Dead Stars - Part Two (The Emaneska Series) (26 page)

Towerdawn led his meagre swarm, five dragons in total, west and down through the rolling, hollow foothills of grey Hjaussfen. As the snow-spattered terrain levelled out, the dragons hurtled under the arms of cranes, skimmed thatched rooftops, and careened between watchtowers, sparing only inches for their wingtips and tails. But these dragons had been born on this landscape. They had spent a thousand years doing this for fun and training. They knew every twist, turn, and roll like the back of their scaly claws.

The Lost Clan dragons didn’t.

Farden grinned as he heard an almighty crash from behind them. He caught a glimpse of two dragons tumbling to the ground, half a watchtower in the process of collapsing on top of them. There was another boom as a farmhouse exploded in a writhing mass of stone, thatch, and wings. Each roar was like a fanfare of justice being served.

In a blink of an eye they were swooping down toward the sea, where the volcanic granite of the mountain fell away to wind-carved and hollow cliff. Farden found himself praying that their scroll had reached Nuka in time, praying to whomever was listening. It was the first time in a decade and a half he’d allowed himself to pray to anything.

Before he knew it, they were diving over the granite spines of cliff edge and down to meet the sea. The cold, salty air slapped the mage in the face, chilling him to the bone. The mist had receded to the edges of the harbour’s bay, and there, wreathed in its fading tendrils, was a glorious sight indeed: the
Waveblade,
in full battle-sail and slicing through wave after wave with its glittering bow.

‘There!’ cried Farden, even though Towerdawn had already seen her. He couldn’t help it.

Loki drummed his nails on the varnished railing. The shipsmiths had spent far too much of their effort on varnishing this boat, he had decided. The wood under his pale fingers was so varnished, in fact, that it appeared as though it had been wrapped in thick glass. The dark wood was a blurry creature, living under it.
What a waste of time
, he thought to himself. It was already tarnished by the salt.

Heimdall stood behind him, as stoic and as silent as ever. His tawny eyes were roving the frothing feet of the black cliffs, the sheer walls of rock standing bravely against the cobalt sea. They were draped in the remnants of the morning’s mist.

‘Any sign?’

‘Not a soul.’

Loki raised an eyebrow. He licked his lips and shuffled closer to the older god. ‘Such a human expression,’ he mumbled.

‘Hmm?’

Loki dared to speak a little louder. ‘Such a human expression.
Not a soul
.’

Heimdall slowly shook his head. ‘That it is.’

‘Blind to the truth, as usual. There must be plenty of souls, even in this barren armpit of the world. Am I right, brother?’

Heimdall tore his eyes away from the distant cliffs and turned them slowly on Loki. He was narrowing his eyes at the sea and its waves, watching their white tips burst as the wind caught them. ‘You know the answer to that already, Loki. Why do you ask about such things?’

‘Oh, no reason. Jealous of your eyes, as usual. I wonder what it would be like to see the rivers of them, streaming across the landscape.’

Heimdall turned his gaze to the land again and sighed. He didn’t often watch the dead, in the ashen hues beyond where magick lingered. He forced himself to now. Little figures, wispy like the mists, trailing around the roots of the mountain. ‘They do not so much stream as limp. Trickle even. A sad sight.’

‘No doubt,’ Loki was drumming his fingers again. ‘And are there many?’

A silence, perhaps while Heimdall counted. ‘Thousands.’

‘So many.’ Loki sounded almost wistful. ‘How unfortunate it is that we have to live off prayer, instead of…’

Heimdall’s voice was like a brick striking a bell. ‘It is beyond forbidden. You know that. I should have you punished for the very mention of such a thing.’

The god held up his hands, pulling an innocent face. ‘I’m only thinking aloud.’

‘Well, think of something else. Their souls are sacred, to be untouched.’

Loki sniffed. ‘Isn’t that what we built them for, to power us with prayer? Why should their souls be any different? The daemons lived off them.’

‘We are not daemons,’ Heimdall growled. ‘You would have the humans be simple tools then? Beasts of purpose, like their cattle are to them?’

‘Isn’t that what they are?’

Heimdall frowned, looking somewhat pained. Disappointed perhaps. ‘They are much more, Loki. I had hoped this venture would have taught you that at least. Come now, you have tasted their food, their wine, slept in their fortresses, seen their power, even sampled their games, so I hear. How can you compare them to cattle?’

Loki thought about it for a moment. ‘Shallow trivialities. Such accomplishments are distractions, when they could be so much more.’

Heimdall let anger flash across his face. Loki couldn’t miss it. ‘Not souls to be harvested, as I believe you are suggesting. Blasphemy, Loki. No, you place too much stock in what they
should
be, when you miss what they already
are
. Look at them. Look at this ship. They have become powerful creatures in their own right, even capable of killing daemons on their own. We should be proud of them,’ Heimdall lectured, gruffly. ‘You are such a young god, Light-bringer, and a rash one at that. You judge these humans by the many, not by the few. These few will save the world,’ Heimdall turned his head to the south and east. ‘Even if the many are foolish enough not to thank them for it.’

‘And yet they refuse to pray to us, or pray to false gods instead.’

‘Not all of them. You’ve felt the desperation in those that still do. They more than compensate for those that have turned their backs,’ Heimdall corrected him.

‘It’s still not enough. Killing daemons should be our job,’ Loki muttered.

Heimdall growled again. ‘What has gotten into you?’

Loki waved a hand. ‘I feel like a spectator, not a god. They show little respect for us gods. You say that they will save the world? Even now, they trifle with saving a maid over killing the One, as we’ve ordered.’

Heimdall shook his head and sighed. It sounded like the wind wandering through the sails. ‘The stars have little sway over the cogs of this earth now, whether we like it or not. You would do well to remember that, Loki,’ Heimdall admonished him. He watched Loki’s blank, emotionless face for a moment before walking away. Whatever he was thinking, he was hiding it well.

As the older god left him to his own devices, Loki muttered far beneath his breath, far enough that even Heimdall would have trouble to hear it. ‘We’ll see,’ he said.

A shout rang out across the deck, shattering the silence. ‘There! To the starboard! Dragons!’

‘Archers and bolts at the ready! Mages!’ Lerel bellowed from the wheel. All across the ship, the creaking and clanking of a hundred bows and ballistas joined the pop and roar of spells bursting into readiness.

‘Hold!’ Nuka ordered. He had a strange contraption tucked tight beneath a bushy eyebrow. A spyglass, he called it. It was formed of slices of crystal stacked in a neat long line, thinner at one end, and thicker at the other. Some were coloured a malted yellow colour, while others were delicate, and as transparent as the air. They were held in place by four thick brass rods and a liberal dash of thin wire. It looked like something Tyrfing would dream up.

In this case, he had.

‘They’re Sirens!’ yelled the captain.

‘An’ they got a whole party of the grey ones on their tails, Cap’n!’ shouted Roiks, from high up in the mainmast, waving a spyglass of his own.

‘Wait for my signal!’ bellowed the captain.

The dragons dove down to meet the foaming tips of the waves, fast and low. Nuka clamped his spyglass to his eye again. He could spy dark shapes dangling from the talons of the nearest three. ‘Tuck that for’ard sail in!’ he roared. ‘And be quick about it! We’ve got bodies incoming! Give them some room to land, there! Get that gryphon out of the way!’ The orders were rattled off like sling-stones. Ilios didn’t need to be told. He had scampered amidships before the words had fully left the captain’s mouth, almost as if he had known they were coming…

Towerdawn led the five dragons in a line. He roared and trumpeted as they drew close to the ship. The Lost Clans dragons were no more than half a minute behind them, already snapping at their tails. One by one, Towerdawn first, the three dragons swooped down and dropped their cargoes on the bow of the
Waveblade
. They landed with yelps and shouts, but they landed safe all the same. Little mercies.

Just as the Lost Clan dragons were bearing down on them, jaws splayed, fire crackling in their throats, the last two dragons flapped hard, up, up, and over the mast grazing its pennant with their claws.

It was perfect timing.

‘NOW!’ Nuka roared, and the
Waveblade
let fly.

A wall of arrows, bolts, spells, and even a spear or two exploded from the ship, flying straight into faces of the oncoming dragons. Two were killed instantly with heavy ballista bolts. The others collided in a flailing effort to escape, and were picked off at will as they tangled, writhed, and roared. Fellgrin was amongst the pile, battering spells and missiles aside with her huge wings and thick scales. As the others crashed into the cold, dark waters, already dead or dying, only she and one other managed to escape, scrambling over the wave-tips in an effort to flee. Towerdawn and his dragons were quickly after them, barely sparing a parting word for the ship and her crew.

‘We will see you in the north!’ cried the Old Dragon, as he sped after Fellgrin and the other, teeth gnashing and fire boiling around his teeth. Eyrum saluted them with his hammer.

As the splashing died and the bodies sank, Nuka strode across the crowded deck, heartily clapping shoulders and hands, bruising many in the process. He was already bellowing at the mages and their Siren friend. ‘By Njord’s frozen arse, you have either the worst timing, or the very best! Only the gods could tell.’

Farden was bent double, hands pressed to his shaking knees. He looked up, grimacing. ‘The very best, I think, on Towerdawn’s part.’

‘Winds be damned, mage, you’re whiter than a virgin, and bloodier than a butcher’s floor. What in Emaneska have you been doing?’ he asked, eyeing the gore splattered across their clothes and hands. ‘Or dare I ask?’

Farden was still trying to regain his breath. It had been snatched away by the wind. ‘Mountain-climbing. Dangerous activity.’

Lerel came running up. She spied the Grimsayer resting like a boulder on the deck. ‘What’s that? Could you not find a bigger book?!’

Farden shook his head at her. ‘I couldn’t even begin to tell you.’

‘Well, you can try at dinner!’ Nuka clapped his hands. ‘So, are we successful?’

Farden couldn’t answer. Tyrfing did so on his behalf. ‘Not quite, Captain.’

Nuka winced, and bit his lip. ‘Ah. North, then.’

‘North it is.’

Nuka leant forward. ‘North to
what
, may I ask?’

‘The answer to that, Captain, lies with
them
,’ said Farden, jabbing a finger towards the stern. Nuka’s eyes walked the length of the mage’s outstretched arm and hand, following it across the crowded, silent deck, to two silent figures standing by the ship’s wheel. Two gods, faces vacant, eyes narrowed. Looking innocent, for all the world and its heavens.

Farden was already marching across the deck.

1561 years ago

Beautiful
.

It would have been, in any other circumstance.

A hundred thousand lights, all aglitter, creeping towards the city like a horde of fireflies. Rivers and streams of them flowed and surged across the ice. Lines and clusters of them, moving in waves and currents. A hundred different armies from a hundred different lords.

Halophen had been right.

Emaneska had come for the Nine.

‘They said it,’ panted Chast. He had been talking like this for hours now. The others were swiftly tiring of it. ‘They said they’d come, and we didn’t believe them. Just kept on going about our business. As if we were kings ourselves.’

‘We are kings.’ The words surprised even Korrin, and they had leapt from his own mouth. five years had gone by since the desert, since his sword had tasted the neck of King Halophen. The Nine had been busy indeed. Quashing rebellions in the east. Hunting warlord kings in the south. Breaking the back of depravity across Emaneska. People had cheered them. The Smiths had praised them. Emaneska had praised them. They were untouchable. Righteous. Powerful. Conquering. They were like kings, in their own right. They had all thought it, at some point or another.
And it was about bloody time somebody said it out loud,
Korrin thought.

‘We
are
kings,’ he said again, drawing frowns from Balimuel and Gaspid, his closest friends of the Nine. ‘Are we not?’

‘Korrin, the farmboy…’ Estina was muttering. Korrin stamped his foot on the marble of their Frostsoar balcony. ‘This is our castle.’ He waved his hand over the black veins of the city below. Spots of orange and yellow burnt here and there, where the fire from the catapults had landed. ‘Our city.’ He rapped a knuckle on his breastplate. ‘Our crowns.’