The Written (9 page)

Farden seized the opportunity
to change the subject. ‘That’s because you’re a dusty historian,
old friend. But have no fear, I’m sure there’s still some fight in
you yet.’

‘Hah! That’ll be the day.’ The
vampyre went back to his book laughing. To illustrate his point
Farden picked up a nearby book and blew the dust from the cover. He
cleaned it with the palm of his hand and squinted at the faded
title.
“Treatises on Shapeshifting”
,
that’s a bit dangerous isn’t it Durnus? Playing with the old daemon
arts?’

Durnus looked at the book and
shrugged. ‘Just curious, and it’s not just daemons that can
shapeshift, my dear mage. What do you think I am? Or Jergan for
that matter? Both curses have their roots in the ancients,’ he
said, and then wagged a didactive finger in the air. ‘Did you know
that the powers that bind a lycan are completely opposite to that
of a vampyre? If a vampyre were to be bitten by a lycan, one of
pure breed, then it could technically cancel the two out.’

‘What would happen?’ asked
Farden, but the vampyre shrugged again. ‘Who knows? Hence the
book,’ he sighed. ‘But you need rest now. It’ll be a while before
I’m ready.’ Farden nodded and stood up to stretch. ‘And please heed
my words Farden, as your friend. I know what your temper can be
like.’

‘I shall.’ Farden walked
towards the door and pulled it open. His old friend was right;
there were a few people in the world that he cared about. Farden
thought of one in particular, and suddenly an idea blossomed in his
mind. ‘Durnus, can you send me to the quickdoor at the Spire?’

The vampyre thought for a
moment and then nodded without turning. ‘I don’t see why not. If
that’s what you want.’

‘It’d be good to see Manesmark
before I go to the city.’ Farden left the old man to his books and
turned to go. Durnus could have sworn he heard the mage whisper a
thank you before he closed the door.

Elessi was wandering the
corridors of the Arkabbey tower. After hearing a rumour that Farden
was back, she had gone looking for him with angst in her heart, but
now it was late and her search of his room and the cavernous dining
hall had been fruitless. She was wandering up and down the spiral
staircases of the abbey tower, peering in empty rooms and listening
to the wooden doors of locked quarters and rooms home to sleeping
soldiers. The earnest maid skipped up the steps to the training
halls near the bell tower, holding her skirts above her shoes. A
dull thudding tumbled down the stone hallway on her left and she
paused in her stride. Yellow torchlight spilled from a door
half-closed at the end of the corridor, and the rest of the hallway
was bathed in lazy moonlight pouring from a thin arched window.
Elessi crept forward, running her hand over the rough walls. Her
work-worn fingers felt the cracks and pitted surface of the grey
stone. The noise grew louder as she approached, like a sharp deep
crack of fire against wood.

She reached the doorway and
peeked through the gap into the hall. Her pupils shrank in the
bright yellow torchlight. Flashes of light and fire skipped over
the wooden beams of the yawning roof, and she shuffled around to
get a better look at the cause of the noise. There, standing
shirtless and sweating, was Farden, throwing bolt after bolt of
fire at a wooden man-shaped target. The mannequin swung wildly,
suspended from the wall and shackled to the floor on short iron
chains. It rocked and bucked under the powerful blasts of magick.
He wore nothing except a pair of black trousers, and in the dim
torchlight she could see Farden’s chest heaving with deep arduous
gulps of air and his shoulders were bathed in sweat. And there was
something else. Elessi’s eyes were now fixated on his back. Lines
and lines of thin black script covered the mage’s shoulders and
lower back, punctuated by swirling elegant lines and spirals
clambering over his collarbone and shoulder blades. Four symbols
ran along his spine, runes with shapes and strange interwoven
words. Elessi couldn’t help notice the dark faces of telling
bruises running through the black lettering., and every time the
magick surged through his body the words flashed and glowed,
sporadically lighting up all over his skin, glittering and dancing
with a bright white light. The chambermaid was transfixed: her eyes
locked in a mesmerised stare. She narrowed her eyes and tried to
follow the lines of script and make sense of the foreign scribbly
words.

Farden threw yet another bolt
of fire at the target, whose carved wooden face was now charred and
smouldering. If a mannequin could look depressed, then this one
did. The mage paused his onslaught for a moment and clenched his
fists. A whirring, crackling sound hummed through the air, and
Farden bared an open palm and sent tidal waves of sparks and
lightning to wash over the wooden statue. With a crash the topmost
chain melted and the mannequin fell to the floor with a burst of
cinders. The mage cursed and went to find his shirt. Elessi
flinched back from the door and ran back down the corridor with
mixed feelings of relief and fear. That night she dreamt of wounded
ghosts and hulking monsters, of deep caves and fire burning under
her sheets. Sleep ran from her and Elessi awoke with red eyes and
dripping with cold sweat.

Farden opened his eyes to find
some more winter sunlight jabbing through his open window. He found
he was lying on his front and swiftly pushed himself up and out of
bed, stretching with a new-found readiness. He had rested well, in
a deep dreamless sleep, and now he felt fit and eager to get going.
Whatever the old vampyre had done had worked, and Farden resolved
to ask him about it another time. He finished stretching and went
to find his scattered clothes and armour. He ran a wet cloth over
his grimy face and neck and began to wipe the dirt away. One of his
teeth was loose, probably from the fight, and Farden tongued it in
an investigative way. He pushed a finger to his jaw and muttered
something, and the tooth settled back into its place. It didn’t
move again.

He moved to the window and felt
the cold breeze of the morning on his face. The winter sun was
still hovering near the horizon behind the trees, hiding behind the
leafless branches of the Forest of Durn. A lonely bird sang
somewhere below in the Arkabbey grounds. The smell of baking bread
hovered in the air, from the kitchens below. The mage carried on
washing until he looked relatively acceptable to society, and then
tried smoothing out the folds and creases in his clothes with his
warm hand. He put on his tunic, his boots, and his armour, and
strode out of his room.

When he reached the vampyre’s
room the door was unlocked and Farden went straight in. Magick
throbbed and hummed in the air. The fire had long burned out and
only the candles now lit the dim room. In the corner the archway of
black stone and steel was filled with a haze, as if a silk veil
quivered constantly and violently in the centre of the tall
doorway. The quickdoor seemed to be finished and already thrumming
with energy.

Durnus reposed in a wooden
chair near a desk, eyes closed and dozing. Farden walked quietly up
to him and put a gentle hand on the old man’s shoulder. The vampyre
stirred and his eyelids fluttered.

‘Farden…hmm, what time is it?’
asked Durnus hoarsely.

‘Just before noon, it’ll be
afternoon in Manesmark by now. It’s time for me to go.’

‘Right!’ Durnus slapped his
knees and stood up, all tiredness instantly forgotten, and headed
to the lectern to check on the vibrating quickdoor. ‘It’s ready, it
took me a while to do for some reason, the Albion magick seems to
be weaker than normal. The quickdoor in Manesmark is a powerful one
though, so it wasn’t impossible,’ the vampyre rambled away as he
leafed through the pages, preparing the next spell.

‘You know I don’t understand
this time and space magick my old friend, that’s your area of
expertise not mine.’ Farden smiled warmly.

‘It’s all about patience my
good mage.’ Durnus squinted at the hazy surface of the quickdoor
and ran his hand over the archway, careful not to stray too close
to the buzzing threshold. The obsidian surface of the stone blocks
felt alarmingly hot to the touch. ‘Think of it as trying to open
and close a window a thousand miles away, with no more than a rope
and a long pole.’

‘That doesn’t really help.’

Durnus thought for a moment,
looking at the ceiling. ‘No it doesn’t does it? Well, all seems
like it’s in order Farden, time to go through. Now, remember hold
your breath before you step in, and watch your feet. It looks like
it’s snowing on the other side,’ Durnus pointed.

Farden watched as little flecks
of snow tumbled through the portal, settling in a little patch on
the top step of the quickdoor. ‘Great.’ He grinned. The snow in
Krauslung was the best way to see the busy city. He had always felt
a little more at home when he was there in the winter.

‘See you soon old friend.’
Farden shook the vampyre’s hand and stepped closer to the portal.
Durnus flipped through pages of his book.

‘Try and remember every single
detail and be sure in your opinions before you voice them to the
Arkmages. You have a meeting with them this evening in the great
hall,’ Durnus looked at the sword on the mage’s back and sniffed.
‘And Farden?’

The mage turned.

The vampyre narrowed his pale
eyes. ‘I can smell the blood on your sword… who else did you fight
besides Jergan?’

Farden lingered for a moment on
the best excuse. ‘Some people just don’t listen,’ he said abruptly,
with a shrug, eyes searching the wooden floor for an escape from
the reprimand he knew was coming.

But the vampyre merely sighed.
‘Don’t get sloppy Farden, there are rules and there are
consequences. Bear them in mind next time you draw your sword. I
watched your uncle go down this violent path a long time ago, and
look where it got him. This is the last time I’ll tell you.’
Durnus’ gaze was grave, and more disappointed that angry, and it
stung the mage all the more. There was no need to bring up his
uncle, he thought. ‘I will,’ he muttered in low voice, and stepped
up to the doorway. Farden felt the icy blast of the quickdoor on
his skin and ran his hands over the tingling threshold. As he
lifted his foot the door suddenly grabbed him in a vice-like grip
and dragged him forwards into a blinding white tunnel of light and
noise. Wind tried to rip the breath from his lungs and freezing
gales attacked his watering eyes as he plummeted through the
doorway. And in a second, it was over.

Farden stumbled onto the wet
frozen grass of the Manesmark hillside and put a hand in a patch of
snow to steady himself. Behind him the quickdoor fizzled shut and
the mage shook his head free from the stomach-churning dizziness.
He rose shakily to find a soldier standing guard beside him. The
early afternoon sunlight glinted off his steel breastplate and made
the emblem of the Arka, a gold set of scales, shine and glitter.
Farden nodded to the man, who dipped his helmet in response, and
quickly wiped the amused smirk from his face. The mage threw him a
narrowed look as he wiped himself down. ‘I’d like to see you try
and land more gracefully,’ he said, and the soldier made an effort
to stand a little straighter, clearing his throat timidly.

The dizzy mage said no more and
walked forward to look out across the stunning countryside that he
had known as a boy. The landscape was still as breathtaking as he
remembered. The tall Össfen mountains stretched out for miles and
miles in all directions, as far as the eye could see, puncturing
the wintry sky with their snow-capped summits and scraping at the
heavy grey clouds with their rocky teeth. Beneath the jagged peaks
and down in the snow-locked valleys waterfalls played amongst rocks
and fjords of ice and farmhouses. To the south he could see the
deadly slopes of Lokki, the tallest mountain in Emaneska, towering
over the vista. Below him on the steep hillsides villages sat
wreathed in wood smoke, peeking out of the snowdrifts. Farden
looked down the hill at Manesmark, the traditional home of the
Arka’s fighting forces, perched on the slope, a cluster of
townhouses, inns, and barracks. The buildings were tall and proud,
elegantly built from grey stone and pine and topped with tall
arched wooden roofs of slate. Chimneys belched grey haze and the
sounds of a busy afternoon in the market floated across the cold
mountain air to Farden’s wind-bitten ears.

Scattered memories ran like
rabbits through the fields of the mage’s mind as he walked across
the hillside. Manesmark was the long-established home of the
Written, and of the School where every mage studied, where Farden
had studied as a child. He could still smell the strange,
ever-present burning smell of the place, feel the rough wood of the
floors, the beds, and taste the watery yellow gruel. The School of
the Written had been a cruel world of bullying, spells, and of
constant fear. Many of his classmates had died along the way:
victims of an “accidental” knife thrust or perhaps caught by a
wayward spell. Vicious competition plagued the prestigious School,
and Farden was sure nothing had changed. His class of prospective
Written had been whittled down to just three exhausted candidates,
and Farden had barely made it into the final cut. He remembered
standing before the elders, beaten and bruised, pulsating with
magick on his final day, feeling the blood run down his brow and
hearing his name on their stern lips. It had been torture, every
moment, but it had made him a man, taught him the true face of
magick, and shown him the wild nature behind Emaneska. Farden could
still feel the Scribe’s whalebone needle carving the words into his
back.

The mage strode up the slippery
hillside towards the Spire, a huge tower that perched on the summit
of the Manesmark hillside and climbed hundreds of feet into the
sky. Here the Written lived, trained, and slept when they had the
chance. As he approached he could feel the power thrumming through
the walls of the tall building, emanating from the countless
parapets and walkways hanging from the Spire. Guards and soldiers
swarmed around the base of the tower like ants, and Farden spotted
a few Written amongst them, hooded and cloaked like he was. The
magick council had been rebuilding the ranks of the Written ever
since the war, and now, even after the problems in Efjar, their
numbers were greater than ever before. From what he had gathered
from Durnus there were now almost two hundred mages training in the
Spire, and just over half of them carried the Book.