Dead Stars - Part Two (The Emaneska Series) (55 page)

‘What’s this?’

‘The gateses,’ hissed the nearest Shriek.

‘No, this is a hole full of water.’

‘Thats
is
the gates, strangers.’

‘Yous must jumps in. Be swalloweds.’

Farden nodded. ‘Of course. What else?’ he asked, throwing his hands up in the air. ‘What else but a watery grave.’

‘Farden, if…’ Tyrfing stepped forward.

His nephew held up a hand. ‘Not a chance in…’ Farden paused, realising the irony of his reply. Before he could continue, the Shrieks hissed collectively. Loki stood behind him.

‘What’s this?’ he asked, gesturing to the hole. He didn’t seem bothered by the Shrieks.

‘Our way in.’

Loki pulled a face full of mock-sympathy. ‘Oh, and just to think, you don’t like water,’ he said. It was no surprise that he soon found Farden’s fingers around his throat. Farden tried to grip him, but his fingers must have been numb. They barely responded. ‘Mages first,’ Loki said, nonchalantly.

‘Gah!’ Farden grunted. He slid his sword into its scabbard and stepped up to the edge of the hole. Some of the ice crumbled away and drifted down into the darkness. He met the eyes of the Shrieks. ‘If this is some kind of trick…’ he warned.

They all shook their heads solemnly. ‘Korrins dids the very sames. Alls those yearses ago,’ said one.

‘It’s the only ways!’ cried another.

Farden nodded glumly. He looked up at Tyrfing. ‘You still want to come?’

‘I’ll be right behind you,’ said his uncle, sheathing his own blade.

‘Well,’ Farden muttered.
This was it
. The moment he had been dreaded ever since Nelska. His chest was already painfully tight, his breathing deep and panicked. His thoughts flicked back to the feel of a rope around his neck, and the spindly, skeletal arms of a tree reaching to the heavens above him. He closed his eyes, and pushed that all away, all except how quick it had been, how painless in the end. It had been like going to sleep.

It had been like going to sleep
.

A vulture-headed ship made of fingernails.

Just like going to sleep
.

A horde of dead things and shadows pushing him into the cold water.

Like going to sleep
.

The helplessness, dangling in the wind like a ghoulish fruit, feeling his heart throbbing sullenly, slowly.

Going to sleep.

The feeling of numbness, of the cold, of the finality of it all. Of dying in a watery hole, bloated, useless, and forgotten!

Korrin.

Of death. Of feared, dreaded death. Here it was again. Everything he had always tried to escape, everything he had already escaped, and here he was, jumping back into it once more! Going back to Hel.
Hel
, of all places. Farden couldn’t believe what he was thinking. He tried to remember the words of Roiks, of Lerel, of Eyrum, of Modren’s handshake in the Arkathedral. Farden clenched his jaw. It was madness, but sometimes, madness is exactly what is needed, when all rational thought has faded.

‘Elessi!’ Farden roared as he jumped. The water swallowed him whole, with a barely a splash. In half a second he was gone, down into the inky-blackness. Tyrfing looked up at Loki, who was staring wide-eyed at the hole.

‘I didn’t think he would do it,’ said Loki, seemingly impressed.

‘That’s my nephew,’ Tyrfing said. He took the handkerchief from his mouth and tossed it aside, accidentally throwing it in the face of one of the Shrieks. It hissed as he stepped up to the hole. He cleared his raw throat and jumped, no words or thoughts or roars for him. He was gone like Farden, in seconds.

Alone, Loki stepped up to the hole, ponderous and slow. The Shrieks were muttering something around him, chanting it almost. ‘Tell me,’ he said to them, ‘have you ever read the future of a god?’ he asked. He had been listening all along.

The Shrieks fidgeted, creeping a little closer. ‘Nevers!’ one burbled excitedly.

‘Then what are you waiting for?’

And so they told him. Down to the last letter and detail, they shrieked and hissed his fortune, loud to the sky, and to the cliff, and to the rocks. Everything he had already planned, everything he hadn’t, and everything else in between. One by one and all at once they spoke it unto him, and he listened hard.

When they were finished, Loki fastened his coat and kicked the edge of the icy hole. ‘And to think,’ he chatted idly, with a smirk, ‘I’m the child of a lesser god. Who would have thought it?’

The sapphire water took him too.

“Report to Lord Vice, year 885. From Durnus, minder of the 9th Albion Arkabbey.

Lord Vice, I trust this letter finds you well. In regards to the skirmishes in Efjar, I humbly request that you consider Farden for decoration at the celebration feast. Against all odds, and you and I both know to which particular incident I refer, Farden has persevered. Not only that, and by all verbal accounts, he has performed excellently and consistently in the face of tribulation, fear, and overwhelming odds. And let us not forget his outstanding feat of saving an entire camp of soldiers and mages. It is for these reasons that I wholeheartedly believe he deserves this decoration. Let it not be wasted on some jaundiced, high-born son of a council member. Forgive me speaking frankly.

Sincerely,

Durnus.”

From a letter found in Arkmage Vice’s rooms, after the Battle of Krauslung

C
lunk.

The phalanx of Written dug their wide shields into the snow and readied their spells. There were swords strapped to their backs, ready for blood. Knives, daggers, dirks, all splayed across their chests. Pikes and spears waiting in the snow by their knees. They made a truly fearsome sight.

Behind them, Modren strolled back and forth, eyeing the sky between the black rock and the frozen waterfall. He watched the distant eagle circling for a moment, before raising two fingers to it. A few of the Written and the other mages chuckled.

‘Another bloody spy, keeping us on our toes,’ he spat in the deep snow, as gloomy as a stormy morning. ‘Five days,’ he said, ‘and all we see is spies and shadows. Not a sign of a real fight, eh lads and ladies?’

‘No sir!’ grunted the crowd, the Written louder than the rest combined.
Twenty-four
, Modren counted again, wishing there were more. Around sixty mages stood behind him, and a couple of hundred soldiers and sailors beyond that. It was nothing but a handful, compared to what he would have liked, but what a mean handful it was. Calloused, seasoned, and strong. His Written were its claws. Sharp, they were, sharper than ever.

Modren could feel it just as much as the next mage. Every day they travelled north, the more and more they felt the magick. It woke them up in sweats. It made their hands shiver. It made their heads spin and pound. But more importantly, it made them stronger than ever before. Modren felt like a daemon himself. He itched for battle.

Hence his sour mood. Samara had disappeared from the face of the earth. She was no doubt far, far north by now. P
robably already surrounded by swarms of daemons and fallen stars,
Modren cursed. All they had seen of her and her army was shadows in the frozen trees, ravens and eagles circling above, cackles in the darkness, maybe a wolf or two circling their camp at night. Distractions. Hindrances. Every time something was sighted, they stopped, expecting another ambush. It made the going slow and aching.

‘Five days,’ Modren spat again, as he saw Eyrum leading Durnus to the front of the line. ‘Five days,’ the mage was ranting.

‘Calm yourself, Undermage,’ Durnus cautioned. ‘We’re close.’ He gestured to the north, where he could see in his darkness a faint, yet gigantic blotch. Mountains, he had been told. The Spine itself. When the wind blew the right way they could hear the distant roaring of the fires and molten rock deep in the unreachable chasms of the Roots.

Modren lowered his voice to a whisper. He was angry, but he was wise enough to bear morale in mind. ‘Not close enough, not for my liking. Five days is a long time by foot. She had dragons, last time I saw. And those daemons can fade in and out of wherever they please, if I remember rightly,’ he said. ‘They’re miles ahead. Leagues.’

Eyrum had been listening to this sort of rant for the past three days. His stoic silence was wearing thin. ‘And what would you like to do about it, Undermage?’ he asked, also in a low voice.

Modren looked up at him and sniffed. Eyrum raised his hands. ‘Shall we ask what dragons we have to fly these sleds north, one by one? Shall we abandon the snowmad women and children and sprint on, just the mages and soldiers?’

Modren crossed his arms. ‘I know there’s nothing we can do, Siren, but that doesn’t stop me being angry about it,’ he muttered, darkly. ‘It’s a shitty situation for all involved.’

‘Such is war,’ Eyrum shrugged.

‘Such is survival,’ added Durnus.

Modren tutted and stamped his foot in the thick snow. ‘Up and in line!’ he ordered. ‘We’re moving on. Double-time. Let’s see if these dragons and moles can keep up!’ he said, throwing Eyrum a look. He went to go march at the head of the column with his Written.

Apparently a dragon was well-suited to pulling a sled, so long as they didn’t swish their tails. Only the snow caused a problem. After negotiating the Tausenbar, the ice fields had become more undulating, more treacherous, a landscape of snowdrifts, buried forests, and frozen rivers. The dragons’ feet were suited to rock, not to deep snow, and like the boots of those that walked beside them, they sank with every step. It was tiring, bothersome, going.

The column was in the middle of negotiating a narrow pass between two spurs of black rock poking up out of the earth. Broken trees hung over them like strange ornaments, dark against the bright white sky. The only colour in the pass was the faint blue of the frozen waterfalls splayed against the rocks, one every hundred yards or so.

Eyrum and Durnus watched half the column pass before they met Towerdawn. The dragon glittered in the cold, afternoon sun. He looked tired, but he didn’t dare pause. Eyrum and Durnus clambered aboard his sled while it was still moving. ‘One more day,’ he called back to them, ‘and we shall be at the Spine. It is an age since we travelled so far north. An age.’

‘And I am sure that none of us particularly intend to again. Not after this journey,’ Durnus said. Towerdawn chuckled, a deep rasping sound in his scaled belly. He trudged on, making the ice snap and crackle with every heavy step. His breathing was loud. Steam gushed from his nostrils and open mouth, like every other dragon in the column.

For every ordeal, there was a blessing, and for the brave souls going north, it was the reinforcements that had gathered to them in the past few days. Snowmads of all tribes had come wandering out of the snow and darkness to join them. Some had brought their own sleds, others had come on foot, or by ice-bear. They had brought sabre-cats, white eagles, and even stranger beasts of the ice fields. And others too. Durnus had recognised their scent from afar. Wild men of Dromfangar, drawn by the magick perhaps, or the thought of war. They travelled apart from the column, not too close, yet not too far. They had chosen their side, and the Arka and Sirens were glad for it. Every man and beast counted.

Durnus had picked up another scent too. Vampyres. The odour was unmistakable. They travelled with the wild men. Perhaps even lycans too, if the wind wasn’t lying to him. Tame, yet fierce, like he had been; more man than beast but just as dangerous as both. He kept silent about it, but found himself somewhat comforted. Every man and beast counted. Everything in between counted too.

Barely an hour passed before they had to stop again. A shout for them to halt trickled down the line, and everybody came to a sighing halt. Steam rose in great clouds from the column. Durnus and Eyrum got down from the sled with sighs of their own, wondering what eagle, or wolf, or fox, or fallen branch had brought them to a halt now. They had barely trudged a dozen paces when a dark shadow skimmed the tops of the sleds. Something huge and feathery. It screeched when it saw the two of them, and turned so violently that it would have made even the best of dragons vomit.

Ilios came crashing to the snow, whistling and burbling in a stream of agitated nonsense. Durnus held up his hands and found the gryphon’s beak. ‘Calm, Ilios. What is it? Slowly, boy.’

Ilios took a gasping little breath and began again, this time a little slower. Durnus’ lips moved as the gryphon spoke, his mouth getting a little wider with every sentence. Modren came jogging back down the column, and caught the latter half of the conversation. ‘And so they’re gone?’ he asked.

Ilios clacked his beak.

Eyrum scratched his head. ‘And what is
that
?’ he asked, pointing at the dead, dark lump in Ilios’ claws. Ilios lifted it up between two talons and let it flop onto the snow, a little of its sickly blue blood splattering on the snow. He whistled. He hadn’t a clue.

‘What is it, Eyrum?’ asked Durnus.

The Siren nudged it with his foot. ‘It looks like a raven, but with skin instead of feathers. And a tail. A feathery, fluffy tail. Like a cat, almost. I truly don’t know.’

Modren knelt down to prod it. It wheezed as he did so, dead air escaping from its lungs. It already smelled rotten. ‘It looks like a scruffy sort of bat to me.’

Ilios warbled something.

‘These were there when you returned?’ asked Durnus. A confirmatory whistle. ‘Did they speak? Could they speak?’ Another whistle. ‘Well, what did they say?’ Ilios looked between the Siren and the Arkmage, and licked the edge of his beak. He made a low, growling sound.

‘They said they were dead,’ mumbled Modren.

Much to everyone’s surprise, Durnus clapped his hands together and smiled. ‘At last!’ he cried. Modren let his jaw dangle open. The Arkmage looked sightlessly around. ‘Do you not see?’ he asked. The others shook their heads numbly. Durnus smiled even wider. ‘They have done it. They have found their way in, or down, or whichever. Were their bodies by these rocks, Ilios?’ The gryphon whistled a
no
. ‘Then if they had been slain by these things, there would be bodies. The other side is for souls, not for skin. You leave that behind. Do you see now? Wherever they’ve gone, they’ve gone alive.’