The Written (42 page)

His heart was heavy and his
head pounded and since he had left his supplies at the Arkabbey he
was now also ravenously hungry. With shaking fingers he tried to
peel some of the moss and lichen from the boulder and chew it. The
taste was like bitter grass but he hoped the foul stuff would stop
his stomach from complaining. Farden kept his eyes on the horizon
while he nibbled. His instincts told him he hadn’t seen the last of
Ridda’s cronies, and the only way to get back to the Arka was going
back the way he had come, or... he quickly pushed that thought away
but his hand strayed to the circular object hidden safely inside
his cloak. It was Helyard’s Weight.

Farden had contemplated using
it that morning, shortly before he had collapsed in a heap between
his two rocks. But for anyone except an Arkmage, using the Weight
was almost as good as suicide. He had heard the stories. Without
the necessary power or skill a user could easily end up crushed
inside a mountain or at the bottom of the Bern Sea and Farden
wasn’t willing to take that chance just yet.

The mage forced himself to his
feet with more willpower than he knew he had. He swayed and the
world did a little spin, but he swallowed and blinked the nausea
away. Farden’s hands were shaking and he could feel the blood
seeping down his leg. He longed for the comfort of the
Bearded Goat
. The warmth of a fire, hot wine in a cup,
a sip of mörd with Vice in his opulent chambers. The brisk wind
tussled with his hair and made him squint.

Next to him a little pool of
water had been trapped in the rock, so he bent down to look at his
haggard reflection. Red eyes and thick stubble greeted him like
those of a stranger. Maybe it was the clouds hanging overhead or
maybe it was the rock under the almost-freezing water, Farden’s
skin looked pale and grey and wan like a ghost’s. His face and neck
were covered in scratches from the claws of trees and branches, now
red and blistered, and his dark hair hung in thick dirty locks over
his hollow green eyes. Farden decided he looked like hell. He
looked down at the thick arrowshaft sticking out of his ribs. He
had snapped off the feathered end of the arrow last night but it
still protruded a good few inches from his skin. The wyrm wound
from all those weeks ago was now a silvery scar across his right
side. He touched the arrow gingerly and a spark of pain made him
twitch. Farden tried to get his thoughts in order. Without a healer
the arrow would work its way into his lungs or stomach sooner or
later, and no amount of magick could save him from that.

‘Fuck this,’ he cursed, and put
the thick collar of his black cloak between his teeth. With a deep
and heavy breath his fingers wrapped tightly around the blood-caked
arrowshaft and yanked. Hard.

Light exploded behind his eyes.
He choked on the utter pain and fell heavily to the wet grass. But
the arrow was out and lying beside him. Blood flowed freely from
the horrible wound like a swollen red river. The mage groaned and
clamped a hand to his ribs. He summoned the last of his energy for
a healing spell and then darkness swallowed him once again.

When next he woke, the sun was
just passing its zenith and peeking out from between the thick
clouds that covered Dunwold and its moors. Farden’s breath suddenly
caught in his throat and he coughed violently. He quickly realised
his painful error as his ribs screamed in fresh agony.

It took an hour to summon the
energy and strength to even sit up. The arrow wound looked as ugly
as sin, and even though Farden had escaped the arrow moving any
deeper he had seen wounds like his catch the rot and fester in a
day. He sighed and scanned the moors with tired eyes. Even armed
with his spells he was still heavily wounded and an easy target for
his pursuers, if the bastards were still around, he thought grimly.
A little instinctive voice told him they were. Farden nibbled at
some more lichen with another heavy sigh.

In the mage’s mind it was like
all sense of control had flown quickly out of the window and
disappeared beyond the gloomy horizon once again. Whatever
semblance of order and purpose he had felt on leaving Krauslung had
now crumbled. Helyard was a puppet, he thought. There was no doubt.
But now, whoever they were, they were after him. Ridda had been a
loyal and respectable mage, so what had made him turn so readily?
Whatever it was he knew there was a great evil behind all of this,
and Farden could feel he was getting close to an answer. He just
hoped that Durnus and Elessi were safe at Kiltyrin. Farden’s heart
clenched as he remembered the last time he had seen Cheska,
touching the edges of sleep, her face covered by her golden hair,
glowing in the dying embers of the fireplace. Farden had ran his
rough hands over her skin and marvelled at the soft skin underneath
his fingertips, had thought how much he didn’t deserve her. He
remembered the three little words he had whispered to her that
night while she slept. She would be finishing the Ritual by now, he
thought, or she....

He left that thought to trail
off and hide like a coward. A sudden determination flushed through
his veins. Whatever it took, he had to get back to Krauslung and
find Cheska, and, even if it killed him, he would see an end to
this betrayal once and for all.

Farden glanced down and looked
at his reflection, still covered in a myriad of scratches and
bruises. The image shattered like broken glass as he dashed the
water away and hauled himself up with a defiant grunt. The stubborn
mage took a few deep breaths and stretched his muscles with
new-found resolve. Durnus might have been right, though, it seemed
that only he could get into these ridiculous situations. Such is
the life of a Written, he smirked, and broke into a limping
jog.

An hour later Farden was
leaning against a mossy boulder in a narrow gully and trying to
catch his breath. The wind moaned and cried through the rocky
culvert and blew Farden’s sweat-soaked hair into his eyes like tiny
whips. He was breathing steadier now, but the wound on his side
felt like a cat was gnawing at his ribs. His lungs burned like hot
tar.

The mage froze as the wind
moaned again, blowing in the direction he was heading. A faint call
hung on the stiff breeze, and fell. Another, louder this time. Like
a shout.

Farden turned and started to
run again. There was no time to waste. He knew that as soon as he
was out of the gully he would be in open view and, with the wind,
in range of their deadly bows. But then again, he grimly surmised,
he didn’t really have a mountain of options. His tired feet pounded
the frozen earth below him. Better to be caught running then
hiding.

Soon he reached the end of the
gully and was abruptly in plain sight again, hobbling and skipping
his way across the moor like a wounded stag. He heard the angry
shouts on the wind and sneaked a brief look behind him. Six men
were charging towards him over the hills and waving various sharp
objects in the air. They were still about half a mile behind him,
but Farden’s keen eyes could see they were catching up, covered in
mud and furious. Spending the night in the marshes looking for an
invisible mage would probably make you feel that way, he decided.
Farden tried to speed up but his ribs cried out painfully.

Inch by agonising inch the six
men slowly closed the gap between them and their prey. Their orders
long forgotten, this was now a personal feud with the bastard mage.
The ugly man from the Arkabbey ran with the wind snapping at his
heels. His six cronies slavered and grunted at his side like rabid
hunting dogs. His eyes were wide and red, starved of sleep, and now
he was hungry for Farden’s blood. A rasping shout ripped from his
throat, ‘Come on lads! ‘E’s got nowhere t’ hide now! I want ‘is
head on a stick!’ Cries went up from the rest of them and they
redoubled their efforts, feet pounding across the frozen moors.

Farden could hear their baying
and yelling. Rocks and shrubs flew past him. Nothing offered
anything that even resembled a hiding place. Ahead the moors
stretched out for miles and miles, barren and painfully open. He
could feel his lungs sticking to the inside of his ribs. They were
starting to seize up and slow him down. Specks of colour gathered
at the corners of his eyes, and Farden could feel fatigue trying to
drown him.

A heavy object banged against
his side and made him wince. The Weight, he suddenly realised,
Helyard’s Weight. Farden skidded to a halt and turned to face his
pursuers. He grabbed the gold disk from his cloak pocket and looked
at the symbols and lettering on its surface. The mage thumbed the
raised lettering and tried to think straight, eying the shapes of
running men that were slowly getting bigger and bigger. The Weight
was warm, and felt hot in his sweaty palm. Farden’s heart pounded
and his mind raced over options. He had to get back to Cheska, and
warn Åddren or Farfallen. And Durnus, and Elessi, he had to protect
them too. But this thing in his hand was dangerous and he would be
no use to the others if he was dead.

Farden gritted his teeth and
clenched his fingers around the gold Weight. He couldn’t hear a
single thought amongst the fear shouting and bellowing inside his
head. He tried to remember everything Vice had ever told him about
the Weights, everything that Durnus had ever tried to teach him
about quickdoors, how they were like liquid, you just have to pour
in the right direction. The Weight was burning his hand. The old
vampyre said it was about connection, drawing a picture, where you
could be at one second is where you can also be in another place.
Hot tears sprung to Farden’s eyes and he pushed the Weight in front
of him. The gold thing shook and buckled, sending waves rippling
through the air, cracks splitting the icy air of Dunwold as though
it were a broken mirror. An arrow whistled past his ear like a
falcon. The mage planted his tired feet into the ground and tried
to bend all his being in to seeing one place. No thoughts no
distractions. The Weight glowed and fractured the air, searing his
hand and splitting the sky.

Everything stopped.

An arrow poised motionless in
the air in front of him, dangling and hovering, slowly moving
forward like a dagger through treacle.

The sound of their feet
pounding on the grass and armour clanking rolled on forever,
repeating and looping like a dull drone. A shout caught on the
wind.

The mage watched it all for a
split second, frozen like the ice fields, a painting that seems all
too familiar and real. All of sudden there was a deafening crack
and the air split in two, dragging Farden into the darkness and
into oblivion.

The mage vanished into the
shivering air and the arrow dug into the cold grass with a useless
thud. In pure shock, the bald thug came to a grinding halt,
breathless and stunned while the others kept running and looking
around frantically with wide eyes. His mouth hung open with sort of
a confused yet pained look, as if a ghost had just punched him in
the stomach. It took a few moments for him to sink to all fours.
Slowly, very slowly, his face began to turn a shade of purple, and
he shook with frustration. The surrounding men quietly backed
away.

With a guttural scream he
slammed his knife into the grass. ‘Aaaaagh! Curse you Farden! Curse
yer t’ all the gods!’

Hundreds of miles to the east
the air cracked like a whip and split in two like a jagged gap in a
window pane. There was a rushing, whooshing sound and then the
shape of a bedraggled man appeared out of nothing. The figure flew
through the air and crashed into a nearby wall with a terrible
crunching sound.

Farden gasped for breath and
tried to ignore the pain that had set his body on fire. What genius
had put a wall here, he asked himself, nursing bruised ribs and a
sizeable lump on his head. His arm throbbed with a numbing pain and
he panted as he tried to lift himself to all fours. Farden
scrabbled around at the base of the wall. It was getting difficult
to breathe through the pain and the fatigue. He slumped to the warm
grass and rolled onto his back. He opened his eyes and stared at
the horizon. A nauseating dread suddenly gripped his heart when he
couldn’t make sense of the upside-down mountains, but he quickly
managed to steady his eyes and he found himself looking at the
familiar countryside of Manesmark. Farden breathed the biggest sigh
of relief of his life. He rolled over and lay spreadeagled.
Blearily he watched the flakes of ash land on his cheek and open
hand. He watched the flickering orange and yellow glow paint the
ground a strange set of colours and wondered where Cheska was.

Ash.

Farden abruptly realised
something was amiss and pushed himself to his shaky feet. He
collapsed and fell once but the second time he found his balance
and made it to his knees. A roaring and snapping sound became loud
in his ears and he rocked back on his heels to look up at the
orange sky.

Flames leapt from beam to beam,
licking at the stonework and battlements of the Spire. They tore at
the night sky with orange and red fingers, bursting through walls
and stone like paper, a huge column of fire erupting from what was
left of the blackened tower. With an enormous crash a section of
beams fell inwards and sent a cloud of sparks and ash belching into
the sky.

Farden rolled onto his side and
dragged himself away from the blistering heat. He covered his face
with his hands and crawled as far as he could before running out of
breath. Above him dragons circled the tower, hauling blocks of ice
and huge barrels of water into the sky and dropping them onto the
burning wreckage. The clouds behind them were black and ominous and
thick with smoke. It rained ash.

The mage stood aghast. Hot
tears stung his eyes. The shouts of countless men could be heard
from all around as survivors and bystanders were hauled out of the
way. Farden could see water and ice mages standing in a long line
near where the main atrium used to be, where the fire seemed to be
fiercest and howled like an army of daemons. The mages were painted
black with smoke yet they battled on stubbornly and threw spell
after spell at the inferno. Somewhere under the blackened skeleton
of the once-great Spire, amidst the flames, the dragon-scale bell
clanged and shook mournfully like a death rattle. The mage stood
silent and disbelieving, and he watched in horror as another floor
crashed inwards and collapsed. A young soldier ran past him with a
leather bucket of water and Farden grabbed him roughly before he
could get away. The boy, barely old enough to be in the army by the
look of him, froze as the bloodied and bruised stranger seized him
by the neck. He looked into the man’s red-rimmed eyes.