The Written (5 page)

‘So I have noticed. You haven’t
said anything to her about what happened at Arfell have you?’
Durnus’s pale eyes grew narrow and he furrowed his brow as he
looked at his friend.

Farden shook his head ‘No. I
went straight to bed after I left your room last night. I barely
talked to her at all this morning when she woke me with breakfast.
I know the rules, and with a dangerous matter like what happened at
Arfell, I wouldn’t exactly go shouting it around,’ he said.

‘Good.’ The vampyre seemed
satisfied and sniffed imperiously. He ducked under a momentary
shaft of sunlight coming from a high window and folded his gloved
hands behind his back. The two walked slowly and silently for a
moment before the vampyre spoke up. ‘You look tired Farden,
anything wrong?’ asked the vampyre.

A massive headache and
mind-numbing dizziness. ‘Absolutely nothing. Deep sleep and I’m
still waking up,’ said Farden. An easy lie.

‘Now remember, get as much
information out of him as you can. I’m not sure how he’s fared
since his exile and the wolf-curse does strange things to a man, so
be wary of his answers. After all he may have a mind like that of
soft cheese, and he could be completely useless, but make sure
above all that you get the truth! If the Arkmages are going to base
their actions on your words then they better be the right ones,’
lectured Durnus. Farden’s head ached. His old friend pulled a
rolled up scrap of parchment from the folds in his cloak. ‘Jergan
was last seen somewhere near Beinnh south of the Dornoch hills. You
can rest up in the town and then face him the day after.
Unfortunately for you the pull of the moon is strong this month, so
he’ll be able to change at will.’

Farden nodded. ‘Trust me, I can
handle it.’

Durnus flashed him a toothy
smile. ‘It’s not you I’m worried about, my dear mage. He’s the only
lead we’ve got to putting an end to this book debacle. That means
don’t kill him, Farden,’ said the vampyre. Both of them knew there
was a dark undertone to the order.

‘I won’t.’ Farden stopped at an
arched doorway. Durnus stayed in the shadows of the door and away
from the light outside. Farden held out a strong hand. The vampyre
gripped the mage’s hand in an iron handshake, and smiled.

‘Don’t wait up for me,’ said
the mage, pulling his red scarf around his neck and chin.

‘I never do,’ chuckled Durnus.
Farden turned around and jogged over the wet lawn and into the
thick forest. The mage disappeared behind the trees, and Durnus
returned to his room, saying more than a few charms for luck.

“
A dragon’s
claws are curved and deadly, much like the strange daggers from the
east. Beware the teeth too, a large dragon can have up to three
rows of teeth and gnash them in a fearsome manner before eating. A
dragon may have a long or short tail, but either invariably have a
forked or barbed tip, that swishes around angrily should a
traveller choose to approach! Their scales have the power to
mystify, with rippling colours that can hypnotise the unwary, and
some may even change colour to match their
backgrounds...”

“
Dragons and
their Features: Lessons in Identifying the Siren Beast” by Master
Wird

It was raining hard when Farden
walked through the industrious streets of Beinnh. Townfolk and
strangers trotted though the muddy streets and carts pulled by cows
and donkeys splashed through puddles, soaking the passers-by and
dirtying the colours of the market stalls lining the road. People
crowded in the shadows of the tall houses, the wooden buildings
leaned over the thoroughfares as though they would topple at any
moment, heavy with tall arched slate roofs, brick chimneys, and
dripping gutters.

Farden shrugged rainwater from
his cloak for the hundredth time and drove his hands deeper into
the pockets, hoping to find a dry spot somewhere. His grey eyes
roved over the various wares that were on offer in the little
tents, their tables adorned with food, clothing, weapons, and cheap
trinkets. The shopkeepers shouted through the downpour with offers
of bargains and special prices. Ahead, a building jutted into the
road. A striped tent had been hoisted up to cover some benches and
a well, where gloomy figures hunched over pots of ale, plates of
bread and
farska
, a cheap beef stew sold
in taverns all over dreary Albion. Farden trudged through the muddy
puddles and cart ruts, dodging the brown rivers of rubbish. After
three long days of urgent travel, he was starting to run out of
food.

As he neared the tent the mage
spied a small blacksmith’s shop nestled in the back of the
building. A table of shining weapons glinted in the bright
firelight from the forge and a thin soot-smeared man stood holding
a file to an axe. Patrons milled around the tables holding various
blades and sharp objects, stocky grim men with dark aspirations and
malicious inclinations. A group of them hunched over the end of the
table, clad in long dark cloaks and smoking cheap tobacco from even
cheaper pipes.

Farden made his way to the
front of a table and ran his hands over the shining swords and
knives. His eyes picked out a longsword, sheathed in a thick black
leather scabbard, posing with thick crossbars and a long steel
leatherbound handle with a pommel shaped like a huge black diamond.
Farden unsheathed the weapon and ran a careful thumb over the thick
blade and its sharp edges.

‘See something you like boy?’ A
bald skeleton of a man croaked in a thick Albion drawl. The dirty
blacksmith tugged at the grey-white gloves covering his bony hands.
They were made from salamander wool, impervious to fire and perfect
for working a forge.

‘How much for this old man?’
Farden asked, waving the sword at him.

The smith looked at the blade
and chewed something in the back of his mouth. ‘Hmm… one ‘hundred,
silver.’

‘One hundred? You’ve got to be
joking. I’ll give you sixty, fair price for this blade.’ Farden
shook his head and crossed his arms. The other men had gone silent,
intrigued by the sale and the foreign-looking mage.

‘Eighty, or no sale,’ The old
man put a greasy palm out.

The mage unbuckled the old
sword from his back and with a grunt tossed it to the blacksmith.
‘Sixty, and you can have that old man, it’s still got a few swings
in it.’ Farden strapped the deadly longsword to his back and
fastened the thick buckle around his armoured chest. The old man
grudgingly cleared his throat, shrugged, and finally nodded. Farden
took his money bag from his travel pack at his side and gave the
man sixty silver pieces. Farden noticed the silence at the table
and turned to meet the stare of a bald thug on his left with a scar
across his forehead. The man held the mage’s piercing gaze a moment
before turning away to grin at his mates. He walked off and his
minions followed him like loyal dogs in their masters wake.

Farden finished counting out
the pieces and the man began putting them into his dirty apron,
proudly dropping each individual coin into a pocket with relish. As
the mage turned to go a polished reflection of the hot forge caught
his attention on a nearby table. A shiny little hand mirror lay
propped up against a wooden post at the far corner of the stall,
surrounded by cheap cutlery and ornaments. ‘Hey smith! Is that
mirror silver?’ asked Farden.

The old man turned and looked
at the glimmering object and rubbed his filthy chin with equally
filthy fingers. ‘Yeah I made it last week, for the posh ladies of
the town y’see, give ‘em somethin’ to look at their pretty faces
with,’ the smith leered, exposing empty gums where teeth should
have been. He paused to spit in a clay pot near the crackling
forge. ‘Ye want that too?’

‘This is important old man,’
Farden pointed a warning finger at the blacksmith. The mage knew
his magick lore, and of the rules that bound each creature. If
Jergan was a lycan, then he would fear silver. The rumours about
using silver blades or arrows to kill the creatures were absolute
rubbish: any blade would do as long as it was sharp enough and
thrusted into the right place. But if a lycan saw their reflection
in something like a silver mirror, however, then the curse would
break momentarily, and they would return to their naked, shivering,
human forms, dizzy and exhausted after the sudden transformation.
It would give him an hour, maybe two at most.

Farden had faced a lycan only
once before, on the ice fields in the far north. He had been let
off easily that time: the creature had merely stalked him for a day
or two at the most, only once getting close enough for a spell, but
otherwise keeping its distance. Farden remembered the fear as if it
were yesterday. Lycans were incredibly dangerous. Their massive
claws and vicious teeth were matched only by their inhuman strength
and lightning speed. And of course, it only took one bite or a
single scratch.

Farden looked around to see if
anyone was watching. ‘This mirror has to be
pure
silver you understand? If I find out it’s a fake
there’s going to trouble between you and me, and more than just the
mirror will be returned to you.’ Farden tapped the new sword’s hilt
menacingly with one hand and with the other he summoned a little
flame to burn on his palm. The old man took a step back warily and
began to bite a dirty finger nervously. He held up an anxious hand
‘Easy, easy, ain’t a reason to get violent here. It’s silver, have
no fear mate.’ The smith flashed an uneasy and disarming smile and
held up both empty hands.

‘How ‘bout a special price of
twenny five silver? Between you and me?’ he offered. Farden didn’t
trust him at all, but he needed something shiny and silver, and he
had forgotten to find one before he left. The mage nodded, and the
smith rushed to fetch the mirror from amongst the other trinkets at
the back of the oak table.

Farden looked about him once
again. The nevermar was still numbing his magick ability and now a
fresh throbbing had taken up residence in his head. Assured that
nobody had seen his little demonstration Farden counted out the
overpriced sum of twenty five silver coins to the fidgety little
man. He put the mirror in his travel bag and let the smith scurry
back to the safety of his smouldering forge.

The mage stepped back into the
pouring rain and went to look for a few food supplies for the last
part of his journey. After purchasing some dried meat, tough
biscuits and apples, he headed down the hill towards the south gate
of the muddy town.

A while later Farden was
wandering slowly through a quiet road near the south wall. Night
was slowly approaching and lamps were being lit all over Beinnh,
the twinkling lights hiding behind curtains and doorways and iron
sconces. It was still raining hard and the downpour was now driven
by the approaching wind, sending the thick blanket of clouds
sprinting across the dim sky above him. In the distance white
lightning ripped through the darkness. The flashes tore the horizon
and shook the hills with rumbling cracks and deep booms.

Farden watched his own boots
tread through the mud, sending little brown rivers flying through
the air with every step. It was foul Albion weather as always but
his cloak was warm and was keeping him nicely away from the
elements. This new sword was heavier, he thought, but it felt good
to have a decent sword for once. Through his musings he heard a
muffled cough from behind him and turned to see a burly figure
following him. Turning back, Farden looked around at the silent
dripping houses and tiny alleyways. Another man, skinny and
bedraggled, was leaning against a wall smoking a pipe. To the front
yet another thug was coming up the road towards him. The rain
pattered noisily on the puddles and the sounds of splashing strides
were ominously loud. Farden clicked his neck and mentally tensed
his wiry muscles, summoning the magick from the base of his skull.
A wave of hangover washed over him, dimming his magick and sending
throbbing waves of pain ricocheting behind his eyes. Farden would
have to wait to use his bigger spells.

The thug in front suddenly
brandished a knife in his right hand, the thin blade glinting from
a far off glow of the town. It was the bald man from earlier at the
forge, and in the half light of dusk Farden could see the rain
bouncing off his shiny head and running down the scar on his brow.
He grinned and waved his dagger at the smoker and the man behind
Farden.

‘Jus’ give us yer silver and
we’ll be on our way,’ warned the lout in a low voice. ‘Let’s not
‘ave any trouble ‘ere mate.’

‘If you and your men know
what’s best for you then you’d be on your way now. I don’t want to
hurt you,’ said Farden as the men surrounded him, keeping their
distance and brandishing cheap weapons. He took a wider stance and
stood firm.

‘I don’t know if yer noticed
but there‘s three of us, an‘ one of you, so it ain’t looking too
good for yer mate. Like I said, give us the silver and the gold an’
we won’t ‘ave to leave yer for the guards to find dead in an
alleyway.’ The bald man made little cutting motions in the air with
his kitchen knife. He was a brute of a man. His small bald head sat
atop a thick grubby neck and his cloak hung from wide hunched
shoulders.

Farden sighed. He should have
known better than to splash his coins around in the view of ugly
men like this.

‘You idiots don’t get it do
you? Leave me alone or you won’t live to see another day.’ Farden’s
eyes bored into the dimwitted froglike stare of the bald thug. The
man leered and spat. ‘Get ‘im lads! Get ‘is coins!’ He yelled and
ran wildly at the lone mage, feet pounding through the muddy street
and dagger flailing. Farden took a step forward.

The two men collided with a
massive crash as Farden turned to the side and met the mans face
with his elbow, stopping him dead in his tracks and knocking the
knife from the thug’s hand in one swift strike. The bandit’s legs
flew out from under him and he crashed heavily in a shower of brown
water. In an instant the mage dropped to his knees and drew his
sword with a loud metallic ring, waiting for his prey to come to
him. The next assailant sprinted to attack and Farden swung the
longsword left in a wide arc. The blade caught the thief square in
the ribs and there was a sickening crunch as it smashed through the
bone to hit flesh and spine. The man let out a petrifying scream
and crumpled to a bloody heap next to the first, writhing and
spilling vital organs into the incarnadined mud.