Dead Stars - Part Two (The Emaneska Series) (56 page)

‘I have to say, your logic is pretty shaky there, Durnus,’ Modren sighed.

‘And I have to agree with the Undermage,’ Eyrum winced.

‘Doubt me all you want, gentlemen. I have my faith. Or at least my hope. And so should you, Modren. Of all people here,’ Durnus countered. Modren looked suitably chastised by that. He quickly excused himself, chin tucked to his chest, and headed towards the end column, towards a sled pulled by an emerald dragon. The others didn’t have to guess where he was going. They knew what, or rather, whom, lay in that sled.

Eyrum put the whetstone aside and tested the edge of his axe with his thumb. Sharp enough to cleave a skull, that was for sure. And shoulders. And ribs. And anything else that got in its way. He licked his dry, wind-chapped lips and looked around, sniffing the air.

It was the middle of the night, more morning than anything else, and yet he wasn’t alone in being awake. Half the camp, now swollen to a scattered thousand or so, seemed to be awake. The night winds were joined by the whining, scraping song of stones against steel. The clank and batter of mail being repaired, armour being fastened. The low mutter of voices. The stink of oil and liquid courage. The sounds and odours of an army readying to fight. Music to the backdrop of the constant and never-ending rumbling of the volcanoes.

‘I swear I had another morning, just like this,’ Eyrum whispered.

‘And if I remember rightly, we were the ones springing the trap,’ Lerel nodded.

Eyrum flicked his axe-blade with a fingernail, making it sing. ‘Waiting to strike.’

Durnus was standing outside the sled, facing down the cold. He was staring northwards. ‘I think I missed that one.’

‘I remember it well,’ Towerdawn rumbled. ‘Only then I had Aelya, and my armour too.’ He looked wistfully south. They could see the pain in his face.

Eyrum checked his armour, battered and frozen as it was. Half of it was clogged with snow that was quickly turning to ice. The other half was quickly turning to rust. He pounded his chest with his mallet-like fist and checked the straps. He wrinkled his lip. ‘Looks like we’ll have to make do.’

‘Any sign out there, you two?’ Lerel called. She was nervously fidgeting with a shortsword.

Heimdall grunted something incomprehensible and grumpy. The god was useless around so much magick, and it had put him in a dark mood. The world was just noise and light to him now. Making sense of it was like trying to listen to a harp in a gale, or catch a puddle in the ocean. It made his head want to explode. It was no wonder that he had a face like a storm giant’s backside.

‘Nothing,’ Durnus said. It should have been easier, there in the foothills, where everything around them was painted a deep, dark red by the giant volcanoes of the Spine, the Roots. A deep, blood red. Disconcertingly so.

‘Here comes another one,’ Eyrum said, catching a flicker from the corner of his eye. Everybody turned to see yet another bubbling, sizzling rock rocket high into the black sky. It puffed and it spat, making a great fuss before it reached its zenith and plummeting downwards. Just before it came to its explosive end amongst the distant crags, it cast its light across the foothills just beyond their camp. Every head in the camp turned, every eye squinted, straining to catch a glimpse of something in the rocks. Anything.

Nothing.

Towerdawn said as much. The Old Dragon placed his chin in the snow and listened to it hiss against his hot lips. ‘Not a sign,’ he sighed.

‘Curse all this waiting,’ Modren said, appearing out of the crimson shadows. There were streaks on his face. Maybe dust. Maybe oil smears. Maybe tears. Nevertheless he was armed to the teeth. Two swords were strapped to his shoulders, followed by an array of various sharp and pointy objects stuffed through the belts across his chest. There was a bow in his hand, a quiver at his hip, and a throwing axe stuck in his boot. He looked on the verge of comical. His eyes dared anyone to say it. ‘Curse it all,’ he repeated. He perched on the yoke of the sled.

‘They’ll attack just before sunrise, when the light is poor and the shadows are at their longest. When they think we’re still asleep. That’s when I would do it,’ Eyrum spoke as he stroked his axe.

‘Well, in the meantime, I am sure you can all take in the sights. Not many in our history have made it this far north. Not many at all,’ Durnus waved his hand across the sky, wishing he could see it. ‘Think of where we are. The very centre of creation. The bones of our earth. These fires have never been extinguished. They have burned for millennia.’

‘And longer,’ rumbled Heimdall.

The others looked up at the dizzyingly high peaks that dominated the bruised sky for as far as the eye could see, for as far as the mind could imagine. Jagged crowns of black rock and soot, biting at the sky. Their sheer faces were aglow with the countless fires that burned at their hearts. Orange, murky red, sulphurous yellow. Rivers of fire and molten rock no doubt, swirling around their bases. Some of the mountains, far, far in the distance, even spewed fire from their peaks, or belched smoke into the sky where lightning came to flit and flutter. They could hear the rumbling of those peaks on the breeze, dangerous and thankfully distant. The Spine and its Roots were hostility incarnate.

‘Are you sure we haven’t travelled to the other side by mistake?’ asked Modren, scratching his head.

Durnus pulled a face. ‘No, we are still very much in the world of the living.’

‘I for one, would like to keep it that way,’ Eyrum grunted. He pointed at the sky. ‘And here comes another,’ he pointed at the sky.

They all watched as another rock rose and fell. It was a tiny one, and it sputtered out halfway through its fall. ‘Pathetic,’ muttered Heimdall, rubbing his eyes. A silence came with a gust of wind. Nobody could think of anything to fill it with. The Spine did it for them.

All of a sudden, the cold breeze turned unnaturally warm. It was a strange sensation after having frozen cheeks for so many days. Everybody in the camp seemed to feel it. Lights flickered in every sled in the column as feet slid into boots and cloaks were quickly wriggled on. Dark shapes began to fill the ice around them. Still nobody said a word.

In the wake of the wind came an almighty bang, loud enough to pop the ears of everyone in the camp. There were words aplenty now, fearful, agitated words, growing in volume as the northern sky grew hotter and hotter. The bloody red turned carmine, then scarlet, then a fierce orange. The ice changed colour with it. Yellow came soon after: a hot, sulphurous yellow that stained and smoked the sky. Black pillars of ashen grey smoke rose from the nearest peaks. The ice began to tremble under their feet. The dragons roared involuntarily, and so did the wild men. Their bellows and screeches joined the rumbling of the earth as the Spine belched forth rock after burning rock. They filled the sky like fireworks. Some exploded in mid-air while others tumbled, spitting fire as they crashed to the rocks below, unnervingly close now.

‘Pull the sleds back!’ Towerdawn yelled, and his dragons went to work. It was not a moment too soon. Little pebbles began to rain down on them, sharp little bastards that slipped under collars and into pockets and burned as they went down. Yells filled the camp. Indignant, confused yells. This was worse than war. A war they could fight, but a burning mountain? No. Foolish.

The dragons threw their weight into the sleds and shoved them back, a hundred yards at a time. The pebbles and stones clattered on their scales like heavy rain on a tabletop, bouncing harmlessly off. The dragons hauled sled after sled until the snowmads mustered their jittery moles and tackled the rest. ‘Take the sleds back into the ice and form a line, east to west. A battle line!’ Towerdawn roared to them, hoping they would understand. His spines prickled as he watched them turn about and retreat. Something was making his skin crawl, and it wasn’t the stones.

Light splashed the snow. Slowly, he turned to watch an enormous missile rise up into the sulphurous sky, like a falling star changing its mind at the very last minute. It climbed high into the air, almost rivalling the tallest of the peaks, until at last its weight caught up with it. It teetered in mid-air, burning like a battling mage, and then exploded into a hundred sizzling fragments in a burst of brilliant white light. What was left of the night’s darkness was unceremoniously tossed aside.

And there she was.

And there they were.

They filled every nook and crag. They stood knee-deep in the snow-drifts. They crowded on every slope and hilltop. Men and beasts stood silent and waiting.

She stood above them all, halfway up a tall hill, standing in a hollow shaped like the seat of a throne. Flanked by two dragons, two daemons, and two giant wolves, she stood with her arms crossed. Towerdawn thought he saw a smile on her lips as the light faded away.

The others had seen them too. ‘Lines! Draw those lines!’ Modren could be heard shouting to his mages. Eyrum was barking orders too, Durnus clinging to his arm as they sprinted across the snow towards the sleds. Sunrise, it seemed, had come a little early.

‘Are you ready, girl?’

Samara grit her teeth. It felt like a storm was welling up inside her, burning her insides, making her bones shake. It had started in the night. Like a venom creeping into her veins. A sickening, dizzying venom, it wracked her body from head to toe. A glorious venom. One she had been waiting for. Magick, in all its glory.

‘I said, are you ready, girl?’ Hokus asked again.

‘As I’ll ever be,’ she squeaked, through the pain. It had become too painful to keep it in, but thankfully, it was now time to turn it loose. She was ready to try again.

‘Good,’ Hokus grinned. He looked up at the yellow sky and rubbed his hands. By his side, Valefor began to laugh. ‘Then, by all means, my dear cousin, tear down the sky.’

Despite the pain, Samara managed a little smile. The roar of the volcano was loud in her ears. It sounded like applause, a countless crowd all clapping frantically for her, eager to see her begin her act. ‘Better not keep them waiting,’ she said.

“The dead are dead and dead they will stay.”

Siren proverb

I
t was a day of déjà vu for more than just Eyrum. Farden was feeling its poison too.

Breathe!
his brain screamed at his mouth. His mouth refused.

Swim!
cried his legs, but the cold was too gripping, his body too heavy.

Grab hold of something!
he bellowed at his hands, feeling precious air escape his lips in a stream of bubbles, sliding over his numb face.

He reached out, half expecting to find a crate, or a cat, in his hands. But this was no storm, no sinking
Sarunn
. His hands met solid, sharp ice, and nothing but. It would have cut his fingers had they not been clasped in steel. He felt it rushing by as he sank, like a ten-tonne brick in the sea. He could feel the pressure mounting on his skull, on his ribs, as though a dozen trolls had set about turning him to pulp.

Farden dared to open his eyes and found them stung by the bitter cold. Water shoved its way under his eyelids and near ripped them off as it rushed by him. He shut them again, but not before he realised he saw how pitch black his surroundings were.

There was ice water in his veins.
How?!
his brain screamed again. He could feel it stabbing every joint and every bone as it swirled around his body. He twitched in the inky darkness.

Something kicked him in the head and he lashed out. But it was gone all too quickly.

Breathe!
his brain commanded again, and this time his mouth obeyed, against all his might. Ice-water, so cold it felt like it would crack his teeth, gushed in and filled his throat. He swallowed, trying to find some saviour in it, but it was thick and oily and colder than any night on any mountain. Icicles stabbed his lungs, pierced his heart, and ran him through.

Farden swallowed again, and that time he felt an old, familiar friend in the water with him. A friend as cold as the water itself. A friend called death. It seized his flailing hands. It calmed his legs. It opened his mouth and let the water flood in. It even kindly numbed the pain for him as his insides gave up on him. Farden felt the water tug, but he didn’t care. Something struck him the face, but he shrugged it off. The water was his friend now. As faithful as a grave.