The Written (20 page)

‘You are one of the Written,’
said the woman, Svarta, more of a fact than a question.

The mage suddenly grew wary.
His mind turned to the raving lunatic back in his cell. ‘That is
true,’ he answered slowly.

‘Then you are a danger to us
all!’ Svarta opened her arms palms facing upwards and she looked up
at the other dragons. ‘The magick this man holds in his skin is
treacherous. The healer who brought this mage back from the dead
was turned to madness and lost his mind to whatever spells
you
cast on him.’ Her eyes bored into
Farden’s skull. Some of the dragons murmured in agreement, others
whispered conspiratorially to their riders.

Farden was shocked at the
accusation. ‘I have been unconscious for days! The first time I saw
that man was in my cell just a moment ago! Whatever he did he did
it to himself and without my help. I’m sure you all know what I am,
and what is on my back.’ Farden involuntarily pulled his tattered
tunic around his shoulders and stood defiantly, still shaky. ‘His
fate is nothing to do with me.’

‘It is
everything
to do with you! A strange man washed up on
our shores half-dead, taken in by a kind healer, and suddenly he is
turned into a raving lunatic? We should have left you for the
gulls!’ Svarta shouted. Farfallen and the council watched on
calmly.

‘I came here on a peaceful
mission! My ship was attacked on the way here, and I was forced to
take my chances in the sea. Surely a hawk has arrived with news of
my arrival?’ Farden tried explaining, but Svarta huffed and crossed
her arms. He looked into the massive gold eyes of the Old Dragon.
Farfallen took a deep breath and sighed. ‘No hawk, eagle, or falcon
has reached us with any missive from the Arka. We have not had any
dealings with your people in years,’ he said, with a tinge of
looking like a distant thought had just passed through his mind
like a wandering beggar. ‘Who attacked your ship?’

The mage sighed. This was going
to be a long story. ‘Sire, this discussion might be better held in
private, my mission concerns all of Emaneska.’ Another grumble from
the other dragons.

Farfallen waited to say
something, but Svarta jumped in. ‘Your mission? I assume this has
something to do with….
this
!’ She reached
behind her and pulled out the huge tearbook, dry and safe. A gasp
came from the hall like a sudden wind, as if a forgetful guard had
left a door open. The dragons flapped and moved around in their
nests. Some riders perched on their partner’s long serpentine necks
leaned forward to get a better view of the book.

Farden was shocked and relieved
at the same time. He was sure that the tearbook had been lost in
the waves when he jumped ship. Svarta held it aloft and showed it
to the entire council. Farfallen was silent, one eyed now closed,
the other fixed on his tearbook.

‘This man was found with this
in his clutches! Farfallen’s memories, long stolen from us and kept
by the Arka as a trophy of the battle at Ragjarak…’

‘Yes and if the message had
arrived from Krauslung then you would know I was bringing it as a
gesture of good faith! As a peace offering from my people!’

‘You’re a thief!’ one Siren
somewhere in the hall shouted out.

‘Liar!’ another shout.

‘Enough!’ Farfallen roared. For
the first time the Old Dragon reared up from his bed and sat up
straight with a loud scraping and Farden found himself gazing up at
him. A thick spiky tail whipped the air with a swish and his wings
beat the air like hammers as he hauled his massive weight upright.
The huge golden dragon sat on his hind legs like a giant cat and
his spiked tail waved impatiently. Farfallen’s wings folded back
with a rustle. The golden scales that covered his body undulated
and quivered in the torchlight that washed over his shining body.
His wings stood arched behind his shoulders, and long horns ran up
his spine to meet in a wide crown above his bony brows. It was the
sheer size of him that impressed Farden. The Old Dragon was at
least twice the size of the worm that had attacked Farden recently,
and the mage’s heart thudded hard in his chest. He could see a long
rippling scar that ran from Farfallen’s throat down across his left
forearm. The dragon flexed his snake-like neck, hinging and
unhinging his jaw with a noisy click. He clicked his talons
together against the rock floor.

‘I will talk to the mage, but
not now and not here. Let him explain himself to me.’

Svarta looked like she would
say something, but Farfallen shot her a glance. ‘My word is final,’
he uttered. She nodded. The other dragons rumbled their assent, and
several leapt into the air, flapping their wings with huge
whooshing sounds. Farden’s dark hair scattered in the wind as the
huge beasts soared upwards and through the skylight at the far end
of the hall. The mage could just about see the snow flurrying in
their wake.

‘Farden, walk with us.’
Farfallen swapped a look with Svarta. The two of them left their
platform and headed towards a low doorway in the rock wall. The
mage was ushered along by two nearby guards who grabbed him roughly
by the arms. Farden walked forward and the men jostled him. Despite
his dizziness he was beginning to feel strength seeping back into
his body; the weakness and fragility seemed to fade slowly with
every step he took. He wondered if it was the effect of the
dragons’ magick.

Farfallen’s feet pounded the
stone floor ahead of him and each step shook the mage’s legs.
Svarta shot him a glance that spoke menace and justice. Farden
coughed blandly. Randomly he wondered if it was difficult to ride a
dragon.

The party strolled around a
wide corridor that sloped gently further and further down into the
mountain. Farfallen and Svarta were silent as they walked.
Occasionally they would look at each other as if reacting to a
silent rebuke or question. Farden watched them closely until Svarta
chuckled slightly and then fell silent once more. She still held
the big tearbook under her arm. The mage tried to remember the
rumours he had heard about the mind-reading skills of dragons.

Soon they approached the end of
the spiralling corridor and stopped in front of a semi-circular
doorway, locked tight by thick bars of ornate wood. Two siren
guards stood either side of it wearing the expressions of wax
dolls. Their colourful eyes were rigid and unmoving, the tips of
their sharp spears barely quivering, and their lips were drawn
tight with ceremonious gravity. Formal was an understatement,
Farden thought to himself. Farfallen fixed him with a golden stare
momentarily and then looked away.

‘Leave us,’ Svarta looked over
her bony shoulder and nodded to the men flanking the mage. They
stepped aside, bowed, and scurried back the way they had come.
Farden swayed like an old willow on his tired legs.

‘Come Farden, let us talk in
private,’ said the Old Dragon without turning around. He waited for
the two soldiers to slide open the doors. Even though the curve of
the doorway was massive, the huge lizard still had to duck his head
and wings as they passed under the gilded arch. The mage followed
quietly. He caught one of the soldiers stealing a glance at him as
he passed. Their eyes met for a second and the soldier’s head
snapped back to position. Farden shrugged and hobbled into the
room. A fresh arctic breeze caressed his unshaven face, and he
could smell the clean, pure scent of snow and mountain air coming
from somewhere nearby. The tall domed roof reminded him of the hall
he just left, but the long windows lit the huge space with crisp
white light that hurt his eyes. Thick carpets covered the stone
floor, and wide benches and platforms followed the line of the
walls, there was even a resting spot for the huge bulk of the Old
Dragon. Big circular doors led to other rooms and quarters to his
left and right, and thick wooden bookcases lined one far wall next
to another door to a long balcony. The dragon shuffled his gold
feet in that direction, and Farden followed like a loyal dog.
Svarta lingered by the bookshelves.

The brisk mountain air almost
knocked Farden over as he stepped over the threshold onto the
expansive balcony. High overhead he could see more dragons
circling, coloured shapes whirling through the sky, big and small
depending on the distance and of all hues and sizes. Scattered snow
drifted through the overcast skies, as if the clouds were trying
but couldn’t quite muster the energy for a blizzard. The thick
white flakes were a stark contrast to the dusty grey clouds that
rolled and yawned above, a sky so cavernous Farden was sure he had
seen it before. If he stood at the railing he could see the whole
mountainside spread below him, but leaning over made his stomach
churn so he looked straight ahead at the mountainous countryside
that stretched out into the distance like a crumpled chart. He held
out a hand to let cold snowflakes land on his hot skin.

The citadel of Hjaussfen seemed
to be mostly contained within the extinct volcanic shell of the
mountain, but the villages and towns had pooled together around it,
linking roads and boundaries to form a suburban sprawl of buildings
much like the cramped streets of Krauslung. Through the curtain of
snow Farden could pick out clusters of houses and low round towers
poking from behind volcanic crags and rugged cliffs. Farms of dark
soil popped up between the rocks every so often, now barren in the
winter months. Here and there he could see flat roofs and circular
areas lit by wind-blown torches. He assumed they were for dragons
to land on if they so wished. Strange, he thought, how easy the
harmony was achieved between these massive beasts and their Siren
friends. Everything he saw was built for two different kinds of
citizen, no road was too narrow, or step too tall, and everywhere
he looked he could see the Sirens living in complete cooperation
with the dragons. If only the social boundaries of the Arka could
be so blurred, he thought.

‘We love the snow.’ Farfallen
said from behind him. The dragon had joined him at the railing.
‘Keeps us cool.’

‘I’ve never seen so many of you
in one place,’ confessed Farden.

‘Even in the war?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘before my
time.’

‘There used to be many more of
us in the world, not only in Hjaussfen or Nelska, but in every
corner of Emaneska,’ he sighed.

Farden thought of the empty
nests in the great hall and thought about asking, but Farfallen
spoke up, so he stored that question for later. ‘You must be
surprised to see me alive, mage, after the stories you have no
doubt heard of brave Lord Vice the dragon-slayer?’ A smirk curled
on his lip.

Farden nodded quietly, eyeing
the scar on the dragon’s neck.

‘It was a lucky strike, and one
that almost killed me. But I think it would take a lot more than
just a sword to finish the job. Vice foolishly left me for dead,
and I decided it was better to stay that way, at least as far as
the Arka were aware, that is,’ said Farfallen with a far-off
look.

Farden wondered what Vice would
say when he found out. He would not be best pleased. ‘There’s a lot
to be reconciled between our people, but I’m here for something
much more important,’ the mage said.

The dragon dipped his massive
spiky head and cleared his throat. The noise was like a landslide
under a hollow mountain. ‘I assume you speak of your mission?’ He
rumbled.

Farden turned to face him. He
closed his eyes as a wave of weakness came and went. ‘I was sent
here with an important task, one that is best kept as quiet as
possible. We’re still not sure who is behind all this, and several
members of the magick council believe that some of the Sirens could
be responsible.’

Farfallen matched his solemn
look with both giant eyes. The reptile settled down on the cold
floor and his tail swished noisily from side to side. Farden
shivered in the wind. ‘Tell me,’ he said.

Farden told the story of what
had happened at Arfell, leaving out no detail whatsoever and
remembering to be exact and mind his manners. Even though he kept
glancing at Farfallen’s claws and teeth, something in the back of
his mind told him he could trust the dragon, and he could see
reliability in the dragon’s eyes. So he kept talking.

When it came to the subject of
Jergan, Farfallen held up a single claw to interrupt the mage.

‘Jergan, the lycan?’

‘You knew him?’ asked Farden,
confused.

Farfallen squinted into the
distance and tried to think. ‘Yes, a long time ago, the memories
are hazy, but I remember him, or at least the memory of him.’

A voice came from behind them.
‘I remember when we heard he was bitten.’ Svarta glided across the
flagstones, her slim green dress blowing in the wind. Farden didn’t
turn around and carried on staring at the rocky landscape.

‘He came back covered in blood
and deep scratches, soaked by the snow and half-dead from the cold.
The healers knew instantly what had happened and we sent him away.’
Her words sounded cruel and heartless, but Farden knew there was no
easy cure for a lycan’s bite; exile was the only answer.

‘The wolf-curse is a strong
one, and there was nothing we could do for him. He was a danger to
us all.’ Farfallen agreed, as if reading the mage’s thoughts.

‘I know. He wishes you to know
that he is alive and well… sort of. I fought him in the south of
Albion about a week ag…’ Farden paused for a moment. ‘How long have
I been here?’

‘We’ve put up with you for six
days,’ said the stern woman. She reached the railing and put her
hands slowly on the cold stone. Her yellow eyes wandered over the
view.

Farden counted the days in his
head, and then realised he had no idea how long he had been
stranded at sea. Eleven, twelve days altogether? With no messenger
hawk the council would be getting worried, and probably fearing the
worst. ‘I have to send word to the Arka.’