The Written (36 page)

A hundred fists punched the air
to his words and the roar that echoed in the marble hall was
frighteningly loud. Farden turned to Modren standing by his side
with a grin. He puffed out his skinny chest and looked around at
the shouting Written with a similar expression. Farden laughed out
loud. Shouts filled the hall and the mages began to form long noisy
lines, facing the stairs. There were a few more yells and calls,
and once they were finished, they started to stamp their feet with
the most impatient eagerness, warming themselves up and getting the
magick ready with a great roaring throbbing sound. Farden turned to
Modren and shouted in his ear. ‘Get them to Dunyra, and meet up
with the dragons there, if they’ve arrived. Make sure you don’t
waste an time! You’re in charge while I’m gone!’

‘You’re going to get that
vampyre of yours?’

‘Durnus yes! I should be back
by morning, but just make sure that if it comes to the worst, don’t
hesitate, understand?’ he shouted. Modren nodded fervently. With a
grunt Farden tightened the straps on his pack and clapped his
friend on the arm. Without another word he turned and left. Modren
watched him disappear behind the edge of the door, leaving the
zealous stamping Written to themselves. He stood on the wet cobbled
street and took a massive breath and then let it out slowly through
his nose. He hadn’t realised how hot he’d been, but as the cold
raindrops splashed on his skin he shivered, and listened to his
heart slowing down. The rain knocked against the gutters and rushed
into the drains, making a noisy din as it collided with the world.
Dusk was quickly approaching, sneaking along the horizon like a
hungry cat. Farden waited for a moment and then he was gone again,
off into the evening and towards the city gates.

It took him just under an hour,
and when he got there it was dark and the downpour had only gotten
worse. A couple guards had taken shelter under the thick arches.
They saluted the mage as he approached and quickly hurried to part
the thick iron gates. Once through Farden stood in the shadow of
the wall and blew hot breath into his wet hands to try and warm
them. A rumble of thunder rocked the gloomy sky and lightning split
the darkness. The mage spotted Brightshow standing further up the
path. She was shiny with rain and blinking water from her great
eyes. She smiled toothily. ‘Well met once again Farden!’ she called
to him over the roaring downpour.

The mage smiled to himself and
went to meet the dragon. ‘And good wishes no doubt!’ he said as he
he reached her. ‘Thank you again for agreeing to take me to
Albion.’

‘It is my pleasure! Lakkin has
left his saddle on so it’ll be easier to hold on in this weather. I
wouldn’t really recommend barescale on your first time riding a
dragon.’ Farden had to agree. She flicked her white and gold head
to the leather seat strapped behind her at the base of her neck.
Farden clenched his fists in a last effort to coax some heat into
them. He looked up the hillside towards Manesmark where the lights
of the Spire shone brightly. The mage took a deep breath. ‘You
scared?’ laughed Brightshow, breaking into his thoughts.

Farden smiled. ‘Hah, a little,’
he confessed with a shrug.

Brightshow winked. ‘I don’t
blame you, our riders train for years. But it’s much more fun than
a quickdoor I hear.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ he paused for
a moment. Rain dripped over the edge of his hood in tiny
waterfalls. ‘Shall we go?’ he said.

Brightshow nodded. ‘As you
wish. Climb up then, before this storm gets any worse!’ She bent
her shoulder to the ground, and extended the edge of her wing to
make a little ramp up to the saddle. After a moment of uncertainty,
Farden climbed up her wet scales and tried to balance so he could
slip his foot into a little leather loop that hung from a thick
strap. He teetered for second but then regained his footing and
quickly swung the other leg over the side so he was sitting astride
the dragon. Once he had pulled the leather belts securely over his
thighs and feet Brightshow stood up and spread her wings like a
massive umbrella over his head. Farden made sure his supplies were
all in place and not likely to fly away, and then yanked the strap
that held the sword to his back.

‘Are you ready?’ she shouted to
him.

Farden blew rain water from his
face and smiled grimly. She turned her head to look at him. ‘I
think so!’ he called, and she flashed a mouth full of teeth.

‘Then let’s go!’ she cried. The
pale dragon crouched for a mere second, just enough for Farden to
suddenly regret his decision, before she exploded upwards into the
sky with one giant leap, rain and wind pressing his body flat
against her rough scales until that first huge flap of her enormous
wings was finished. And then came another. The air howled around
him as her white wings beat the air with huge deep whooshing sounds
like trees falling. The mage bounced up and down in the saddle with
each lurching stroke. The tight straps protested but they seemed to
hold. Brightshow shifted her body and pointed her head to the sky
and Farden found himself strangling the leather horn at the front
of the saddle for dear life. It felt like he was in a quickdoor.
The noise of the wind was deafening. He swallowed nervously as he
caught a glance of his city spread out below him like an intricate
model that was quickly getting smaller and smaller with every flap
of the dragon’s mighty wings. Somehow in the back of Farden’s mind
it was exhilarating to see the ground fall out from him, if not a
little terrifying. His teeth chattered with excitement and the
knuckles gripping the saddle were so cold and white they looked as
though they were someone else’s.

Farden crouched low to match
her streamlined shape and started to feel the dragon’s body moving
through the wind, noticing the twitches and swerves of her tail
keeping them steady in the face of the weather. The Össfen
mountains now looked like scattered rubble beneath them, and Farden
pulled his cloak around his head to shield his eyes from the
stinging, biting wind.

“
No one would
ever suggest that the Written are out of control, but they seem to
work best when we leave them to their own devices, and we know
that. They act in pairs or they act alone and as long as the job
gets done, then the council turn a blind eye to the method, but
thank the gods that we ruled against the fourth and third rune.
Some of the older Written are almost as skilled as I
am...”

From pages found in Arkmage
Helyard’s rooms

Jarrick had been on watch for
the last twelve hours, and he was starting to fall asleep at his
post. He shook his head and sniffed, and tried to keep his drowsy
eyelids from closing completely. Ganlir should be here soon, he
thought to himself, but Ganlir was probably fast asleep. The guard
shrugged in his heavy gold armour. Jarrick eyed the corridor to his
right, a dark hallway untouched by the light of the flaming torches
near the door. Further down that corridor and to the right was
another door made thick with steel and strong oak, and behind that
slept the traitorous Helyard, locked away in a windowless room with
nothing more than straw and a scrap of sackcloth to keep him
warm.

The Arkmage had been brought in
almost a dozen hours ago, when Jarrick had just started his long
watch. The old mage, once a proud ruler of the Arka, had been
reduced to a snarling angry old man, spitting curses and threats
like a common thief on the way to the stocks. Helyard had pounded
on his cell door and hollered for hours until he finally gave up
when night fell, and now all was silent.

Jarrick watched the shadows of
the corridor for a moment and sniffed again. At least he was warm
and not out on patrol in the pouring rain, he thought. Happy that
nothing was amiss, the sleepy soldier turned back to his staring
spot on the wall opposite, counting the bricks and patches of
lichen. His eyes closed briefly, but he shook himself awake again
and changed his grip on his spear. He felt the rough wood in his
palm and tried to stay vigilant... where was that Ganlir fellow
anyway? he pondered with a yawn.

A minute later and Jarrick was
leaning gently on the cold wall, his armour grating softly against
the stone as his chest rose and fell. A low snore came from his
open mouth, and his eyelids fluttered in the throes of a brief
dream. He did not notice the door on his left slowly creeping open,
and was completely unaware of the dark shadowy figure sidling into
the room, cloaked and dangerous. With slow movements the intruder
pushed the door shut and reached for a set of keys on a hook. They
jingled lightly in his hand. Above him was a torch hanging from a
bracket in the wall. With his free he hand touched the flames and
the fire seemed to flow into his skin, plunging the room into total
darkness. The man listened to the shadows, but all that could be
heard was the quiet snorting of Jarrick’s snores.

The figure crept on and into
the hallway. He found his way to a thick oak and steel door, to the
right, that had been barred and bolted from the outside with
intricate brass cogs and latches. The keys jingled again as he felt
their jagged edges to find the right ones. With a scraping he
inserted the strange shapes of metal and slid them into their
holes. With a click and a brief whine something within the door
came loose. The figure reached for the handle but felt something
still holding it tight. An invisible face frowned in the darkness.
The man’s fingers rippled over the face of the door, feeling the
cracks and contours of it, searching. He pressed his palm flat on
the wood near the keyhole. There was a dull thud, and a pulse that
rippled across the oak. The figure paused warily and then pushed
the door gently forward. With a creak and a moan it shifted an inch
or two, and then with a bit more persuasion, swung open into a room
that smelt like sweat and frustration. The bitter scent of rank
urine made the figure wrinkle his nose, but he stepped over the
threshold and closed the door behind him, and locked it with a
spell of his own.

Somewhere there was a quiet
snuffling and a rustle of hay. A burst of flame pierced the gloom
and send the shadows running. The fire burned and crackled in the
intruder’s open palm and he held it high to peer around the room.
Orange light scattered around him, illuminating piles of straw and
a rickety cot in the corner made from a few spars of driftwood and
sackcloth. Curled into a ball on the uncomfortable bed was Helyard,
groaning and scrunching up his eyes. The Arkmage was covered in
dust from head to toe, and his robes were stained and wet.

‘What do you want from me now?’
he said in a gruff voice.

The figure took a step forward.
Thick travelling boots scuffed the stone as he bent close to the
Arkmage’s face. ‘I have come to set you free, your Mage,’ he
whispered.

Helyard peered into the gloom
but the darkness of the figure’s cloak obscured and covered the
man’s face completely. ‘Who are you?’ asked the Arkmage quietly.
The tall stranger stepped back and gestured towards the locked
door.

‘A friend,’ came the reply.
Helyard sat up with a tired groan and tried to steady his legs
underneath him. The old man ran a hand through his dirty blonde
hair. Mahogany eyes looked sadly at the hooded figure standing tall
between him and the door. ‘Those seem hard to come by these days,’
he said, and stood up with a very tired sigh. The Arkmage waved an
impatient hand. ‘Well whatever it is you want from me, let’s go,’
he said. But the stranger just stood there. Helyard coughed quietly
and crossed his arms and waited.

Underneath his hood, the man
smirked and grinned wickedly. Suddenly he grunted and jabbed the
air with hands held like blades. The air hummed and split and
knocked the Arkmage against the stone wall behind him. His skull
cracked on the stone and he tried blinked pain from his eyes.
Helyard’s mind spun, but he quickly threw up his hands as a
lightning bolt flew towards him. The spell exploded against an
invisible wall about a foot in front of the old mage. Sparks
flashed and crackled angrily against his magick shield, but he
stood firm and his eyes blazed defiantly. Helyard stamped his foot
on the stone floor with a thud and a wall of air expanded outwards
from him. It rippled through the floor like a grey wave crashing on
a beach, crushing the cot into splinters against the wall. The
stranger was thrown backwards against the metal door but he quickly
recovered his footing. He made a claw-like shape with his bony
fingers and suddenly his whole arm started to shake and convulse.
The hooded man cursed and choked on the words of the spell as if
they scraped at his throat like sharp sticks.

Across the room Helyard
suddenly went stiff and his eyes bulged in their sockets. His legs
began to dangle beneath him and his arms thrashed wildly, tearing
at an unseen hand that grabbed his throat in a vice-like grip. The
Arkmage gargled and croaked as the life was slowly crushed from his
neck. Vertebrae audibly crunched and ground together. The stranger
slowly dropped his clawed hand and Helyard was lowered inch by
agonising inch, feet and arms still frantically fumbling on the
floor, while his breath came in ragged gasps.

Abruptly he was released, and
the Arkmage collapsed in a heap on the cold stone. He seemed
paralysed, unmoving and unconscious in his fallen position. With a
contemptuous snort the hooded man strode to where his victim lay on
the floor and drew a long wicked knife from beneath his cloak. In
three quick steps he reached him, and crouched over him. Helyard’s
eyes were frozen shut and screwed up in agony, so the man leaned
close to his face, poising the knife high above his prey and ready
to strike like a cobra. But the Arkmage was waiting for him. With
speed that belied his old frame, Helyard grabbed the intruder’s
arms and gave a guttural cry. Green light exploded from around his
fingertips and the stranger flew into the air with a yell. He
smacked into the ceiling under a shower of broken stone and dust
that instantly choked the room. With a rending crash the man fell
back to the floor and the breath escaped his lungs in a loud
wheeze. Chips of stone flew in all directions and clogged the air
like fog.