The Written (15 page)

The streets of Krauslung were
gloomy in the early dawn light, the shadowy clouds hung like a
blanket over the mountains and the slumbering city by the sea. Men
moved around the streets, cleaning the refuse from the muddy roads
while shops and houses started to wake up. A few candles still
peeked through the cracks in thick drapes.

‘Spare a coin sir?’ whined a
beggar that was slumped in a wooden box by the side of the street.
Farden looked at him, after a moment realised he wasn’t the same
beggar, then coughed, winced, and dug a little silver piece from
his pocket. He flung it into the tramp’s lap, and walked off. The
man bit the coin and grinned a toothless smile. ‘Gods be with you
sire!’ he called after the mage. Farden wondered why everyone kept
wishing him that.

Dawn shined in the east, and
the chimneys began to belch their sooty breath over the city. Smoke
mingled with granite clouds. Squawking, cackling chickens scattered
around Farden’s legs, and a lone goose wandered through the crowds,
trailing a velvet leash in the mud behind it. People were now
beginning to fill the thoroughfare, laughing and talking loudly
despite the early morning. A short bearded man, who seemed to still
be drunk from the night before, shouted impatiently at the closed
doors of a bakery while clinging to a lamp post to keep from
falling over. Farden watched an attractive peasant girl leave a
rich-looking house and skip down the street with a coy little
smile. She was still doing up her blouse and wiping smudged makeup
from her face when she disappeared around a corner. Such was the
way of Krauslung society.

Signs told Farden to head right
down an alleyway if he wanted to reach the west side of the port.
He walked for another half an hour before he came to a short
balcony that overlooked a square and the west curve of Port Rós.
The mage stood against the stone railings and sniffed the salty
air, feeling the fresh breeze try to work its charm on his
headache. A cold mist had crept across the sea in the night, and
now it lingered in thick wisps and trails at the edges of the
harbour walls. The ships in their docks rolled gently on the calm
blue-green swell, crowded side-by-side and tethered by thick ropes.
Wooden jetties and gangways ran vein-like through the bay,
boardwalk capillaries keeping the ships alive with supplies and
sailors. The muffled sounds of the ships’ bells and the creaking of
the docks was a gentle background noise compared to the shouts and
banging of people working around him. The hammers of the shipyards
were loud and clamouring. Everywhere Farden looked cargo was piling
up on the side of the jetties and sailors rushed around their ships
and ropes like termites over spindly tree trunks.

Seagulls mewed overhead and
caught the morsels thrown into the air by the crowds of people at
the dockside. The inns in the city may have closed for the night,
but the inns there in the port were still thriving with raucous
conversation and snippets of atonal singing. Stalls had started
serving fried meat and bread, boiling cheap moss tea for the sleepy
sailors. The smells of
farska
and fish
soup and the infamous sea-serpent pie, was thick in the cold
air.

Farden waited in line at a
stall, hood pulled low over his baggy eyes, and grabbed a quick
bread roll stuffed with cheap greasy venison. He bit into it
ravenously and tried to chew in a way that didn’t cause sparks to
fly behind his eyes. The food tasted like ash in his mouth. A swig
of brackish tea just reminded him of the herby charcoal taste of
the nevermar.

The mage walked further along
the wooden jetty towards the west pier. He munched on the cheap
snack and dodged his way through crowds of bustling dock-workers.
His sword felt heavy on his shoulders and he swayed drunkenly
against the elbows of the men. He stopped for a moment by the side
of a wall and slowly finished his tea. A few slow deep breaths
later, the wave of nausea had passed and Farden felt a little
better. He looked ahead and spied a ship flying the golden scales
of the Arka. He headed off in its general direction. Farden was
slowly realising how much he was dreading the ship, and the
turbulent, churning journey that was waiting for him. If he hated
anything, it was the open sea, and all of its grey rolling
vastness. He shuddered momentarily.

‘Farden!’ His own name
surprised him and he turned to see Åddren and Helyard flanked by a
dozen or so armoured soldiers. They were heading through the crowd
towards him, so he made his way in their direction. He bowed
formally and then stood with his hands behind his back. Helyard
didn’t even look at the mage, but Åddren smiled warmly at him. He
had a large sack at his side, hanging by a strap around his
shoulder. The soldiers looked at him impassively.

‘I trust you slept well
Farden?’ asked the Arkmage.

‘I rested well your Mage, thank
you.’ Farden wanted to throw up on his expensive green robe.

‘Good, we need you vigilant and
well prepared for this trip. I have convinced Helyard to provide
you with fair weather for as far as he can manage,’ said Åddren.
Helyard just grunted. Farden had heard the rumours about the
Arkmage’s power over the local weather, and it had been known, that
on occasion, summer days would be surprised with freak snow. That
had been before the days of the Long Winter.

Farden looked at the powerful
man, and he wondered why he hated the Sirens so much, but Åddren
was talking again. ‘Meanwhile, a hawk has been sent to Nelska and
the citadel of Hjaussfen to warn them of an emissary from the Arka.
I did not mention the true intention of your mission in the
letter.’ Åddren stopped. ‘Here is the tearbook.’ The Arkmage led
the mage away from the others and put an arm around Farden’s
shoulders. With his other hand he lifted the travelling sack from
his shoulders and handed it to the mage. There was an earnest tone
in his voice. ‘Keep it safe at all times. These sailors are loyal,
as are the soldiers, but greed may change their minds,’ he said.
Farden nodded wordlessly. Åddren gestured to the others and they
walked on towards the ship.

Helyard cleared his throat
noisily, and spoke up in a hoarse lecturing voice. ‘Make sure you
read it
first
, mage, and
with
the dragon-riders. Most importantly don’t let
them hold information from you, and don’t you dare jeopardise this
ceasefire,’ he growled.

‘I think he means don’t lose
your temper and kill anyone, Farden,’ said Åddren calmly. He halted
in his steps. Farden tried not to let his eyes betray him. He
hadn’t expected that the magick council would put any truth to the
gossip about his exploits.

‘Arkmage, I…’ Farden began,
trying to quickly conjure a lie, but the kind man held up a hand.
He pointed to the ship nestling up against the wooden walkway, and
the mage looked. It was a low carrack, a dark mahogany brown in
colour, with tall decks and pine rails. The ship lurched on a wave
and brown bilge spewed from the holes on its bow. The mage looked
upward at the tall decks piled on top of each other like a deck of
cards. He could see the stained glass of the captain’s cabin in the
stern, and briefly pondered if he could bunk there, but the sight
of the crow’s nest made his stomach perform a somersault, and he
looked down at the waves. Barnacles and green algae festooned the
battered hull, and a sad looking unicorn that had seen better days
was the figurehead. Farden marvelled at the lengths of rope that
seemed to hold the fat ship together, wrapped around its stout
rigging and sails like a spider’s web on a hedge. A string of
sailors hauled boxes of lemons and hard tack bread up the steep
ramp, along with an equally depressed goat, which was bleating
tediously. About a score of men worked on the ship, a few already
halfway up the mast, others piling up cargo on the decks and making
ready to sail.

Farden eyed the ominous weather
hiding behind the mist, and cast a brief look at Helyard, whose
glazed eyes stared at the clouds with a concentrative look. Cold
winter spray splashed over the nearby harbour wall and hissed in
the wind. The harsh metallic seas pounded the black granite of the
port defences like legions of icy waves drumming eagerly at the
gates of the harbour. The mage was thankful that the dock was so
sheltered. Someone was talking to him again.

‘Farden, this is Captain
Heold.’ Åddren welcomed a grizzly old man to their party. He looked
like an ageing pirate, who sported a grey beard that was even
bigger than his round belly, with a kind weathered face and eyes as
hard as blue diamonds hid behind bushy white eyebrows. He looked as
though he had been born at sea. He wore a rough uniform of sorts,
in the green tunic of the navy, with a black cloth hat pulled down
over his head. Captain Heold offered his calloused hand and Farden
shook it with a smile. ‘Good to meet yer Farden, the
Sarunn
is a good ship, we should be there in about
five or six days, travelling ‘round the coast,’ he said. Farden had
met his type before, a real northerner, harsh spoken, blunt, and as
superstitious as they came, but a true master of the rocky
seas.

‘Excellent. Thank you,
Captain.’ The mage struggled to return the man’s vice-like grip,
feeling as if he were greeting a huge crab, but fortunately before
anything could be broken, the captain released him and turned to
shout loudly at his motley crew.

‘Right, let’s step to it lively
lads, prepare to cast off as soon as we can!’ He bowed stiffly to
the Arkmages and strode rather decisively up the ramp, still
shouting.

While the accompanying guard
made ready to get onto the vessel, Åddren took Farden aside again.
The two men walked towards the ship’s gangplank and the Arkmage
whispered quietly into his ear. ‘Farden, I honestly wish I didn’t
have to ask you to carry out this mission, but if I thought that a
man better suited to the task existed, I would ask him.’

‘Thank you, your Mage.’ Farden
didn’t really recall being asked, but he still wanted the
opportunity.

‘And you may think that Helyard
and the rest of the council are against you in this, but believe me
you are doing the right thing. Not only could we have a chance to
stop this malicious plot in its tracks, but we could finally have a
chance of peace with the dragon-riders.’

‘I know how important this is
for our people Arkmage, and trust me there is no measure I won’t
take...’

Åddren held up an interrupting
hand. ‘Just…be careful mage. Helyard may be rash and swift to
anger, but he does have a point. We do not yet know that the Sirens
weren’t responsible for the murders,’ he said.

‘You think that and still voted
yes?’ Farden looked at Åddren quizzically, and he nodded with a
solemn expression.

‘There are certain risks that
need to be taken Farden, Vice and I saw that, and that’s one of the
reasons the Undermage is on the council. Sending you to the Sirens
could bring peace to our people, but if Helyard is right and they
were behind the atrocities at Arfell then we will find out very
soon. It’s a gamble in trusting them Farden, and I regret that you
are the tool we must use. But now we must pray to the gods, and
wait for your message,’ the Arkmage looked up at the tumultuous sky
and thrust his arms into his robe. ‘The old ones still have sway
over these lands,’ he smiled and turned his gaze to the hooded
Farden.

With a brisk jump Farden
mounted the wooden boards and steadied the tearbook at his side.
‘Let’s hope then, that our gods are stronger than our enemy’s.’

‘Hope, there will be, Written,
for the gods and for you. May Njord protect you,’ Åddren said, in a
louder voice and few nearby sailors rumbled in agreement, though
they eyed Farden like he carried the plague. The mage sighed
inwardly, nodded his thanks to his superior, bowed, and then
climbed the ramp up to the ship. His sleepy brain felt like it was
tumbling down a well, unable to put a stop to the journey he was
about to take. Nausea groped at his gut as he felt the waves swell
underneath his boots. Farden had never liked the sea. He said a
swift prayer to Evernia and stepped onto the deck.

The three or four Arka soldiers
had found their berths in the under decks, and the mage decided to
go do the same. With one last wave to the Arkmages and their
entourage he ducked under a hatch and went below. As he descended
some stairs into the low humid belly of the stout ship he heard the
dirty goat somewhere ahead of him. He decided to head in the other
direction and soon found an empty stateroom that looked through
small windows out from the back of the ship, probably beneath the
captain’s cabin, with the warm fire and comfortable bed, a fine
breakfast... He shook his head. Farden paused outside the room,
looked around for anyone nearby, and then grabbing a nearby bucket
he swept into his room and locked the door.

Farden quickly went to the
corner and threw his guts up in the wooden pail. His head lurched
with his stomach and the world burst into sparks and leaps. Farden
cursed and slumped back against the bolted-down bed, wiping the
mess from his chin. He knew better but had to try a spell on the
off chance the nevermar had worn off. If this lasted any longer
than five or six days he was in trouble, especially seeing as he
felt violently sick. The most pitiful excuse for a spark of flame
flashed on his fingertip for a mere second before he doubled up in
pain. His head exploded and tears squeezed their way out of
clenched eyelids. Slowly, he slumped sideways to the floor to
regain his breath. He had never felt this powerless before, and he
just lay there breathing.

After a while Farden felt the
ship drift free of the dock and the waves beneath them made the
ship rock back and forth. The mage fought back bile and a pounding
headache while the sailors above him sent the ship leaning into the
growing wind, clearing the boardwalk and out into the mouth of the
port. The mage could hear their shouts and calls. He shut his eyes,
and then after a brief nauseating moment Farden felt a second wind
and got to his feet, suddenly determined to see the ship leave the
harbour. He made sure to lock the door behind him and then tried to
negotiate the slippery corridors. He prayed he would not throw up
in front of the soldiers or the stout men of the ship. At least he
could pass it off as seasickness instead of a life-threatening
hangover from a banned drug. That would make interesting news to
the magick council, Farden thought.