The Written (47 page)

Farfallen was out in front.
Both he and Svarta had their eyes fixed on the horizon with
resolute determination frozen on their windswept faces. The Old
Dragon felt something stirring in him he hadn’t felt in a long
time. Svarta sensed it, and let her mind entwine with his, each of
them mentally preparing themselves for the task ahead. Behind them
almost fifty dragons wore the same expression, their riders armed
to the teeth and ready to face anything that reared its ugly head.
Every single one of them knew the stakes, the costs, and what might
await them at Carn Breagh.

Farden pulled himself as close
to Brightshow as he could. Using only his spells to keep him warm
he desperately tried to breathe through the rushing air. The sick
feeling of looking down still hadn’t gone since his last flight so
he had resigned himself to not looking at all, and just
concentrated on conserving his strength. His eyes were sealed
tight. Farden felt every single move of the dragon’s body
underneath him, every sinuous dip and twitch of her wings and tail
as she snaked through the skies at their breakneck speed. Farden
dug his feet deeper into the saddle to try and remove the ache at
the bottom of his spine.

Doubt clouded the mage’s mind,
coupled with an uneasy uncertainty about facing Vice again.
Everything he had ever learned had come from Vice and that made him
twice as dangerous as any other foe. And now it appeared that the
Undermage was adept at the dark art of shapeshifting. Farden
wondered who or what he really was. There seemed to be something
different about Vice now as if he were a different person
altogether. It was as if the magick he used was older, more
ancient, like Farfallen’s. Farden had never known spells like his,
and who knew what else he had hidden up his robe. Not to mention
that the whole thing, his whole plan, seemed too precise too
clockwork. Towerdawn had spoken the truth: nothing seemed right
about this. But they were bereft of choices and they had been
funnelled into a lack of options with the odds stacked against
them. If Jergan had been right about the manual then they were all
about to face up to the most terrifying creature Emaneska had ever
seen. The mage tried to force confidence into his thoughts and
warmth into his fingers. He trusted in his skills, after all he was
the best Written there was, and if anyone could take Vice down it
was him. After the summoning the Undermage was bound to be
weakened. Farden repeated that like a mantra.

A heavy sword rattled and
jangled between his shoulders, a loan from one of the other riders.
To replace the vial of ice water he had lost the Sirens had given
him a tiny bottle of a dark red liquid they had called
syngur
. The strange stuff was constantly warm and
tasted of sickly spices with a strange underlying fish taste.
Farden could still feel the stuff burning his stomach, but it was
helping the spells to keep him warm. He counted the hours until
they would arrive above Carn Breagh.

“
Let it not be
said that Farden is just simply skilled; the man is far and above
any mage I have yet to encounter. Despite their downfalls, he is of
a powerful family, a pure breed. Whatever the Scribe wrote into his
Book awoke a magick beast inside him. I’ve never seen a mage
withstand such draining as he does, nor wield such huge spells with
ease. It’s a shame he ruins of all it with his anger, his
battle-rage if you will, the red mist that has gotten him into
trouble and danger many times before. Just look at what happened in
Huskar after he killed the chieftain’s son in that fist fight, all
for some ridiculous wager. If Farden learnt to turn his anger into
concentration, he would be greater than the Arkmages, and if that’s
treason you can hang me for it.”

Taken from the diary of Durnus
Glassren

Dawn was slowly breaking over
Albion, pale shades of red, orange, and yellow smudged the skies in
the east as the first hints of the winter sun dared to creep over
the horizon. A slight fog hung in the morning air. Thick snow
covered everything. It had moulded the landscape into a rolling
white sculpture of itself, a simple mess of rolling mounds and
sleight bumps hidden under a crisp blanket. The trees were heavy
with snow and the weak morning light made them sparkle like
clusters of countless little diamonds.

Carn Breagh squatted quietly on
its grey-white hill, unassuming and peaceful. The ruined walls were
draped in snow and glistened with the icicles that hung from their
ancient ramparts. Its quiet exterior belied the malicious
activities deep within the castle.

Far beneath the dripping stone,
under the solid rock floors, where not even the rats would go,
where the torches struggled to burn through the darkness, Vice
pored over a small dragonscale book. He gripped the stone wall
tightly and let the magick speak to him and echo in the dark
corners of his mind. Figures scurried around behind him, hurrying
around and preparing things. Dark soldiers in fire-blackened armour
stood in the shadows, only the glint of their spears giving them
away. Someone drummed their nails on the stone behind the Undermage
and shattered his concentration.

‘How long Vice?’ they
asked.

Vice sighed, and closed his
eyes in quiet frustration. ‘If I was left to my own devices,
instead of being bothered, then I might get it done quicker’

‘You’re taking too l...’

‘Quiet! Keep yourself hidden
like I said,’ shouted Vice, and the person behind him huffed in
annoyance. The Undermage listened to the sound of their footsteps
receding into the shadows. Vice shook his head and watched the buzz
of activity around him with narrowed eyes. All was going to plan.
He found himself gazing back into the thick darkness of the huge
well that took up the entire centre of the room. The shadows
lurking in the stone-lined pit were impossibly dark, a matte black
darkness that sucked out the light. It was bottomless, unfathomably
deep. Vice heard the whispering of the magick from the little black
manual calling to him again and gently he ran his fingers across
the spidery script without tearing his eyes from the well.

There was an abrupt bang, and
then a dull thud somewhere deep beneath them. A shout rang out.
‘Lord Vice, we’re ready!’

‘Good,’ he muttered to himself,
and then he swept from the lectern holding the book with his thumb
in the page. With his cloak billowing behind him he strode around
the pillared walkway that overlooked the great well. His jaw was
set proud and confident. He made his way past the others standing
in their positions. Vice looked at everyone with an intense,
piercing hazel gaze, watching their pale faces melt into a mixture
of fear and uncertainty. Weaklings, Vice thought scornfully,
quivering like children. All they had to do was stay alive, he
snorted.

The Undermage made his way to
the small pulpit that perched on the far edge of the dark pit. From
there he could lean over and gaze down into the depths and
concentrate all the magick into one spot. Vice placed the manual on
a stone lectern and let his fingers wander over the pages, peering
through the shadows at the script. He took a long breath and tried
to empty his mind. With his eyes closed he could hear the magick
starting to shiver and pulse, the others shuffling and waiting, the
heightened sense of everything around him. This was it, he thought,
everything leaned on this moment. He had spent too long in hiding,
too long pandering to these mere mortals.

There was a sudden creak of a
thick oak door and a yell came from the back of the hall and broke
the anxious silence. ‘Undermage!’ All eyes turned to the soldier
standing in the torchlight near the doorway. ‘They’re here!’ he
called.

The tiniest of smiles might
have curled at the corner of Vice’s mouth, but it was too dark to
see it. He simply nodded and looked around the circular room.
‘Let’s give them a welcome they’ll never forget,’ said the
Undermage, and they sprang to do his bidding. Vice spread his hands
across the summoning manual and put an index finger to the two keys
at the corner of the page, the ones that the old Arfell scholars
had pointed out to him. A shudder of excitement ran through him.
Looking into the impenetrable darkness of the well beneath him he
whispered the pivotal words.

‘Hear me,’ he hissed, and there
was a faint rumble from below.

High in the atmosphere, where
the air grew thin, a swarm of dragons wheeled and circled above the
snowy countryside that was spread below them like a rather
realistic map. The sun was now crouching on the horizon, a pale
yellow disk that peered into the morning mists. The snow sparkled
even from that height.

Farden rubbed his cold hands
together furiously and battled the twists and turns of Brightshow’s
body with his tired legs. He looked down through the hazy fog and
scattered clouds at the tiny ruin below him and cursed to himself,
suddenly regretting their decision to come. A dark feeling of dread
unfurled inside him. The mage could hear Farfallen yelling to his
captains, Towerdawn, Glassthorn, and a huge dragon named
Clearhallow who had two riders, one of which looked like Eyrum,
armoured up and holding a gigantic hammer-headed axe in one
hand.

Farfallen looked at his swarm
of dragons, and Farden was sure he could see him smiling. The
golden dragon rippled and shone in the dawn light, battling the air
with powerful strokes of his wings to hover in one place. He took a
breath to speak. ‘I will not waste our precious time with
heavy-handed words and long speeches! I do no have to remind any of
you how dangerous this will be, nor of how high the stakes are. All
I can ask is that you remember that we are the first and the last
line of defence against this beast. Not since the time of the elves
and the gods have we faced such a monstrous foe, such “mouths of
darkness”. Well I see plenty of mouths here today, hungry mouths
filled with teeth, strong claws and wings, brave hearts and strong
arms holding sharp weapons! Let us show this ancient beast that
things have changed in Emaneska, that we are in charge now!’

A mighty roar followed the Old
Dragon’s words and there was a loud metallic screech of metal as
scores of weapons were unsheathed and waved in the air. Farden
grabbed his own sword and yanked it free. The razor-sharp blade
flashed briefly in the sun’s rays as he yelled and shouted. Every
dragon snarled and unhinged their jaws and spurts of flame darted
from their mouths. It felt exhilarating.

With another roar Farfallen
folded his wings back and pointed his spiny head to the ground. His
body seemed to hover in mid-air for a split second before he
suddenly dropped like a stone and plummeted through the air at a
frightening speed.

‘Hold on Farden!’ Brightshow
yelled, and in one single dreadfully sickening moment every single
dragon tucked their wings to their sides like falcons and plunged
into the mists. Farden grabbed on for dear life. The air screamed
past his ears like banshees and his heart was pounding frantically
in his throat. His insides felt like they were trying to escape
from his body and they lurched up and down as though his stomach
was fighting his lungs. The mage pressed himself against
Brightshow’s back and tried desperately to close his eyes, but
something inside him couldn’t tear itself away from the terrifying
ride.

The whole room pulsated and
shook with energy. The well was making a deep thrumming sound as if
a hammer was striking a drum in its depths, slowly getting faster
and louder and gathering momentum for its final terrifying
crescendo. Vice shook with the strain of the spell and kept his
eyes on the darkness below, feeling the magick swell up from his
fingers to his lips as they moved and spoke silent, unfamiliar
words. Something was waking up at the roots of the world.

The Undermage was quickly
reaching the end of the page, the final hurdle and the most
dangerous part of the spell. He could hear the deep booming sounds
getting louder. His head throbbed. The whole of Carn Breagh
vibrated under the pressure and the walls groaned and bent
awkwardly as if they were being squeezed by giant hands. Vice’s
breath came in laboured gasps. The well pulled at him, thick
darkness trying to drag him over the edge of the pulpit and down
into the shadows. He braced himself against the stone with a spare
hand. He could hear the final few words shouting inside his skull,
yelling at him and fighting the deep pounding noise from the well.
A sudden wind gusted around the room, blowing out the torches and
plunging the hall into darkness. Vice strained and pushed. His
heart was beating so fast that it seemed to stand still, like the
wings of a hummingbird, like the seconds grinding to a halt around
them. The noise was deafening.

There was a yell and a surge in
power and a soldier across the room fell to the floor clutching his
throat. There was a flash of unearthly light in the well as he
tumbled into the well, and for a moment Vice could see the body
spinning in the darkness. The Undermage scrabbled to keep the spell
intact while his knees buckled underneath him and his lungs burned.
Pain racked his whole body. Suddenly, another flash of light, and
Vice reached the last word on the page.

There was a deep rolling crash
of thunder from underground and the tremendous noise ground to an
abrupt halt. Every single person in the hall lurched and convulsed
with the final wave of magick, and there was a dreadful moment of
pure silence.

Nothing moved, nobody made a
sound, all held their breath, and for an eternity they seemed to
wait. Soldiers swapped looks, some concerned, others relieved. Only
Vice could feel something stirring beneath their boots. Still
holding onto the magick he slowly backed away from the pulpit.
Something was awake now. One single last word fell from his burning
lips, and then the sky fell in.