The Written (23 page)

‘If anyone should take a
disliking to you then these guards will see that you are escorted
back to your rooms. I’m warning you Farden, I want no magick
whatsoever while you’re here in the palace.’

‘Fine.’ Farden watched several
Sirens lift their heads from their bowls and look at him. A hush
slowly crept across the room until almost everyone was staring at
the strange mage standing in the doorway.

‘I’ll be in my room if you need
me.’ Svarta sneered and left, leaving him standing alone in the
unfriendliest room he had ever encountered.

Farden sighed and steeled
himself to walk towards the food spread out at the back of the
room. A hundred pairs of suspicious eyes followed him as he walked,
watching their guest navigate his way through tables and chairs.
Farden had never felt so unwelcome in all his life; wandering
through the towns of Albion was bliss compared to this.

Still, he persevered and
reached the back wall. A cook fixed him with a disgusted look and
shoved a plate into his hands. It was followed by some roast fish,
a dollop of watery stew, and a brown bread roll. He nodded his
thanks at the silent man and turned around. Everyone was still
staring at him.

‘What?’ Farden shouted.

It seemed to work, and many of
the Sirens returned to their meals and carried on their
conversations quietly. The mage sighed again and found a place to
sit up against one of the walls of the long room. The people sat
nearest to him cast a few wary, untrusting scowls in his direction
but Farden just busied himself with his plate of food and tried not
to cause any further disruption to the mess hall.

The fish was oily, but tasty,
and he found himself ravenously tearing at the bread with both
hands, previously unaware of how hungry he had been. He finished
his whole plate in double time and after deciding against licking
the plate clean of stew he leaned back against the wall and tried
to relax. A torch fluttered above his head and his rambling
thoughts mingled with the flickering flames until he was staring
blankly into space. Tiredness crept over Farden’s body like a
snail, and he could feel the warmth from the fire and the torch
seeping into his bones. He was getting too old for this business,
he thought.

The mage could still feel the
unfriendly eyes watching him from the tables nearby. Conspiratorial
whispers reached his ears. Gods damn that Svarta, he cursed
mentally. Leaving him here alone amongst soldiers that hated him
was a sure way to get him into a fight, or worse. Farden would not
be baited, not this time. In his peripheral vision he saw a tall
figure stand up from a bench and make his way slowly through the
chairs and tables crammed with Sirens. Farden closed his eyes and
tried to ignore the stares.

‘You’re the one they found on
the beach.’ A deep voice interrupted his thoughts. Farden blinked
and turned his head to see a very big man in a long brown robe
standing with his arms folded into his deep sleeves. The man had
lost an eye some time long ago, and a long silver scar ran across
over the space it used to be and carved its way down his stubbly
face to his neck. His hair was curly, dark, and hung in coiled
tendrils over his remaining eye and forehead. Scales decorated his
temples and neck, grey and dun-coloured like the granite walls of
the palace, and there was something about his scales and the look
in his one eye that seemed different to the other Sirens in the
hall. He looked at Farden with a solemn, vacant expression.

‘The mage?’ The stranger asked
again.

‘I guess so,’ Farden put his
empty plate on the floor and rubbed his cold hands together. The
man towered above him. He must have been at least a head and a half
taller than the mage and rippling with muscle.

‘Follow me,’ the man said and
nodded towards the door. The tall stranger’s voice was incredibly
deep even for a man of his size.

‘I’m fine here thank you, I
don‘t want any trouble.’ Farden closed his eyes again and let his
head rest against the wall behind him. He heard the man crouch down
next to him and lean closer, and Farden could smell the cheap wine
on his breath. Magick thrummed at the base of his skull.

‘You’ve come to the wrong place
if you want to be left alone, Arka. I suggest you come with me if
you don’t want to find yourself in a brawl with some of the more
unrestrained men.’

Farden’s opened one eye and
looked at the nearest table of Sirens. The men there whispered and
pointed at the mage, one of them holding a fork rather menacingly.
The mage considered his options: follow the big stranger or stay in
the room with a score of unfriendly soldiers who with utmost
certainty all wanted to cave his head in.

‘Lead the way,’ he sighed,
blithely wondering why his decisions always seemed to be made for
him, like riding a wild beast over which he held no power or sway.
Durnus had always said that was the way of the Written. The man
stood up and headed for the door with Farden in tow, much to the
displeasure of the murmuring men clustered around the table.

Farden followed the man
silently, and picked bits of leftover fish from his teeth. He
rubbed his chin and wondered where he could find a blade to shave
with. His sword would probably be rusted, he thought. The air was
cold outside the warm mess hall, a refreshing change from the
stuffy and uncomfortable atmosphere. Farden contemplated going to
find Svarta and confronting her but he honestly couldn’t be
bothered with her foul mood. He coughed to clear his throat and the
big stranger turned around questioningly.

‘I’ve heard a lot of rumours
about you, Arka, people say you sent one of the healers mad,’ he
said.

‘People seem to be saying a lot
of things about me in this place.’

‘We haven’t seen an outsider in
years. Some of the other riders are scared of you, or are instantly
hateful of you because of the war. The dragons are just
curious.’

‘It’s the magick in my blood,’
Farden said as they jogged down a tall flight of steps.

‘Only wild dragons hunt magick,
Arka, not the old ones,’ the stranger corrected him.

‘Are you a rider?’ The mage
asked.

There was a long pause and
Farden wondered if the stranger had heard him. He watched water
trickle from a little rockpool on his left.

‘Yes I am,’ he said
finally.

The mage couldn’t think of any
reply besides an acquiescent hum, so he just turned his attention
to where they were going and his surroundings. The corridors were
starting to close in and become narrower, rockier and less grand.
Springs of water started to appear in little rock pools in the
floor. Some hissed at the two men, and others gave off clouds of
steam that filled their hallway. Their boots splashed quietly on
wet steps and the air had suddenly become hot and humid.

Soon they came to an archway
and the stranger pushed a low wooden door set deep into the wall. A
strong gust of air made Farden’s cloak billow wildly around his
legs and snow scattered around his boots as he followed the man out
onto a long balcony much like the one in Farfallen’s quarters. The
sudden cold was bitter compared to the hot steamy corridors inside
the mountain. Above him the sky was dark and heavy, streaked with
low ashen clouds like the kind that always seemed to hang
listlessly in the sky, somehow never moving despite the powerful
wind. Stars struggled to find space in amongst the grey furrowed
clouds and snow billowed out of the darkness to sting their faces.
A burning torch flapped and fluttered nearby, turning the flakes
into a swarm of yellow flies that melted instantly as they touched
the wet floor.

The stranger headed straight
for the railing and stood, shoulders hunched, staring into the
night sky. Farden just pulled his cloak around him and stood arms
crossed by the door, watching the big man with a wary eye. The
stranger pointed a monstrous hand into the air and the mage
followed his pointing finger. Above the clouds, in the very darkest
parts of the sky, there were streams of light dancing and running
across the black canvas. Blues, dusty greens, and charcoal whites
swam through the sky like a distant stream that wavered and surged
through the stars.

‘The Wake,’ the stranger said,
and Farden could barely here him over the sound of the wind. ‘The
First Dragon is out flying tonight.’

‘What do you want with me?’
Farden asked the big man. His keen eyes were fixated on the
swirling lights above them. He spoke without looking at him. ‘Have
you killed dragons, mage?’

Farden mentally tensed. ‘Only
wild ones, on occasion,’ he said, choosing his words carefully.

The man made a sucking noise
with his teeth. ‘That alone is reason for the men to hate you,’ he
paused, still looking at the sky. ‘Farfallen has asked me to watch
out for you. Svarta’s his rider, but he knows she isn’t fond of
you.’

‘
Fond
isn’t actually the word that best describes it.’ Farden walked
forward slowly and leaned his back against the railing, facing the
door. The huge mountain slope towered over him, a jet-black
silhouette against the obsidian and mica-flecked night sky. Torches
shone from a thousand windows and ledges, making the huge mountain
look for all the world like a solid island in the sky covered in a
myriad of campfires.

‘She wants you to prove her
right: that you’re dangerous and need to be locked away. So by
sending you into the sabre-cat’s den, if it were, she was hoping
you’d provoke a reaction from the other men,’ the stranger fixed
him with his good eye.

‘I am dangerous, but not to
anyone here in Hjaussfen. I’m on a peaceful mission…for once,’ said
Farden with a humourless chuckle at the back of his throat. He
turned to look at the murky darkness of the slopes spread beneath
them.

‘Mhm, Farfallen’s told me,’ the
man nodded and wiped some snow out of his curly hair.

‘Who are you anyway?’ Farden
asked.

‘My name is Eyrum, partner of
Longraid.’ The man bowed his head and put a hand to his chest in a
formal greeting.

‘Good to meet you, I’m Farden,’
the mage returned the bow and smiled at his new ally.

‘Well met and good wishes,
Farden. The Old Dragon speaks highly of you, which is, needless to
say, strange under the circumstances of your arrival. They say you
were washed ashore after a storm?’

‘I was.’

‘Then it’s a miracle that you
survived the freezing waters, the weather god must hold you in high
favour.’ Eyrum said in his deep solemn tone.

A distant flash amongst the low
clouds caught Farden’s eye. ‘Another storm?’ He asked, pointing at
the sky. Eyrum squinted and another flash of light flickered on the
horizon. ‘No, something else entirely. Wait,’ said the big man. He
put a finger and thumb to his wrinkled brow. After a second he
nodded to a silent reply. ‘Give him a moment.’

Farden was slightly confused,
but as he scanned the skies he discerned a jet-black shape darting
under the low clouds. ‘Is that your dragon?’

Eyrum shook his head silently
and wiped more cold snow from his face. Farden hoisted his hood
over his wet hair and shrugged the precipitation from his
shoulders.

The dark shape swooped in a low
dive to glide over the foothills far below them. Farden watched
avidly and with bated breath as the object dropped further and
further until it seemed to be flying mere inches above the jagged
black rocks of the mountain. The big man stepped back from the
railing and Farden felt he should do the same. There was a moment
of silence as the shape disappeared from their view, and then
suddenly a gigantic gold shape tore past the balcony with
incredible speed. The thunderclap from Farfallen’s massive wings
was deafening and the blasts of air almost pushed the two men to
the ground. The dragon climbed vertically into the night sky and
pirouetted on one wing tip. Just as Farden thought the dragon would
tumble from the air he somersaulted and dove for the balcony,
tucking his wings in tight to his flanks like a peregrine falcon.
The mage backed away towards the door, but Eyrum didn’t move. It
looked like Farfallen would plummet headlong into the rocks, but at
the very last second his wings burst open and the dragon stopped in
midair spreadeagled, gently letting his whole gargantuan weight
rest like a feather on the stone railing. His claws retracted and
made a little scrape on the stonework. Farfallen gave his strange
reptilian smile and a tiny flame escaped from one nostril.

Farden grinned and moved closer
to the dragon. ‘You seem happy, maybe that tearbook has done you
some good.’

Farfallen laughed with a
frighteningly deep rumble and scratched his spiky chin with a claw.
‘Maybe it has, mage, and I have you to thank for bringing it back
to me. It has been many a year since I felt this good, like a burst
of power I have not tasted in too long.’

‘It was the magick council that
agreed to send me here with the book.’ Farden said quietly and
thrust his cold hands deep into his pockets.

‘And I wonder who suggested
that the tearbook should be returned in the first place…?’

Farden was dumbfounded. ‘How
did you…?’

‘There are many things about
dragons you have yet to learn Farden.’ Eyrum said from beside him.
The mage had realised that there was a lot more to the Sirens and
their dragons than he had first thought. They were nowhere near as
barbaric as the Arka had portrayed them in the war; they were
fierce warriors, agreed, and had fought with tooth, nail, and flame
in battle, but now he could see that they were older and much wiser
than his own people were. He felt guilty suddenly, and dismissed
that train of thought like a traitorous slave and turned his
attention to a more pressing matter. ‘Have you found anything in
the tearbook yet?’ he asked.