Nothing lived on the Dunwold
moors. Nothing. If one were to find themselves standing on the
rolling hills and downs of Albion’s eastern coast they would find
nothing but rocks and wet grass with no living thing to accompany
them. Dunwold was bare, cold, and agonisingly empty, stretching on
for miles and miles around as far as the human eye could see. Here
and there a few stunted trees stood amongst the rocky crags and
boulders, clinging to whatever life their geriatric roots could
find between the grey stone and pale lichen.

After running for two days
straight he had finally collapsed between two boulders in the
shadow of a low hill. His heat spells had worn off and now the cold
was slowly seeping into his bones. Farden had slept fitfully. The
dreams hadn’t returned and no voices had spoken to him, and the
mage wondered if they had left him for good. He threw a cursory
look at the grey skies. Nothing. Farden shifted and winced with
pain. He could feel the barbed tip of the arrow in his side working
its way deeper into his flesh. Blood covered the wet grass beneath
him and caked his hands and clothes. The exhausted mage put a
tentative hand to his ribs, not daring to even touch the broken
arrow shaft. Pushing with his elbow and grunting he managed to prop
himself up to peer over the edge of the boulder at the grim
countryside.

Dawn was slowly creeping across
the edges of the moors. The cold wind toyed with the frost-choked
grass, flipping it this way and that like a cat with a dead mouse.
Farden’s tired eyes roved over his surroundings and watched for
movement. His followers were nowhere to be seen. After halving
their numbers the day before he had outran the men at some point
during the night, and now it was daylight once again. The mage had
intended to circle back on himself but after losing his sword, his
way, and his temper in the southern marshes he had lost all hope of
making it back to the Arkabbey. Farden hadn’t seen or heard
anything of the men since nightfall; their parting gift was still
stuck in his ribs.