Dead Stars - Part Two (The Emaneska Series) (62 page)

But Loki just tutted. ‘Poor choice of words, mage. Why would I go and do a thing like that?’

Farden stepped onto the Bifröst. He could feel the thing vibrating beneath his feet, feel its heat rising up to warm his chin and face. Up close it looked like molten gold, swimming with gems and diamonds. His boots hissed quietly as its fire tested them. ‘Give her to me, then,’ he said, holding out a hand.

Loki nonchalantly thrust his spare hand into one of his coat pockets. He stared up at the roof of the cave and shrugged, rocking back on his heels. ‘All in good time, Farden. All in good time.’

Farden waggled his sword at the god. ‘Is this your way of punishing me? Something I’ve done to you? If it is, then leave her out of it. You and I can settle this another way.’

Loki flashed his teeth. ‘All about you, isn’t it? This entire voyage has been about you. You’re so wrapped up in yourself, Farden, that you haven’t even noticed who’s sitting beside the bridge, have you? Waltzed straight past him, in a self-obsessed daze. Hardly respectful,’ he said, standing on his tiptoes to peer over the Bifröst’s wall.

Farden’s blade fell. He edged backwards onto the rock and to the side of the bridge, where the wall of the Bifröst curled around in an arc. There, cradled in it, between the scintillating bridge and the dizzying edge of the rock, sat Korrin, in all his red-gold glory.

Farden barely resisted the urge to dash to his side. His armour sparkled with the Bifröst’s fire. Farden’s eyes grew large at the sight of the way it undulated and curved, at the way its scales slipped together in a metallic symphony, the way it… words failed him. It was simply beautiful. Farden could feel it calling to him. He felt his tongue running along the back of his teeth. He ached to go and touch it, but he didn’t.
All in good time indeed
, he told himself.

‘What do you want?’ he asked, turning back to the god.

Loki almost looked impressed by the self-restraint. He was still wearing his smile. ‘Many things, Farden. You mentioned punishment. We will start with that.’

‘Punish whom?’

‘Why,’ Loki said, ‘everyone, of course. Humans, gods, daemons. All of them will know what I’ve done. It’s what an opportunist does, isn’t it? Punish others by taking advantage out of a situation, changing the game, and then playing the best hand?’

Tyrfing was growling with the strain of holding up his spell. The dead were pushing harder and harder with every minute that went by. ‘You sound more like a megalomaniac than an opportunist, Loki.’

Farden lifted up his blade again. ‘You sound like Vice.’

Loki laughed then. ‘That halfbreed? No, I’m the real thing. Or at least I will be,’ he looked up at the roof of the cave again, ‘in a moment.’

Farden lunged forward, hoping to catch him off guard, but the god was quick. He let Elessi slip further along the bridge. Farden caught himself and stopped short. He quickly lowered the sword. ‘Don’t!’ he cried. At the sound of his voice, Elessi turned, as if she had heard the wind sighing her name. Farden caught a glimpse of her face and felt his heart thud even more. She looked so sad, so lost. She turned away again, and tried once more to break free and shuffle to the void. Fortunately, Loki held her firmly.

‘What’s gotten into you? What is this?’

‘It is the beginning.’

‘Of what? Explain yourself!’

Loki took a moment to think, smiling all the while. ‘Of many things.’ He looked up again.

Farden followed his gaze this time. The cave sighed as a hot wind rustled through it. A deep rumbling sound grew loud in their ears. ‘What have you done?’ he asked. The Bifröst began to rattle. ‘What have you done, Loki?’

Loki raised his spare hand to the rock. ‘Give my regards to your daughter, mage.’

‘Farden, you better do something! I can’t hold them!’ Tyrfing strained. His spell was cracking. The rumbling grew louder. The Bifröst began to shake, and violently too. Farden found his feet slipping from under him as the earth trembled. His sword fell and skittered away. The rumbling sound grew to a deafening thunder. Sharp cracks, the sound of stone being split and hammered in to pieces echoed throughout the cave. Tyrfing fell to one knee as his spell waned. He was thrown aside by the dead. ‘Farden!’ he cried out.

Farden did the only thing he could think of doing. With a snarl, he dug his boots hard into the trembling Bifröst, grabbed his sword, and dived at Loki, blade held high and swinging down to strike.

He almost made it connect too.

The second before Farden’s sword introduced itself to Loki’s neck, a searing ball of light and fire came crashing through the cave’s roof. Stone, molten and obliterated, rained with it. The fireball fell straight down, descending on Loki with a huge flash and a whip-crack of thunder. Farden met the fireball head on and was thrown to the bridge like a hammer to an anvil. There was a resounding crack as the Bifröst snapped, and fell away. He flailed wildly as he felt his boots kick at nothing, his stomach taking up residence in his mouth. He felt his hand bounce off something solid and he seized it. A sharp pain ripped through his shoulder. Something else slid past his arm and he grabbed that too, something cold and soft. Half-stunned and half-blinded by fire and smoke, he watched the flaming gold of the bridge tumble into the abyss. Lost.

“The Spines have Roots, and in those Roots burn the molten fires of the old giant. Burned forever, they have, and will burn for forever more.”

From a chapter of an old Scalussen book, found in the wreckage of the Hjaussfen library

S
amara was shaking. Every fibre, muscle, sinew, and tendon in her body quivered. Every single one of them burned like torches. Her arms were lead weights. Her head was a boulder on shoulders made of glass. Her legs were twisted sticks, bent and broken.

And yet still she heaved on the sky.

Two more stars plunged into the ice, right in the middle of the enemy’s line of sleds. Samara would have spared a moment to sneer if she could have. She watched out of the corner of her eye as one sled was reduced to kindling and burnt rags, sending men and corpses reeling. Moments later, a skinny daemon emerged from its smoking ribs, and with a roar, dove straight into the fray.

Another star fell, striking a dragon in mid-air as it plummeted. Lost Clan or Siren, Samara didn’t know or care. The creature spun out of control and painted the snow with its bright orange blood.

‘Samara!’ came a shout from behind her. It was Lilith, cowering in the hollow of the cliff face behind her. She had come as close as she dared, and already the frayed strands of her cloak were smouldering in the heat.

Samara couldn’t reply if she wanted to. Her teeth were clamped so tightly she suspected that they had fused together.

‘Samara!’ Lilith cried again.
What did the old bird want, now of all times?!

‘The daemons are calling you! That god has called to them! Loki! It’s time!’

It took a huge effort to turn her head but she managed. There, below on the ice, stood Hokus, decorated with crimson. He was waving his arms at her, drawing a letter in the air.
L
. For Loki. Lilith was right.

Samara turned her head back to the sky. Dawn had now risen over the Spine, and the sulphurous belchings of the volcano had mingled with the lightening azure of the sky and turned it a faint green colour. The light wasn’t much of an improvement. The mountains were still spitting fire and great plumes of ash, and with every falling star that rained down, more smoke and steam rose from the snow. A thick smog now hung over the battlefield. Swords, spells, and smog. A deadly combination. If the cries and roars were anything to go by, thought Samara, it was chaos down there. Delicious chaos.

Part of her wanted to be a part of it, but she had a job to do. Plenty of stars remained. One in particular was next.

Samara turned to face a patch of sky she hadn’t yet touched. She squinted, finding her next prize. Slowly but surely she bent the spell to her will, clawing at the sky. She could feel the tug of the star as she latched onto it. Pushing magick into her legs and knees she pulled at it, scrabbling for purchase. It was becoming easier with practice, but no less painful. Samara let a strangled cry escape from her throat as she pulled the star from its resting place. As it began to fall, Samara tried to imagine the faces of the gods as one of their own was plucked from the sky, from right under their noses. Would they think it was a trick? A mistake? What would they do? Nothing, more than likely. Useless creatures. This Loki was a traitorous one, that was for sure. A cold betrayer. She liked that.

Only one thing remained, one reason her eyes sneaked furtive looks of the battlefield.
Where was he?
she asked herself, deep inside her roaring skull. She needed Farden. She needed his blood like her own.

‘And another!’ cried Lerel, as another star flashed in the sky. It was a useless shout. She was alone, after all, save for this snarling beast in front of her. She lashed out at the sabre-cat she was circling, catching it across the face. It hissed at her, slinking away. It didn’t get very far at all. A ball of ice rocketed across the battlefield and punched it into the smoke with a howl.

Lerel raised her sword to the pale Written standing nearby. She nodded, and moved on to attack a nearby troll with another mage.

Samara was right. It was chaos on the snow. The lines had fallen apart under the daemons’ onslaught, forcing the army to fight on all fronts, scattered and battling in little groups and wherever they could. With the smoke and steam, any concept of co-ordinated fighting had crumbled. It was every man, woman, beast, and daemon for themselves. The kind of vicious battle every soldier fears.

She found herself alone again in the smoke. All around her she saw shapes and heard the roars of battle. She spun around, waving her sword, feeling the fear drum in her chest. She looked up through the haze for the star she had spotted. She was about to shout out another warning when she noticed this one was different. It was not falling straight down, but at an angle, skimming across the mountains like a falling spear. Lerel followed it as it flew from east to west, completely missing the battlefield and the hill. She soon lost it in the smoke, but she felt its thunder in her feet as it collided with something several miles to the west. Perhaps the girl was slipping.

‘Did you see that?’ barked a loud voice, making her spin around with her sword. Eyrum caught it deftly on his shield.

Lerel blew a sigh of relief and wiped a hand across her brow, noting with pain the deep gash across her forehead. Bear claws were sharp indeed. ‘I did,’ she replied. ‘Do you think she’s losing it?’

‘I hope so, because we’re dying out here. We can’t fight any more daemons,’ Eyrum growled, and as if it had come to prove his point, a hulking figure stumbled out of the smoke behind them. It spotted them instantly. It snarled, and as it did so its skin rippled, leaking flame from every pore.

‘Get behind me,’ Eyrum snapped, lifting his axe, twirling it like a twig in lazy fingers. Eyrum was anything but lazy in battle.

He slipped forward, boots sliding through the snow, betraying his speed. The daemon sensed a lethargic opponent and almost squealed in delight. Claws unsheathed themselves like rusty iron blades from rock scabbards. Teeth dripped with black poison. The daemon poised, and struck, expecting the next thing he saw to be a lumbering Siren, skewered in his claws, ready to be crunched in his jaws.

Fortunately, Eyrum had slightly different ideas. Moving a dozen paces in the space of a second, he slid under the daemon’s wide stance, a blur with an axe held high and swinging hard, aiming right for the creature’s groin. There was a terrible whine as the daemon felt the sharp blade pass through several prized possessions. Eyrum slid free and jumped up, already swinging the axe like a whip, flaying the charcoal-black hide from the daemon’s back. The creature took three hits, and then spun, knocking Eyrum to the snow. The Siren took the blow like the seasoned fighter he was, bowing into it, taking half the blow by leaning back. Even so, it sent him reeling. Eyrum blinked as he stared at the smoky sky above, breathing hard. The ground shook as the daemon strode forward. Eyrum raised his axe, raised a roar in his throat, and rolled to his feet.

Instead of a daemon ready to smite him, he found a wriggling, flailing heap. Three mages, all Written, advanced in an arrowhead from the right, Lerel at their centre. Fire and lightning streamed from their gauntleted hands, crooked fingers and sparks flying. They chanted their spells in deadly, rhythmic precision. It wasn’t needed, but it was a formidable sight.

Soon the daemon was a shivering wreck, half dead or dying already. Eyrum put his axe through its iron skull. He tugged it free with a grimace, examining the thick chunk missing from its edge. ‘Bastard notched my blade.’

The Written were panting hard. One looked up, eyes dizzy, half focused. It was the older mage, Gossfring. Two sharp flashes of light lit the fog, followed by two deep bangs. ‘They keep coming.’

‘Too tough.’

‘Can’t see a shitting thing.’