Dead Stars - Part Two (The Emaneska Series) (64 page)

‘That we do,’ Farden said, softly. His own eyes had wandered to the folds of the dusty breastplate, bright gold over blood-red. Scalussen scales, sharp, hard, and impossibly intricate. He looked at the whorls of the inlaid design, splayed across Korrin’s chest. A lone wolf, hackles raised, baring its teeth at the gold tendrils of a lofty moon.
A lone wolf
,
of all things. How perfect.
‘More than I thought,’ Farden dared a smile.

‘You may not be a grave-robber, but you’ve certainly got the eyes of one.’

‘It’s been a long time…’

‘…searching. I imagine.’

‘You chose a good hiding place.’

Korrin looked around at his cave. He knew every rock and crack. He had counted them beyond a thousand times. ‘Spacious. Company’s terrible. Always talking, whispering. Thank the gods for this,’ he sighed, tapping a finger to the side of his helmet. Farden hungrily took in its curves, the way the visor mimicked a face, how the overlapping scales formed horns and spikes that ran down to join the neck of the cuirass, like a dragon’s spine. ‘So, what perils face the world?’

‘Daemons.’

Korrin nodded. ‘Never fought those. Humans were bad enough.’

‘Would you fight with us?’

‘No.’ The reply was like a stone dropping. Final. ‘I made a deal with Hel. I stay here until I die, and then I’m hers. I had planned on crossing this bridge one day, but it seems that plan has been scuppered.’

Farden lowered his head. Korrin saw his fists clench.

‘As you can imagine,’ Korrin shrugged his armoured shoulders. ‘Hel’s been waiting a long time.’ Farden couldn’t help but crack a smile.

‘What now then? What would you have me do?’

‘You go to fight these daemons?’

‘I do.’

‘The gods have chosen you to be their champion?’

Farden looked up at the ceiling of the cave. ‘In a fashion.’

‘Then it is time you set me free, warrior. Heir indeed,’ Korrin began to pant then, as if he were having trouble catching his breath. ‘It has been too long.’

Slowly, respectfully, trying hard to hold back his hunger, Farden took the armour piece by magnificent piece. First the sabatons, folded over his boots. They wrapped around him like old friends, long lost, reaching up to meld with his greaves at the knee. Farden shivered, feeling that old familiar ice-water sensation as they tightened around him.

Shrugging off his cloak and jacket, Farden reached for the cuirass. His fingers found the latches, set deep into the metal, and they unfolded by themselves with a metallic whisper. Korrin’s eyes were half-closed as he lifted his arms, letting the armour unwrap itself from his skin. He wore nothing but a dirty old tunic underneath, barely an inch from tattered, dusty rags. Farden felt a pang of guilt. Korrin sensed it. ‘Put it on, hero. Put it on.’

Farden did so with a will. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, he slipped the cuirass over his head, noting with a grin at how the breastplate’s ribs expanded to let him in. Moments later it was tightening around him. The scales contracted and shivered into a tight, but not uncomfortable fit. The metal sucked itself in, following every contour of his ribs, his spine, and his shoulders. The pauldrons and rerebraces shivered as they unfolded and slid down to meet his trusty old vambraces. Scale met scale and intertwined like lovers. They couldn’t have been a more perfect match. Farden almost bent double as the metal joined, feeling the dizzying rush of its power in his veins. His shoulder popped painfully as the armour forced it back into place.

As he bent his chin to the metal, riding the pain, euphoria, and everything in between, he looked down to find the wolf’s eyes looking back at him, two tiny rubies embedded into the metal. Farden let his fingers touch them, and then he forced himself to his feet, riding the surge.

The helmet was last. Korrin had turned a frighteningly pale colour. Lines had drawn themselves in his skin. He was ageing now that the armour was being taken from him. ‘The helmet,’ Korrin whispered, through thin lips and fast-receding gums. He bowed his head to let Farden take it. Farden bent down and slowly lifted it free. He raised it high above his head, like a king receiving his crown. All but closing his eyes, he brought it down over his head. The world went dark as the helmet’s visor slammed shut. Farden heard the scraping of the scales as they coupled.

It was done.

Farden lifted the visor, sliding it back along his forehead. Not a scrape, not a whine of rusty hinges was heard. The armour was as perfect as the day it had landed on the smith’s table. Farden could barely keep from quivering, whether from the sheer joy, from the ice-cold sensation of the metal, or from the pain that was flashing up and down his body, racing through his blood, he didn’t know. He couldn’t tell if it was healing him or hurting him. He hoped the former.

Farden looked down at Korrin, a final, ‘Thank you,’ ready to tumble from his lips. But when he looked, he found Korrin dead, eyes open and lips frozen in a final little half-smile. Farden knelt down and reverently closed his eyes for him. ‘Hero,’ he whispered. ‘I hope that I can be as half as good.’

‘It’s time, Farden,’ Tyrfing whispered. He had Elessi by the wrist. He was already pointing toward the exit.

‘That it is,’ Farden replied with a sigh. He turned to Elessi, leaning close to her faded face. Her eyes didn’t see him, they simply looked through him as if he were a pane of glass. ‘We’re not done yet,’ he said.

And they ran. They ran as fast as their legs could carry them, hurtling through the tunnels, barging through the crowded dead like spears through shoals of bewildered fish.

Farden was in front, Elessi in his hand. His red-gold legs pounded the rock as though he were a daemon himself. His breathing came in gulping gasps as they swerved left, right, then left again, weaving their frantic way through the tunnels.

Tyrfing was bringing up the rear. To his credit, he kept pace with his nephew. His breathing was atrocious. He hawked and spat and panted and coughed all the way.

And still they ran.

It was only when the river and
Naglfar
came into view that they slowed. Farden jogged ahead while Tyrfing stumbled to a canter, then a fast walk, then a pained shuffle, hands pressed to his ribs.

‘Hel!’ Farden was yelling. The dead were crowded around the ship, which was listing to one side, as if it had run aground. The dead were travellers without maps now, aimless and confused. They milled about in their clumps, telling each other their stories and lives in their quiet little whispers. A precious few looked up at the newcomers, vacantly confused at the sound of a man in full armour clattering by, dragging a shadow with him, and moments later followed by an older man, croaking painfully.

‘Farden!’ Tyrfing cried, but his nephew was oblivious. He was already at the ship. Tyrfing walked a little faster.

‘Traitor,’ Hel was hissing to Farden, when Tyrfing reached the bow of the ship. He put out a hand to steady himself and thought better of it.
Toenails
, came the thought. That, and the slimy legs of the grotesque figurehead were only a few feet away. It looked down at him, licking its vulture beak.

‘What cost, he asks, what cost!’ it was mouthing. Tyrfing scowled darkly at it.

‘Which way did he go?!’ Farden demanded, by his uncle’s side.

Hel was leaning over the bulwark. ‘He has escaped, Farden! It matters not where he has gone. He has broken it. The Bifröst! The dead are lost!’ she cried.

‘Then which way do we go? How do we get out?’

Hel was rubbing her pale forehead with her black fingernails. She positively shook with rage. ‘Traitor,’ she was saying. ‘You hear me, sisters? Brothers? You sent down a traitor!’

‘Hel! How do we get out of this godsforsaken place? Honour your bargain!’ It probably was not the best choice of words given the circumstances, or their host, but Hel was too furious to notice. Anything but the last sentence, that was.

‘Oh, I intend to, mage,’ she said, looking him and his armour up and down. He glittered like flame. She threw an idle look in Tyrfing’s direction, then flicked a finger at the river. ‘Enter the river, and you shall return to whence you came.’

‘If this is a trick…’

Hel’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘There was but one trickster in Hel, and he has left. I keep my bargains, Farden Protector, now get out of my sight. In the river with you. Get out of my sight.’

‘Protector?’ Farden asked, as he marched Elessi to the shore. The vulture twitched its pinned-together wings.

‘Protector, she calls you! For the armour! What do you think Scalussen means, in the old tongue? Hmm?’ it squawked, seemingly proud of itself. Farden gave it a wide berth.

Together they moved clear of the listing
Naglfar
, and made for the edge of the rushing river. It was flowing much faster than before, as if it too shared Hel’s wrath. Farden manoeuvred Elessi to the edge of the hissing waters and turned her to face him. He stared deep into her glassy eyes. ‘You’re going home,’ he said to her, shaking her lightly by the shoulders.
Gods, her skin was cold.
She didn’t seem to hear him, or even acknowledge he was there. She looked about, completely deaf, dumb, and blind to the mage. ‘Well, here goes,’ he said, pushing her gently outwards. She toppled like a frozen tree, half-heartedly flailing as she hit the water. The river swallowed her up in moments, and she disappeared into the shimmering waters.

‘You next, uncle. This place is killing you,’ Farden reached for Tyrfing’s arm. Behind them, the figurehead cackled rather disturbingly, making the skin on Farden’s neck twitch.

‘No, you first, nephew,’ Tyrfing smiled weakly, a little blood on his lip, gently pushing Farden’s armoured hand away with his own, wrinkles around his mouth quivering bravely, and it was in that moment that Farden knew.

‘It’s you, isn’t it? The cost of crossing…’ Farden slumped. His stomach knotted up again in an instant, adding to the pain of the armour that still coursed through his body. He grimaced as he reached for his knees.

‘I’m dying, Farden. My lungs are rotting. A tumour, the healers call it. No spells can touch it,’ he smiled wider, eyes blinking hard. ‘In a way it’s a mercy to go out like this instead of, well, the usual Written way. I already lost my mind once. Can’t have that again, can we?’ Tyrfing chuckled dryly.

‘Two goodbyes in as many minutes,’ Farden was muttering.

‘I’m sorry, Farden. At least we had one this time. And what you said to Hel,’ his uncle paused, ‘this armour is the start of a new life for you, nephew, I know it.’

Farden bit his lip until he tasted salt and metal, felt the hot trickle fill his mouth. He took a strangled breath, throat tight. He grimaced, showing the blood on his teeth. ‘But we need you,’ he said, making a half gesture at the river, at the roof of the cavern. ‘Your magick…’

‘I can’t leave,’ Tyrfing said. They heard a rustle above them, and turned to see Hel standing at the prow of the ship. Her face gave away nothing. Tyrfing clapped his hands. ‘Besides,’ he said. ‘You have enough magick for both of us.’

Farden snorted, but his uncle put his hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t you feel it Farden? That pain? That burning? It’s been so long you don’t know what it is. I can feel it coming off you in waves. Don’t fight it.’

Farden shook his head, closing his stinging eyes. He took a deep breath as the pain surged around his chest and up into his head.
Yes
. That old feeling. That sharp pain at the base of his skull, like a blade to his spine. No, it wasn’t pain any more, it was just pressure, just a rushing of blood and magick, burning the dust from his nerves, flushing out cobwebs and clutter like a broom across a forgotten floor. No wonder his back felt hot and clammy. No wonder his hands were shaking.

Farden opened up a shaking fist and felt his arm spasm as the magick tumbled down it, a landslide through his veins. Fire flashed into life in his palm, swirling like a tornado.

‘See?’ Tyrfing grinned as wide as he could, still gripping Farden by the shoulder. His nephew clenched his fist and put out the spell, then dragged Tyrfing into a near-crushing hug. It lasted only a moment, but they both knew it meant the world; a thousand words, what-ifs, and tears, anger, grief, and acceptance, all crushed into the clank and shudder of one short embrace. Sometimes that was all that people needed. Actions spoke when words were too hard.

‘Go,’ Tyrfing pushed him away. ‘The others need you.’

Farden staggered back and jabbed a finger at Hel. ‘You keep him safe,’ he said, before turning back to Tyrfing. He slammed his visor shut, lest he see the tears. ‘At least I know you’re not going anywhere.’

Tyrfing smiled, and watched Farden turn, stamp the cobbles to death, and then dive headlong into the rushing waters with a giant splash.

Hel sniffed. ‘He’s a good man, your nephew,’ she mused.

Tyrfing staggered onto his knees. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘He’s a great man.’

“No, I do not know what he was thinking. There isn’t a scribble this quill can make that could describe by frustration, how exasperated I am with the man. To take on a Huskar chief’s
son
in a fist-fight. Not for honour, no, but for pure greed. For the son’s vambraces no less. Pretty they may be, exceptionally so in fact, but not pretty enough to jeopardise our tenuous political links with the Huskar tribes for. Not for all the Scalussen in the world would I risk another border skirmish with those savage beasts. I thank Evernia that the son instigated the bout. Thank Evernia indeed. Though I suppose it is worth noting that Farden did win the fight.