The Written (43 page)

‘What happened here?’ bellowed
Farden.

The boy looked confused and
stuttered nervously. ‘Er, the... fire, sir?’ he managed.

Farden shook him again. ‘Tell
me what happened gods damn it!’

‘No one knows sir! It started
last night... at the top of the Spire!’ Words escaped him and he
stared fearfully at the man’s ripped clothes and wild face.

Farden’s heart froze with icy
fear. ‘Was there anyone inside? Quickly boy!

‘E.. Everyone sir! All those
who didn’t go to Albion with the others!’

The mage slowly let the young
soldier go and sank to his knees once again. The boy looked
confused and hesitated for a moment before running off towards the
fire with his water, leaving Farden alone and silent on the
hillside. Farden watched the blaze and let the orange and yellow
flames burn into his eyes and the prickly heat wash over him, as if
it would cure him of the pain that suddenly ached inside his chest.
Cheska would have been in the very top room. Where Farden had been
all those years ago for his Ritual. Where every Written went.

The mage felt tears run down
his cheek. He put his head to the scorched grass and began to sob
uncontrollably. Images of her trapped in a burning room and
surrounded by fire sprang unbidden into his head. They taunted him
cruelly with sick reality. Farden could see her beautiful blonde
hair, scorched and charred like her face, could hear her
smoke-choked screams. He felt a lump in his chest.

To his left he saw a small
group of people that had been pulled from the fire. Their skin and
clothes were black from smoke but healers were amongst them, going
to and fro tending burns and handing out pitchers of ice water to
stop the coughing. A desperate urgency grabbed him and lifted him
from the ground. Farden broke into a limping run and hauled himself
towards the pitiful group. He went from person to person and peered
into their faces, trying to find a hint of cascading blonde hair.
There was nobody, not a single one that even resembled her in the
slightest. He circled the entire tower until he went back on
himself. There was still no sign of Cheska. Defeated, the mage
slumped to the grass. The roar of the fire seemed to die in his
ears as sadness gripped him with cold hands.

High above him the dragons
swooped and dove in and out of the plumes of smoke. Farden watched
the flames dance over their iridescent scales, making the huge
beasts sparkle and shine with oranges, reds, and bright, bright
yellows. He saw Farfallen dive to drop an immense block of ice onto
the towering pyre. The mage watched it crash through the blackened
beams as it sent beams, bricks, and planks spinning. The Old Dragon
shone like liquid gold in the light. Farden looked on as a mage
nearer to the Spire was suddenly engulfed and swallowed by the
flames. A handful of others dashed to the man’s aid, beating him
with wet and steaming cloths. Another mage showered them all with a
waterfall spell and kept the raging inferno at bay while they
dragged his smoking body from the fire.

Even though he was surrounded
by people Farden felt useless and isolated, like an island in a
boiling sea. Grief and rage tore at his heart mercilessly. His only
reason to keep going had been cruelly taken away, scorched to
nothing, and left as ash in his hands. Farden shook with breathless
sobs and put his face in the grass.

It was a grey morning when
Farden awoke. It was freezing, and he felt like his limbs had been
fused together at the joints, unable to move and painfully numb.
The mage could feel the wet, and dewy ash covering his skin, so he
moved a cold hand to wipe his face.

‘I didn’t think you would wake
up for a few more hours,’ said a deep female voice from somewhere
near him. Farden jumped slightly, but he opened his bloodshot eyes
to find Brightshow staring down at him with a very concerned look.
She was sat like a cat with her wings folded back neatly and her
thick tail wrapped around her clawed feet. The spines running down
her neck and back were now limp and leaned to the side like the
branches of a willow.

‘At least I did wake up...’ he
muttered darkly, and the dragon pretended not to hear. She looked
away and up at the sky. Farden pushed himself up from the dirty
grass and sat straight, feeling his spine and back crack in all
sorts of places. The wound between his ribs momentarily flared with
pain. ‘How long have you watched me?’ he asked.

‘Since we found you last
night,’ replied Brightshow. She did not look at him.

The Spire was now a smouldering
skeleton of its former glory. Barely a single floor high, the tower
walls had fallen in and the wood had burned away to nothing,
leaving the dead husk of a once-proud building. Cracked and
blackened stones littered the hillside, and the bigger bits of
burnt wood and charcoal were slowly being piled up by tired
workers. Somewhere under the rubble the fires were still burning,
and the tell tale wisps of smoke still rose into the overcast sky.
The mage watched the people mill around. Some absently picked up
burnt artefacts as if they would bring back those who had perished
in the fire. Others scattered mountain flowers. Everyone looked the
same: covered in soot and burns, tears running in rivers down ashen
skin.

A dragon had died in the
flames, perhaps caught in the collapsing tower, or suffocated by
the thick smoke, Farden didn’t know. The green beast lay still and
silent amongst a pile of rubble, where he noticed that a few people
had laid flowers and wreaths for the Sirens. A rider lay prostrate
on the ground next to him, a single hand pressed against the faded
emerald scales of his cold dragon.

Farden looked to Brightshow,
who eyes were wide and huge, gold flecked orbs of sadness and
solemnity. ‘Did you know... Anyone? In the tower I mean?’ she
asked.

The mage didn’t have any more
tears to shed. ‘The only person I cared for,’ he replied hoarsely.
Brightshow looked at the people gathered around the smoking ruin,
‘They could still be...’

‘She’s gone, I’ve looked.’ The
reply was stony and cold, so she let the matter drop. Farden cast a
look at the dead dragon lying amongst the stones. ‘I’m sorry...’
was all he managed to say.

‘We’re all angry Farden, and
some of us lost more than others,’ she said, and the mage looked at
the lonely rider kneeling by his dragon’s side. Farden nodded, and
tried to understand, but all he could see in his mind was Cheska.
His love trapped in a burning room at the top of a tall tower.
Sorrow got caught in his throat for a moment, but he stubbornly
swallowed the pain and got to his feet with resilience he didn’t
know he had. Something gold caught his eye and he turned to see
Farfallen and a smaller black dragon striding across the grass
towards them. The Old Dragon wore a sombre look.

‘Grave times are upon us mage,
and it is with a heavy heart that I greet you.’ He bowed his golden
head for a moment, eyes closed, and then he sighed. ‘I sense a deep
sadness in you Farden. I wish I could help,’ he said. The mage said
nothing in reply and looked down at the ash-covered grass.
Farfallen looked to Brightshow and she shook her head. If a dragon
could shrug, then Farfallen did. He lifted a claw to point to the
lithe dragon at his side. ‘This is Havenhigh, one of our youngest,’
he said.

The mage nodded to the lizard
and turned to Farfallen. ‘What happened here?’

‘She will tell you, if you can
stand to listen. There is an ill will behind the cause of the
fire.’

Alarm bells rang in Farden’s
head again, and he looked to Havenhigh. The black dragon had scales
like mottled silk, sleek and dangerous. Her back was dotted with
many curved spines and two long black barbels hung from her chin
like a carp. Her forked tail swished back and forth restlessly. As
she spoke Farden could see rows of teeth lining the inside of her
narrow jaw.

‘This morning I saw two bodies
piled near the other side of the Spire. They were scorched and
burned with something more than just fire, the holes in their
breastplates told me as much. I spoke to one of your men, a
soldier, and he said they had been pulled from the tower, but by
who he didn’t say,’ Havenhigh said. Her voice was sibilant, and her
words rattled strangely.

Brightshow looked confused.
‘What does this mean?’ she asked.

‘It means...’ the Old Dragon
started. But Farden was already speaking.

‘It means that somebody started
this fire,’ the mage said, eyes downcast and searching the grass.
His cold words were like rocks dropped from a tall cliff. ‘Are you
sure about what you saw?’ he asked, fixing the black dragon with an
intent stare.

Havenhigh nodded eagerly and
her spines wobbled. ‘The bodies of the two men should still be
there, your townspeople haven’t cleared anything away yet.’

The mage was already leaving.
He marched across the wet grass towards the other side of the
Spire. Storm clouds of dark thoughts and blame gathered in his mind
as he walked. He could hear the dragons following close at his
heels. They were as silent as he was and just as purposeful.
Brightshow and Farfallen swapped glances.

Within minutes they came upon
the first pile of bodies, heaped shoulder-high and in grotesque
positions at the base of what used to be the Spire. Their pace,
even Farden’s, slowed a little as they saw the piles. The mage
looked at the collection of figures. Some were charred beyond
recognition, others seemed wax-like, with their eyes open and faces
painted black and grey. Even his battle-hardened stomach twitched a
bit; the smell was sickening when it mingled with the acidic
charcoal taste that lingered in the air.

‘Havenhigh! Where are they?’ he
called to her.

The lithe dragon scanned the
repulsive scene with her grey eyes and pursed her lips in
annoyance. She took a few moments to move around the piles, looking
for a glint of armour. Something gold and white caught her keen
eyes and she shouted to the others.

‘Here!’ she hissed.

Farden was first to reach her.
Part of him hoped the fire had just been some terrible accident,
but the other part, the darker part, boiled with frustration. This
was no accident, it was the next notch on the mysterious blade
behind all of this. Farden just wanted to find the invisible hand
that wielded it. He stood by the dragon’s side, looking at the two
bodies on the ground. They barely resembled men at all, but Farden
only saw the jagged holes in their armour. Kneeling, he ran a
finger across the scarred and molten surface of the breastplates
and looked at how the gold was puckered and cracked. He stood up
and sighed.

‘This one on the left was hit
by a fire bolt. The other there, see how the hole is less charred
and smaller? That’s spark magick,’ Farden said quietly.

‘Then this was murder, and the
fire was no accident,’ Farfallen voiced what all the others were
thinking. The great dragon sighed. ‘We must take this to Åddren
immediately.’

Farden looked at the dead
guards lying in the wet grass. Their wide eyes were frozen in their
last seconds. He thought only of Cheska. ‘I think I know someone
that could tell us what happened here, if we asked him right,’ he
growled.
Keep an eye on the weather
he
thought. He would do more than just keep an eye on it. The mage let
a moody flame burn in his palm for a moment before extinguishing it
in a clenched fist with a hiss. Farden looked Farfallen in the eye.
‘You go see the Arkmage, I’m going to pay someone little
visit.’

And without a further word the
mage was off, hobbling down the hill in a limping run, heading
towards the dark clouds that were gathering over the city. The
dragons watched him leave and Farfallen sighed quietly to
himself.

The mood in Krauslung was
sombre and down-trodden. Every door was closed every window
latched. The taverns and drinking-holes of the city were unusually
quiet, and as Farden lurched past them he watched the men in the
candle-lit windows, looking at their yellow melancholy faces
sipping at cold ale. Farden trudged on. Soon he began to feel the
first signs of a rain storm splash on his shoulders and he heard
the heavy thwack of several drops landing on his dirty hood. The
rain was just the thing to brighten the mood of the city, thought
the mage. He snorted. Half of Krauslung was covered by the cloud of
smoke and ash that still rose from the nearby hilltop. The city
mourned for its deep loss. The mood was taught like a
bowstring.

Farden zig-zagged through
desolate streets and alleyways with his fists clenched in his
pockets and hood pulled low over his fiery eyes. A flash of
colours, gold, white, red, and black, suddenly appeared overhead
between two rooftops and the mage managed to catch a glimpse of
four dragons heading for the great hall. His rib still burned with
pain, but he forced himself through it, feeling that vengeance was
close at hand. He thought only of Cheska.

The guards at the citadel gates
were silent and wary of Farden. With angry eyes they looked at the
mage as if he were someone to blame, but they did not challenge
him, and so Farden limped on past.

Stairs made his wound protest
and scream with fresh agony, and the long hallways seemed endless.
As he made his way deeper and deeper into the fortress the white
marble and gold trimmings of the Arkathedral disappeared and were
gradually replaced by drab granite and gloom. Windows were replaced
with stone walls and thick iron doors dotted the corridors. Guards
stood quietly on every corner but they didn’t bother Farden. They
just stared at him blankly as he hurried past, deeper into the
mountain. Like Hjaussfen, the prisons were like a warren, a
labyrinth of cells and hallways designed to slow the escape of
anyone who would dare. But Farden wasn’t escaping. He knew exactly
where he was going.