Dead Stars - Part One (The Emaneska Series) (30 page)

Somebody came to check on him. A door creaked and the sound of clanking dishes and hushed conversation momentarily spilled onto the patio. Footsteps wandered towards him. Boots, if Farden’s ears were not mistaken. There was a tap as a beaker was placed next to his head.

‘That bastard gryphon,’ said a voice, a man’s voice, but not Traffyd’s. Farden wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him again. His mind still felt numb, but the pain had gone for now. ‘That’s what you kept muttering when I was watching you,’ said the voice.

Farden turned his head and found a fair-haired man, probably a handful of years above thirty, staring down at him. He seemed tall, but that was probably because the mage was lying down. He had a youthful face. It burnt with a strange measure of intensity he had only witnessed once before. Farden’s mind tried desperately to remember where. His clothing was fresh, foreign. He wore an off-white cloth shirt buttoned tightly to his neck and a long leather coat. There was no armour on the man, no jewellery of any kind, no scars. Not even a mole or a birthmark. Every single one of his blonde hairs was in perfect place. He wasn’t even blinking. The realisation landed like a brick in a well. It made Farden’s heart sink, and made his lip curl. ‘And which one are you?’ Farden croaked.

The man touched the beaker to his lips. He spoke while Farden sipped. ‘For a man who’s just been hauled back from the brink of death, you don’t seem very grateful.’

Farden lifted his hand to wipe his lips. He felt a little stronger today. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t out of the kindness of your heart.’

‘And why would you say that?’

‘It never is with you lot,’ replied the mage. He shook his head. ‘Which one are you?’

The man ducked his head so he could look out into the garden. He watched the rain for a moment, and then turned a little to point east. ‘You can see me, before sunrise. I am the Light-bringer. Aurvandill in our tongue. Loki in yours.’

‘Loki. Like the mountain?’

‘No, that would be
Lokki
. An unfortunate coincidence.’

‘That’s a shame.’

‘Mmm.’

Farden rubbed his face with his hands. He couldn’t help but notice how much his beard had grown, and how dry his face and lips were. He must have looked like a wild man. He could feel the lumps in his neck where his muscles had been bruised and the rope had torn his skin. He dreaded the next mirror he’d see. He sighed through his fingers. ‘Why?’ he asked, question muffled.

Loki still hadn’t blinked. ‘Why what?’

‘Why are you here?’

‘That really doesn’t elaborate on your question. Why did I save you, do you mean? Because I arrived just in time. Why was I coming to you? Because I was ordered to.’

‘By whom?’

‘Heimdall.’

‘And who is he?’

‘The Guardian. One of the oldest.’

‘And where’s Evernia in all of this?’

Loki raised a hand and pointed to the thatch roof and the sky above it.

‘I see.’

‘Why now?’

‘Because I have news for you.’

Farden groaned. He felt a tightness in his chest. His betrayal by Kiltyrin was bad enough, but it was his business. He groaned as he imagined his little world crumbling around him, as though it were being invaded and chewed by vermin. Vermin he had left far behind in another world, on the other side of a sea. Now one of them was staring down at him. ‘No,’ he spat. ‘I don’t want any news, I don’t want any information, I want nothing. Understand?’

‘What makes you think I was going to tell you?’ Farden pulled a face, confused. Loki looked up and down the mage’s tortured body. ‘It looks as if you have enough to deal with at the moment as it is,’ he said, and without a further word, Loki went back inside the cottage, and shut the door firmly behind him. Farden was left staring at the wood with his eyes-half closed. He was surprised, to say the least.

Farden stared up at the thatch. A god arriving on his mouldy doorstep meant trouble. His past had come to bite him.
Fine
, he thought,
it had saved him, but only so it could bite him later
. Farden squeezed his eyes shut and tried to dig at the pain-sodden blur that had been the last few weeks. The moments flew through his head in flashes of light and colour and noise. He saw the faces of the men who had tried to kill him. He felt the rope tightening around his neck and found himself gasping. He felt the jab of a spear, and the grin of the man, Wartan. Kint was there, beady-eyed. The slow chuckle of Forluss. And the other man, holding his armour,
his
armour in his greedy hands. Loffrey. Farden cursed at them all behind clenched teeth.

Then he saw a ship and a horrifying creature pinned to its bow. The mage felt ice-water between his toes. He felt the dead pushing him, then dragging him. Farden opened his eyes, breathing hard. ‘The bastard gryphon, indeed,’ he wheezed. Meddlers. They’d found him. He just wanted to be left alone to his own little world. As dark and as murderous and as treacherous as it was, it was his, and his alone.

It took an hour for Farden to summon the strength and the wherewithal to sit up, and when he did, Traffyd appeared at the door with a bowl of watered-down stew and a spoon, right on cue. Farden asked for some bread, but the old farmer shook his head, muttering something about Seria’s orders. His stomach wasn’t ready for it, and Farden understood why; it took everything he had to keep the simple stew down. He couldn’t tell whether it was the nevermar or his dying.

It took yet another hour to make it onto his feet, and even then Traffyd had to carry him to the chair on the edge of the porch. While Traffyd packed himself a pipe, Farden sat with his head on his arm and his hand in the rain, letting the coolness of it calm him. The wound in his left side throbbed and twitched with every little movement, so he thought it best to stay still.

‘We saw them, you know. The ones who did this to you.’ Farden tried not to look up. Traffyd nodded and tapped his pipe against his teeth. ‘We saw them and their cart a few hours before your friend brought you to us. I was in the front garden. Didn’t say a word to me. Just sneered and stared, they did.’

‘You’re lucky. If they had hurt you, I wouldn’t have forgiven myself.’

‘If they had, then you’d be dead, and have no use for forgiveness, lad,’ said the old farmer. ‘Bah. Maybe your friend would have saved you anyways. Who knows.’

‘He’s not my friend.’

‘I see,’ Traffyd said. ‘Then who is he? Seria’s beginning to ask questions.’

Farden clenched his fist around the water gathering in his palm. ‘He’s not my friend,’ he repeated.

Traffyd blew a smoke ring. ‘But he did save your life.’

‘That he did.’

A moment passed, full of dripping and lazy smoke. ‘Do you want me to get rid of him for you?’ asked the farmer.

Farden thought long and hard. ‘No,’ he said.

And that was that.

It was another week before Farden could move about freely. The mage was going stir-crazy in the cottage. Old Traffyd took him for short, shuffling walks around the garden to keep him from Seria’s concerned fussing. Loki would trail behind them, taking the tips from the herbs he passed and dabbing them to his tongue to taste them. At first, Farden had ignored it, but after a while he couldn’t help but remark on it.

‘I thought gods didn’t eat?’ he challenged him one afternoon, while Old Traffyd had gone to fetch some water for the mage and his plants. The spring sun had returned, and his garden had bloomed eagerly.

Loki had shrugged, and nibbled on the base of a tiny carrot. ‘We don’t,’ he said, cryptically.

Oddly enough, the god had also taken to smoking too, and drinking for that matter. He seemed to be intrigued by human occupations and idiosyncrasies, and while he was alone with the three humans, he seemed intent on testing and tasting everything. It was strange behaviour for a god, Farden decided, but after all, Loki was only the second sky-fallen deity he had met. He just kept to ignoring the slippery bastard. It was much easier.

Seria and Traffyd seemed to be tiring of him too. As the days passed, their suspicions were only heightened by Farden’s cold attitude to his supposed saviour. The god swapped between streams of constant questions and hours of frozen silence, staring into dusty space. When the old couple challenged him on anything, such as his origins, or why he was visiting the mage, Loki would shrug and change the subject. Gentle and kind as they were, Farden could tell their patience was wearing very thin.

And so it was, that at the end of the week, Traffyd and Seria returned from a walk to find Farden and his odd companion sitting on the front step of the cottage. The clothes that Farden had stolen from Wodehallow’s keep were long gone and burnt. He was wearing an ill-fitting tunic and trousers that Traffyd had lent to him. Farden got to his feet, shakily, when they reached the gate.

Traffyd looked the mage up and down and sniffed. Seria’s hand hovered on the gate. ‘You’d best be going east,’ she said. ‘Or else.’

Farden nodded. ‘I am,’ he replied.
For now
.

Seria fixed him with one of her dark looks as she walked up the path to the cottage, husband in tow. ‘I ain’t joking, Farden. Those men tried to kill you. If they find out they didn’t, well, we won’t be savin’ you a second time,’ she said, putting her hands on her hips. ‘Too worryin’ it is.’ Farden might have been wrong, but he thought he saw a tear creep into the corner of Seria’s eye. She quickly flicked it away, a trespasser. The mage stood and held out his shaky arms. Seria nearly crushed him to death in the hug that followed. Traffyd stayed behind as she released him, nodded grimly to Loki, and then went inside. Once she had shut the door, the old farmer crossed his arms.

‘What are you going to do then?’ he asked. Loki looked to the mage, also eager to know the answer.

Farden looked east, where the clouds cavorted like eels and minnows and chased each other across the upper reaches of the distant sky. Their long, spectral fins trailed for miles behind them as they rode the high winds. ‘I’m going to kill them all,’ he said.

Traffyd looked at the flint in the path under his feet. ‘And what about the next time? What about the next batch of thieves and murderers that want you dead?’

‘There won’t be. Not when I’m finished.’

Traffyd. ‘Then what?’

Farden just shrugged. ‘Then maybe you’ll get that helper you wanted.’

The farmer walked forward and patted the mage on the shoulder. He didn’t try to hug him. ‘Just you remember that corpses can’t plough fields,’ he said quietly, and then went into his cottage.

‘Thank you,’ mumbled Farden, just before the door closed. The words were foreign to his tongue. The closing door paused for a moment, and then shut with a click. A bolt slid into its hole, and all was silent. The mage exhaled.

Loki stood there quietly. There was a blank look on his face. Farden looked at him. ‘What of you? Where are you going?’

‘With you.’

‘I doubt that very much. I told you, I don’t want to hear whatever message you have for me. You can go back to whoever sent you and tell them I don’t care. That goes for my uncle, that gryphon, Durnus, Lerel, and whoever else. Tell ‘em all I’m dead.’

‘What about Elessi?’

Farden began to march down the path. ‘Her too,’ he growled. The sun was hot. He tried to ignore how weak it made him feel. Loki followed in Farden’s wake. His hands were deep in his coat pockets.

‘Fine. But I can still help you.’

‘Help me with what?’

‘With your revenge.’

‘And for what price?’

He heard the god come to a halt. ‘No price. I’m just a messenger. If, after you’ve slaughtered all the men you need to slaughter, you want to hear my message, you can have it. And if you don’t, then I will disappear back to Krauslung, and I will tell them whatever you’d like. No price. You have my word on that.’

Farden stopped and turned around. Loki was holding out a pale hand. His skin almost took on a translucent quality in the light. His eyes, those blue-white eyes that had watched him incessantly for the past week, burrowed into him. Farden felt another shiver of weakness and queasiness run through his body.
Did he trust him?
No.
Could he use him?
Possibly.

‘Fine,’ he said. He reached out and grabbed the god’s hand. He found it cold and hard, just like he’d expected. ‘Just stay out of my way,’ warned the mage.

‘With pleasure,’ Loki replied.

“Firstdew, Year 1301 - Last night I dreamt the goddess visited me once again. Her hand was cold as she led me to the deck of the ship. She pointed to the north, where Krauslung lay naked and glittering in the valley. ‘There,’ she spoke, distantly. ‘That is where you will build it. Against the face of Hardja, and facing east.’ ‘Build what?’ asked I, shivering for the cold. ‘The crown this city needs. A castle. A fortress. An
Arkathedral
,’ replied the goddess.

“I must confess, now that I wake and write this down, I doubt that these are dreams at all. I shall consult Farka, and hear what he says.
Arkathedral
. How I could summon such a word from my own imagination…”