The Written (8 page)

Jergan tried to smile, as if it
was the kindest thing he had heard in decades. It probably was, he
thought. ‘Good luck…’ said the lycan, and the mage sighed. ‘Farden.
If you must know,’ he replied.

‘Then good luck Farden.’ And
with that the mage was gone, jogging across the hills back towards
Beinnh and the Arkabbey to the north. Jergan sat back down in his
little chair and looked around at his little hovel. The wind howled
through the crack in the door and rattled the walls. A little tear
ran down the lycan’s cheek.

Hours later, night had once
again fallen upon the streets of Beinnh. Rowdy laughter rang out
from tavern doorways and wild yells fell from the top floor windows
of brothels. A light hammering rang through the alleyways,
unnoticed or ignored. The old blacksmith was still hard at work,
alone at his forge. The red glow of the fire illuminated his anvil
and sparks flew from his hammer as it beat down on a glowing spear
point. The thin old man was content, he had made a good profit on
these cheap iron spears, they had earned him a fine bit of gold
without too much trouble. The hammer sent another shower of sparks
into the cool night air that scattered over his salamander wool
gloves. The blacksmith pondered his next scam and started to
whistle, tuneless and croaky. Something moved in the shadows behind
the forge behind him. The hammer fell again and again like a beat
to his dissonant warbling, and something drew closer behind him.
Suddenly a hand grabbed the scruff of the old man’s neck and shoved
his forehead down hard onto the glowing spear point, making a
scalding hiss as it collided with the blacksmith’s skin.

‘Aagh!’ The old man cried out
and fell to the dusty floor. He rubbed at his skin and howled.

‘You lied to me,’ the dark
hooded figure spread out his fingers and a small lightning bolt
flickered over his palm, dancing in an electric blue glow. Farden
grabbed the smith by the wrist and covered his mouth roughly. The
old man squirmed as electricity flew through his bones and rattled
his spine.

‘Stay quiet old man, otherwise
you might make me do something I’ll regret.’ Nervously the
blacksmith stifled his yelps and fell deadly silent, eyes wide and
terrified. A few muffled questions came from behind his hand. ‘You
lied to me about the silver mirror, and I warned you what would
happen.’ Farden jolted the man again ruthlessly, and then he slowly
uncovered his mouth.

The smith panted and bobbed his
head. ‘I remember yer, I remember! I’m sorry! I’ll do whatever you
want, er, you can ‘ave yer money back I swear! Jus’ please don’t
kill me...’ sobbed the man. ‘...yer not goin’ to kill me are
yer?’

Farden narrowed his eyes and
watched the pitiful man squirm. ‘Lucky for you,’ he snorted, ‘you
can keep your money old thief. But you
can
have your mirror back.’ And with that Farden whipped the fake
silver trinket from his side and hit the man full tilt in the jaw,
cracking bones and snapping teeth from their roots. The smith
crumpled to the earth in a flurry of glass and spit and went
silent. The mirror skipped and skittered over the dusty floor and
collided with the stone wall of the forge with a clang. Farden
looked at his glowing face in a shard of glass, and took a deep,
calming, breath.

Farden stood up quickly and
pulled his hood down low over his face. Without a word he walked
down the nearest alleyway and melted into the shadows of the ugly
town. Lightning flickered on the horizon as another storm
approached over the faraway hills.

“
Those of
special circumstance, can find themselves alone, by the field the
house the mountain crag, the blood begets the bone.

Friend of foes, and fair thee
well, watch out for shadows black, for darkness comes to them too
soon, a wing’d teeth, bared blades, and trap.

They want what is different,
but as all, we want the same, thus blood becomes the birthright,
and thy night becomes thy shame.

They judge us by the
difference, they judge us from thy teeth. But we watch their necks,
we’ll string them up, and leave them there to bleed.”

Vampyre poem of unknown
origin

Durnus was dozing in his loft
room, watching the fire crackle and spark as the wet wood popped
occasionally. His sleepy mind was churning over thoughts of war and
countries, kingdoms and traitors, and of the legends of old. He let
himself melt and rove through his thoughts, listening to nothing
but the rain hammering on the stained glass windows, and the wind
howling through the dark afternoon. It would be night soon, and
there was nothing better than hunting in the rain. He let his
eyelids droop some more.

Behind his comfy chair, propped
up in the corner of his room, was a tall archway made from black
stone and metal scaffolding, tied and strapped to the wall with
thick grey rope. The contraption leaned out from the wall and over
a wooden lectern holding a very thick brown book. The black stone
flickered in the candlelight. The old vampyre turned his head to
check on the thing in the corner, as if it might have moved, and
then turned back to the fire to close his eyes and enjoy the warmth
of the big armchair and the soft upholstery beneath his paper-like
fingers. All was quiet in the Arkabbey. Then there came a banging
noise from the corridor outside his room. Durnus sighed.

All of a sudden the door was
thrown open with a startling bang and a dripping Farden burst into
the warm room and collapsed to his knees, palms splayed on the
stone tiles. He was breathing hard and trying to fight from
coughing.

‘Farden!’ The vampyre hauled
himself upright and rushed to the mage’s side. From his hoarse
gaspings, Durnus made out the word “water” and went to a pitcher on
a bedside table. He filled a cup and returned to give it to the
mage. Farden downed the whole thing in one go and tossed the vessel
aside. He stood upright and groaned.

‘By the gods that feels better.
I’ve never run that far that fast before,’ Farden took a moment to
swear and then coughed again, seeking the refuge of the other comfy
chair by the fire. The vampyre followed him and watched him slump
into the armchair.

‘You’ve been gone for almost
week, we were starting to get anxious,’ he said. His friend was
still struggling to get his breath back. ‘Farden hold still.’
Durnus spread his thin fingers over the mage’s forehead and the
tired man went rigid. Farden’s eyes shook while his vision burst
into colour and vibrated with energy. The vampyre quickly removed
his hand and the mage shook his head, blinking and wriggling his
jaw experimentally. Farden squinted and twitched with the
electricity of the strong spell. ‘That felt, incredible… why’ve you
never done that before?’ He looked as though he were keeping watch
on his nose as he tried to focus on the dancing lights in his
eyes.

‘Jolting the brain like that
too many times can kill a man. Even one as strong as you.’ Durnus
looked at his old friend. Mud, twigs, scrapes and wounds covered
Farden’s back and shoulders, his cloak was ripped to shreds and the
sword dangled almost free in the loose strap around his back. Blood
oozed from several wounds, some fresh, some old, and his face was a
mess of stubble and bruises. He looked as if he had been dragged
backwards through a forest and a river, thought Durnus, but at
least he was still alive. Farden had regained his breath thanks to
the spell and most of the colour had returned to his cheeks, but he
still had deep black bars under his eyes and his dark hair was a
bedraggled muddle.

‘I have news.’ Farden cleared
his throat again and leant back in the encapsulating chair.

Durnus leapt back to his seat
with surprising agility for someone who appeared so old. ‘Well
let‘s get to it! What happened?’

‘Well I found Jergan on the
hills where you said he’d be, south of Beinnh,’ Farden paused for
another cough. ‘And, for a hermit, he wasn’t at all shy when it
came to trying to kill me. Anyway, in short, you were right, Jergan
and the Sirens found our book in the Tausenbar mountains before the
war, in an old elf stronghold, and thought they’d try and use it.
Jergan was one of the men who studied it, and with their wizards,’
he said
wizards
with a hint of superiority
in his voice, ‘they tried to cast some of the spells. Apparently
the book was some sort of dark elf summoning manual, for bringing
creatures over from the other side.’

‘They
cast
the spells in it?’ The vampyre was shocked.

‘That’s what Jergan said, and
for some reason I trust him. They went through it systematically
from cover to cover, and their wizards tested the daemons and
beasts on Skölgard prisoners. Jergan thinks that’s why someone
would steal the book, to get at the powerful beasts hidden in its
pages.’

‘But the Arka have fought
daemons and ancient beasts before, you were there five years ago,
when the minotaurs came out of the Efjar wastes? Why should this
book be any different?’

‘He said this book held one
spell that the dragon-riders feared so much they were never able to
cast it.’

‘What was it?’ Durnus entwined
his fingers in thought and stared at the fire.

‘They never found out… but it
was something that scared the Sirens and their dragons to death,
apparently a terrifying beast referred to as the “
mouths of darkness
” They were foolish,’ Farden shook
his head, trying to remember the lycan’s words.

‘Foolish indeed,’ the vampyre
watched flames lick at the wood and stone.

Farden leaned forward. ‘Jergan
also mentioned that if somebody powerful enough were to attempt to
summon this thing, that...’

‘That they would need a great
source of magick… perhaps like one of the dark elf wells?’ guessed
Durnus.

‘Exactly,’ the mage smiled at
his friend’s intuition.

‘As far as I know, the last one
we found was near Arfell, north of the library and several miles
underground.’

‘And with barely any magick
left in it, if I heard the stories right,’ Farden pointed a finger
at his friend. The heat from the fire curled around him like a
blanket. ‘And as far as
I
know, there
aren’t any left in Emaneska, but Jergan seems to think that there
are a few we might have missed.’

‘Indeed, I’ve spent almost my
entire life trying to track them down.’ He tapped his thin lips
thoughtfully, deciding what to do. ‘This is dire news, Farden,
especially if the lycan is right about an undiscovered well. If
we’re assuming, that the thief stole the manual to get at the
spells, then we have to suppose that they mean to release this
beast on the world.’ Durnus spoke his words with an ominous tone, a
cold voice in a vacuous cave.

‘And if Jergan was right about
the size and power of this creature, then we could all be in
serious danger, and I don’t just mean the Arka. Whoever stole that
book wants to turn Emaneska upside down…’ Farden looked at the
vampyre and their eyes locked in a steely embrace.

‘We need to get you to
Krauslung with all speed.’ Durnus quickly leapt from his chair and
went to the pile of scaffolding in the corner. He flipped the dry
pages of the dusty tome on the lectern and let his fingers scroll
over the lines of brown ink.

‘I’ll need most of the night to
prepare the quickdoor to the citadel. You need to rest. I can
imagine that you’ve been through enough to get this information so
I advise you just get some sleep friend,’ he said, as his pale blue
eyes scanned the book eagerly.

The mage took a deep breath and
gathered his cloak behind him.

‘What was it like?’ asked
Durnus abruptly. His finger had stopped on the page.

Farden looked over at the
vampyre’s back. ‘Imagine seeing death in the eyes of a nine-foot
tall wolf,’ the mage paused, remembering that blur of a fight.
Durnus turned to face him, a humorous look in his pale eyes. ‘It
strikes me as odd, my good friend, that you should ever see
anything resembling death. Every time I fear the worst, you come
back to us with no more than a handful of scratches. I envy you
Farden, being out there face to face with creatures like
Jergan?’

‘Envy me?’ Farden threw him a
quizzical look. ‘Are you sure?’ Farden lifted his torn cloak over
his breastplate and pointed to the deep groove made by the lycan’s
raking claws. ‘This isn’t a handful of scratches, an inch further
up and I would be either dead or howling away somewhere out in the
mountains.’

Durnus smiled and turned back
to his book. ‘Come now, I know you better than that. You crave
danger,’ there was a pause. ‘That’s why I’m always telling you to
be careful.’

‘Here we go,’ muttered Farden,
with a mock sigh. The vampyre turned around again as the mage
slumped back into the chair. ‘No, I’m not going to lecture
you.’

‘For a change.’

‘Fine. All I’m saying is that
we’ve known eachother a long time,’ Durnus tapped the side of his
head with a pale finger. ‘I know why you came here to Albion, and
what you’re trying to hide from, and I’ve seen how you deal with
it. Just remember that we care about you, and that even you have
your limits.’ The vampyre crossed his arms and stared at the mage.
His face was serious, and his words were sincere. Farden felt a
little uncomfortable as he always did in these moments, and tapped
his vambraces with his fingernail. ‘It’s not likely I’ll find them
just yet though,’

Durnus sighed and went over to
the mage. ‘Just be careful,’ he said, and Farden nodded silently.
The vampyre found himself smiling and put a thin grey hand on his
friend’s shoulder. ‘And in truth I do envy you, because you’re the
one who gets to go out there and make a difference, fight the
battles and the monsters, uncover the secrets and be the warrior.
My days are long drawn out and my memories are slowly fading,
Farden, I can’t remember the last time I held a sword. By the gods
it must be at least fifty years ago,’ chuckled Durnus.