The Written (27 page)

‘Are you ready to go?’ She
asked.

‘Almost, come in.’ He walked
back inside the room and she followed. Svarta looked around the
room and the mess of packing. She eyed the cat with a curious look,
and then back at the mage. She pointed a long finger at him.

‘Where did you get those
vambraces of yours?’ She asked. Her voice was quiet and controlled,
as if she were forcing herself to be civil with the mage.

Farden looked at the red and
god metal covering his wrists and forearms and wondered whether to
lie or not. ‘I won them years before the war, when I was hunting in
the far north with some of the other Written.’

Svarta crossed her arms.
‘Gambling?’

‘Sort of. There was an argument
that I couldn’t win a fight against the champion warrior of some
village. These vambraces were his wager, and the skin from my back
was mine.’ Farden said with a far-off look in his eyes. He could
still remember that fight like it had been yesterday, every blow,
every scuffle and shout of the crowd, the smell of fear, all of it
painted as vividly on his memory as the murals in the dragon hall.
A story for another day.

‘I take it you won.’ She said
dryly.

‘Clearly.’ Farden said no more
about it, and busied himself with the heavy sack of supplies and
his bulging belt. Tucking the last of the meat back into his
pockets Farden swung his sword over his back and strapped it
tightly to his chest.

Svarta stood with her arms
still firmly crossed. Her two blonde strands of hair framed her
frustrated face quite perfectly. Her lips were drawn thin and she
held her weight on one foot, tapping the other in some test of
patience. Her long dress was shimmering blue that day, crystallised
like a frozen waterfall, and the thick leather jacket on her
shoulders was dusted with fresh snow. Her face was white from the
cold, but the deep yellow smudge of golden scales running over her
cheekbones and neck were bright and shining. Farden gave her a
questioning look, and then she finally let her restraint snap.
‘Look, if you think for a moment that I’m going to let the rest of
the Arka traipse all over Nelska again, you’ve got another thing
coming!’

Farden laughed out loud. ‘You
can’t let it go can you! This was Farfallen’s decision…’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ Svarta
snapped. She clenched a fist and her blue dress shifted with a
rustle. She allowed herself a small sigh. ‘It may have been before
your time, mage, but my people still haven’t forgotten the war,
even if the Old Dragon has. It will be a while before we can open
our gates wide enough for the Arka.’

‘I couldn’t care less about
that. All I’m concerned about is finding that well before the
others do. Farfallen has given me his word,’ said the mage.

The Siren queen slowly shook
her head. ‘And that unfortunately stands for both of us, for his
word is mine also.’ Her face hardened as if he had challenged her
honour. ‘You have proven you good intentions to the Old Dragon, and
if he trusts you… then maybe one day I will too.’ The last remark
stung her as she said it, but Farden knew she was trying her
best.

He pulled at the straps of his
haversack and Svarta moved to the door. Farden ruffled Lazy’s sable
ears, and looked into the cat’s brown eyes. ‘Look after my cat, if
you can,’ he said, and the queen sighed. ‘Fine.’

The mage checked he had left
nothing behind and moved to join her at the door. He briefly
entertained a little excited feeling at the thought of seeing
Cheska again, and perhaps, if he was very lucky, getting some
well-deserved time alone with her. But the cold snow that suddenly
whipped his face stole away his thoughts and he pulled the hood of
his new cloak over his eyes. ‘Well, you can relax now that I’m
going back home,’ he said over the noise of the wind, and he could
hear Svarta grumbling behind him.

‘Unlikely, I have a tearbook to
scour through,’ she snorted, and slammed the door behind them.

Down at the west docks the
weather was no more gracious, and the rimy sea spray stung the
faces of the dragons and Sirens on the solitary pier. The sea was
grey and as hard as flint, white crests swiping at the frenzied
snowflakes falling from iron clouds. The earlier sunlight had gone,
and had been replaced by another front of bad weather from the
west. Farden wondered if Krauslung was any fairer this day, and
involuntarily shuddered from the cold. The Dragons seemed to be
loving the foul weather, pointing their snouts into the face of the
wind and letting the snow lash their scales. The fires in their
hearts must be keeping them warm, Farden thought.

The mage stood beside
Farfallen, and in front of them the pier stretched out into the
waves, and two thin spurs of black rock formed the gateway of the
quickdoor. It thrummed with the energy and sea-spray fizzed into
steam on its hazy surface. A wizard, his long red cloak wrapped
tightly around him, was calling words from a spell book that looked
much like the one that Durnus used. The scribe at his side was no
more than a boy, and he shivered through wet clothes while trying
to turn the soaking pages for his master.

‘Is it ready yet?’ one of the
dragons called from behind them. Farfallen repeated the question to
the old wizard, whose face was almost completely covered with blue
scales, and the man shook his head and carried on shouting over the
wind and thundering waves. Every time a grey wall of water struck
the rocks under the pier a wall of spray soaked the crowd, and
Farden was growing more and more eager to dive through the
quickdoor with each passing minute. He turned his head to look up
at the black mountain towering above them. The docks were in the
shadow of the mountain’s steeper slope, and the wet granite cliffs
soared high into the air and leaned over them like the prow of some
great black ship. Farden could imagine them toppling at any
moment.

‘What did Eyrum give you?’
Farfallen’s deep voice broke through his reverie.

‘A dragon scale.’ Farden
plucked the tiny pendant from under his cloak and showed it to the
gold dragon. Farfallen hummed with a low rumble.

‘That is quite a gift for a
rider to give,’ he said. ‘That is a scale from his dragon
Longraid.’

Farden nodded without saying
anything, and just stared at its ochre surface. He thumbed it and
thought about trying to give it back to Eyrum. He looked like he
was about to take it off when Farfallen shook his head. ‘He wanted
you to have it, and it is highly inappropriate in the Siren culture
to return a gift, Farden. Just keep hold of it for now.’ He winked,
and as he did so the Siren wizard shouted and threw his hands in
the air.

‘It’s ready!’

‘Good! Now mage, are you
ready?’ The Old Dragon shouted to all could hear. Farden looked
around him as the others gathered to watch. Svarta stood still and
silent as always, arms crossed yet again, but for once her face
held no anger or venom. Eyrum stood at the back of the group, hood
high up over his head so that half his face was hidden. Farden
nodded to the big man and Eyrum raised a hand silently. He turned
back to Farfallen.

‘I’m ready.’ Farden walked over
the slick stones with the dragon and stood in front of the
quickdoor. The electricity throbbed with a low rhythmic beat and he
could feel the pull of the vortex on his cloak and boots already.
He looked behind him. I expect to see you flying over the Össfen
mountains in less than a week,’ he grinned at the Old Dragon.

‘You just concentrate on
getting the Arka ready, we’ll do our bit.’ Farfallen exposed every
one of his teeth in a wide smile and the mage tensed his body,
ready for the journey.

‘Gods speed you Farden!’ The
dragons called to him as he stepped over the threshold, and then
everything melted into one white blur in front of his eyes. The
breath burned in his lungs and his ribs were squashed and pressed
as he flew through a tunnel of white ice. He fought to keep his
eyes open. His legs felt like they would be ripped from his body
any second, and wind roared past his ears like a hurricane. Farden
gritted his teeth and struggled to keep his body upright for the
landing.

“
Remember also
the manner in which a dragon may read your soul, and speak silently
to its rider. Remark at the startling resemblance a rider displays
to his dragon! The scale colours are almost always the same hue,
and he or she may share the same temperament, or physical features.
They boldly sit astride these enormous savage beasts, as if they
were no bigger than a simple cow, riding into the cold sky with
them like birds. The Sirens are truly odd!”

‘
Inside
Nelska: A Warning Guide’ by Master Wird

The sky was clear for once over
Krauslung. A few thin wisps of cloud were streaked idly over the
crystal blue like the accidental brush strokes of an indolent
artist, white smudges over the sinking sun. There was a crisp
coldness to the air, the type just after snow, and the people in
the streets rummaged deep into their coats and cloaks for warmth.
Clouds of breath rose from the crowded citizens gathered around the
market stalls and tavern doorways. A distant bell tolled in the
harbour of Rós, breaking the stillness of the frozen city.

Vice watched the crowds milling
around from far above. The towering fortress walls of the
Arkathedral were sheer, and he could lean out over the window ledge
to watch his people rush around bundled up in coats, hats, and
thick scarves wrapped tightly around their heads. They looked like
mere ants from so high up, Vice thought. A man’s voice broke
through his little trance.

‘Undermage, the quickdoor is
opening.’ A soldier called to him, and the he spun round to face
his small group of guards.

‘Stand back and give him some
room. Get that blanket ready man.’ He waved his hands about and the
men hurried to obey him. The soldier holding the thick woollen
blanket over one arm stood to the side of the quickdoor and
unfolded it.

Vice stood with the other men
half a dozen paces back from the quickdoor and watched intently.
The small room suddenly grew hot and sparked with electricity as
the tall archway began to hum and shake. A thin haze started to
spread across the doorway, rolling and undulating like a thin veil
of energy. Several little flashes of light flew across the door and
a low rumble came from somewhere deep inside it.

Without any warning there was a
pulse of light and a gust of air that pushed all the men a step
backwards. Farden came flying out of the quickdoor backwards and
fell heavily towards the floor. The mage threw out a hand to stop
himself but he was too late and he crumpled into a heap at the foot
of the archway. Farden shivered convulsively and pulled his legs
from the portal just as it began to close. He had seen enough men
cut in half by closing quickdoors in his time, and didn’t fancy
being one of them. The soldier to his left threw a blanket over him
and Vice strode forward to help him up.

‘Give him some help here,’ he
ordered, and the men helped the mage to his feet. ‘Glad to have you
back old friend,’ laughed the Undermage. He grabbed Farden’s hand
and shook it warmly with both of his. ‘No doubt you have a story to
tell me?’

‘Just get me some warm wine
your Mage, and I’ll tell you any story you want.’ Farden managed to
stand on both feet, but his teeth chattered over his gasping
words.

‘Hah! You heard the man, get
him some wine, and some
mörd
too!’ Vice
called to his men and two soldiers ran out of the room.

‘Come on, let’s get you to my
rooms,’ the Undermage put an arm around the mage and hauled him
forward.

‘Drink your wine Farden, don’t
just stare at the fire.’ Vice smiled and leaned back into a deep
armchair with a chuckle. He threw another log into the fireplace
and it landed in the flames with a burst of sparks. Steaming wood
cracked and spat at them.

Farden shook his head and
blinked. The mage was perched on the edges of his own luxurious
chair, leaning forward to be closer to the roaring fire. He grinned
and sipped the steamy concoction from the silver cup in his hands.
It was warm and sweet, mulled wine mixed with the infamous
moonshine known as mörd or
piss
as it was
more commonly known. It was a soldier’s drink, devastatingly strong
and as clear as ice water. He had heard many of the older veterans
arguing long into the night about its magick healing powers, and
Farden was beginning to agree with the bunch of gap-toothed
brawlers. It was like drinking fire, but the steaming liquid warmed
his throat and burned in his belly like the wood crackling in front
of him, and he was starting to feel better again. Farden squinted
his eyes and looked around him.

Vice’s private rooms were huge,
decorated in the finest styles and crammed with couches, tables,
bookcases, desks, and chairs that filled almost every available
space. The difference between the Undermage’s rooms and Durnus’s
was startling, but they were just as warm, and Farden was just as
happy to be there. They hadn’t changed much since his last visit,
but he still found himself looking around. Trophies and paintings
of his victories covered the walls and jostled for space between
the long windows that stretched across the far wall. The sun was
just about to disappear over the faraway sea, and the clouds were
beginning to gather once again as the weather from Nelska travelled
southwards. Farden turned his head to watch the red orb sinking
into the sea behind the distant islands.

‘I knew this weather wouldn’t
last,’ he said.

‘It’s been bitterly cold since
you went away. Helyard’s been in a foul mood, so maybe that’s why,’
Vice shrugged.