Dead Stars - Part Two (The Emaneska Series) (9 page)

Farden nodded a goodnight to the man and watched him leave. It was a while before he moved, deep in thought over Gossfring’s simple wisdom.

When he finally did move, he reached for the bottle and let its mouth hover over his empty glass. A single drop of wine dribbled from it, and then he tilted it back. He held it up to his eyes and the silver moon and swilled the dregs of it around. ‘Hero,’ Farden muttered to himself and the wind. Gossfring’s words swam around his head.

Farden dangled the bottle over the railing and let his hand grow limp. The bottle landed in the ship’s wake with a splash, lost to the inky, silver-lined blackness. Even though his eyes had lost sight of it, Farden aimed a hesitant hand at the sea and the unseen target. He strained so much that his fingers bent to claws, and the tendons stood out like bones on the back of his hand. For a long time, nothing happened. Then, just as he couldn’t stand the pain in his head any longer, a puff of flame burst from his palm. It was a little sputter, a cough of fire, something a candle might be proud of but nothing more. To Farden it was a fountain of flame. An onslaught. He clenched his hand as the magick burnt him, and bit his lip. He felt guilty, then, for a moment, for trying to resurrect his magick, after all those years trying to kill it.

But maybe Gossfring was right. ‘Desperate times and all that,’ he told himself, thinking of the door in the Arkathedral. Elessi was still in danger. He hadn’t saved her yet.
Besides
, Farden lectured to himself,
perhaps it would be different
. Perhaps he wasn’t a curse any more. Perhaps he was something new, or something very old.

In the darkness, there might have been a smile on his face.
Hero
. He had been called that before.

He had forgotten how much he liked the sound of it.

“Ships have a curious relationship with the sea. The sea both loathes and loves them. A fickle mistress, she. Caressing the keel one minute, dashing the bow against the rocks the next. That is why we must pray to Njord, and pray that his sea remains a kind lady.”

From the diary of Captain Rasserfel, in the year 801

‘U
p!’ the sergeant bellowed. A score of sweating bodies pushed themselves off the scrubbed deck. ‘Down!’ came the shout, and the bodies kissed the wood with their noses. ‘Halfway up and hold it!’ The sergeant swaggered through the rows and lines, tapping arms with his boots. He could see their arms shivering with the tension. ‘Hold it!’ he yelled in their ears.

At the far corner of the group, one of the men sagged and crumpled to the floor. The sergeant cast him a look, mouth poised to bellow, and then thought better of it. He turned away and let his lungs loose on the others instead. ‘And up again!’ he shouted. At the edge of his eye, he spied the man slowly but surely pushing himself back up.

It was the mage. The one who had come aboard at Krauslung with the Arkmage and the Written. The one who had spewed his guts down the port side not a minute out of the harbour. He was a sweaty wreck if the sergeant had ever seen one, a feeble and exhausted mess, but by Njord, he had the determination of an iron bar.

‘Up! Down! Up! Down!’ the sergeant yelled his orders in quick succession. The soldiers and sailors bobbed up and down like flotsam on a wave. In the corner, the man crumpled to the deck again. The sergeant pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

Farden was tired. His body was screaming. His mind was the only thing still capable of moving. He thrust at the deck with his palms but his body refused to move. He rolled onto his back and lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. Somebody grabbed his wrist and dragged him out of the exercise squad and into the sweet shade underneath the bulwark. He squinted up at his saviour. His uncle.

‘Tsk. Know your limits, boy,’ Tyrfing tutted, as he passed him a wooden cup of cold water.

‘You haven’t called me that in years,’ Farden wheezed. ‘When are people going to learn that I really, really hate being called that?’

Tyrfing shrugged and turned back to watch the others train.

It was a fresh morning, the kind that makes the teeth ache if breathing in too sharply. The kind where the sun sits behind a veil of constant misty cloud, teasingly warm. The kind where the sea is a lazy blanket of grey-blue, where ships rely on wind mages and the momentum of the day before. A day neither here nor there. Half-asleep and plodding. Just like their progress.

The sails had pushed them far in the night, past the eastern shadow of Albion and the western reaches of Halȏrn and Emaneska, almost into the Rannoch Sound.

Farden lay on the deck and watched the sails puff and shudder. When the ship leant the right way, he could even see a lone and stoic figure in the crow’s nest, eyes fixed on the east.

When his lungs had quenched their exhausted fire, Farden sat himself up and got to his feet. The training squad were still going. The men were shirtless, the women almost, and the Written only just covering their backs with open tunics. They jumped and sprawled, jumped and sprawled, all to the barking of the sergeant. Farden moved to join the squad again, but Tyrfing put his hand on his nephew’s chest. ‘Not today. You’re done.’

‘I’m done when I can’t stand,’ Farden snapped. He looked down at his feet and then back to his uncle. ‘And it looks like I’m standing.’

‘What’s got into you today? You seem…’ Tyrfing began, but then trailed off. Now that he had asked the question, he understood. The bottle from the day before. The still-receding effects of the nevermar. The fight to come. He couldn’t blame him.

Farden began to unbutton his shirt. ‘Why aren’t you joining in, hmm, old man?’

Tyrfing gave him an acidic glance. ‘Those days are long behind me.’

‘Surely you can just shapeshift into a stronger, younger body.’

Tyrfing shook his head, and as he did so, his beard turned a darker shade of grey, the wrinkles faded from his face, and his eyes began to sparkle. He looked as Farden remembered him. ‘Like this?’ he asked. ‘Why pretend? Shapeshifting is like painting an old wall. You can make it look better, but it’s still the same old wall underneath,’ he smiled, fading back to his old self. He coughed then, and turned away to cough at the sea. There was a persistence in his uncle’s coughing that concerned him. Farden frowned, and left him to it.

Stubborn as always, the mage joined the end of the squad, to the sound of a few titters from nearby sailors. He glared at them and then began to jump and sprawl with the others. He barely made it to a half-dozen before his body told him no, and promptly gave him cramp in both legs to make its point. He held himself off the floor, and grit his teeth against the pain.
Damn that nevermar
.

A hand patted him on the shoulder. Farden looked up to find Gossfring standing over him, open-shirted, scarred, and smiling. The young white-haired mage from the day before stood behind him, expressionless and vacant. ‘Perhaps it’s time for some sword practice, Farden. I remember you as quite the bladesman,’ he suggested. ‘Perhaps you can show Inwick here some moves she don’t know.’

Farden wiped away a river of sweat from his face. The offer was an escape route, and as much as it stung Farden to take it, he did. He shakily pushed himself to standing and left the squad to its exercises, following the others to the forecastle. Loki was there with Whiskers, sitting on the steps and listening to Ilios snore. The god was twiddling his tiny flute around his finger.

‘Here to provide some percussion?’ chimed the god. He was quickly discovering his dislike for the sea, mainly due to where he had chosen to sit. Occasionally, an ambitious wave would spray over the bow, soaking both him and the rat. Loki would grunt and wipe the sea-water from his face, muttering darkly under his breath. Whiskers didn’t seem to mind.

‘Swords?’ Loki asked, at the sight of the training blades in Gossfring’s hands. A sweaty Farden nodded.

‘You seen Farden swing a sword before, lad?’ asked Gossfring in a loud voice. He swung his training blade experimentally, testing its weight. The dull blade hummed around him. It was quieter at the prow of the ship. Most of the sailors were aft, watching the training, high above in the sails, or asleep, rocking back and forth in their hammocks below.

Loki didn’t try to hide his displeasure at being called
lad
. ‘I haven’t had the pleasure,’ he icily replied. ‘Though my good friend Heimdall did tell me a rather bloody tale of Farden and a young Albion noble, a young noble who rather foolishly decided it would be wise to challenge him to a duel. Am I telling it right? Over a seat, of all things, wasn’t it Farden? At a certain Duke’s table?’

‘That’s enough, Loki,’ said Farden, wincing.

Gossfring winked at the younger mage, Inwick. ‘A noble, eh? So, what happened next? I smell a story.’

Loki scratched his head with his flute. ‘You know, I don’t recall the rest. Farden?’

Farden sighed. ‘I put a sword through his fancy dancing shoes.’

‘Which ones?’ asked Loki.

‘Both of them,’ Farden said.

Gossfring chuckled at that, and tossed the mage a blade.

‘How callous.’ Inwick gave them all a disapproving look. Farden examined the woman as he twirled his blade. She stood straighter than straight, as if the meat of her had been wrapped around an iron rod. It was plain to see that she was of old-stock; of a traditional family, mage born and bred. Farden remembered the sort from the School. Everything about her was smart. Her hair was a long shock of white, tied back in a tight tail. Her hands were folded behind her back. Her boots were like black mirrors. The model of military neatness. There wasn’t a stray hair on her head nor a speck of sea-water on her clean tunic. Only a single bead of sweat marred her perfect appearance.

Gossfring passed her a sword. ‘After you then ma’am,’ he said, settling back into a defensive stance.

Farden had expected something more sedate from such a groomed and polished woman. He couldn’t have been more wrong. Inwick attacked like a forest fire, a whirling dervish of blunt steel and accuracy. It was shocking to watch. Gossfring barely managed to fend off of her blows. Each one came closer and closer to touching him. He managed a single swing before she swivelled around and caught him across the throat.

‘Told you,’ he grunted to Farden, as she released him. ‘Fastest we ever seen. Save for Undermage Modren and you, mind.’

‘I can see that.’

‘Try your luck,’ Gossfring replied, chuckling. ‘I think you two will be a good match.’

Farden stepped forward. The look on Inwick’s face was that of cold invitation, as though she had spent all her life training to fight a legendary beast, and finally, here it was, face to face with her at last. Farden wondered if she wanted to lop his head off as a trophy.

Farden balanced the blade lightly on his shoulder and sighed. The sweat still dripped off him. His body was tired. The Written dancing back and forth in front of him was young, fresh, and ready. Skilled, too. But he had one small smidgeon of comfort. One small fact that made Farden as calm as a summer lake. There was one skill he hadn’t abandoned during all his years of exile, just one…

…Killing things. With a sword, no less.

‘After you, then,’ Farden grunted, blade still perched on his shoulder.

Inwick looked momentarily confused. ‘Are you going to adopt a stance, or not?’ she asked.

Farden just shook his head. Gossfring took a wise step back and winked at Loki. The god looked on, intrigued.

Common courtesy would have dictated that a gentleman, even during a polite duel or practice, be gentle and courteous with a lady opponent. But Farden was no gentleman, and Inwick was not the average lady. She lunged at him, vicious even with her blunt blade, and Farden sent her spinning with a giant counterstrike. It struck her off balance, and once he had tripped her with the blade, Farden was quickly at her throat.

Inwick looked up, sprawled on the deck, utterly bemused. ‘Unfair,’ she hissed. ‘You didn’t…’

Farden shook his head. ‘Fighting
is
unfair, lady mage. The age of respect and fair-fighting died a long time ago. I’m surprised they didn’t teach you that at the School.’

Inwick didn’t reply. She simply got to her feet, looking for all the world as though she were about to stride away. But it was then that she swung her blade, aiming high, for Farden’s head. Luckily, he saw it coming; he knew he had bruised more than her elbows and knees.

This time, Farden barely kept her at bay. Inwick swung with everything she had. Left, right, up, down, the blows rained like hailstones in midwinter. Farden parried and blocked, his arms weak but his form strong. Only battle and murder can teach a man to move like that, and Farden had seen his fair share of both.

A full minute of furious exchange passed before he saw his opening. He whacked out at her leg and was rewarded by a shout and then a blow to the shoulder. Farden growled and pushed back. Blows now began to connect with muscles and bones. Swords clanged together like anvils and hammers. A small audience had clumped together. The duel was suddenly becoming a battle of endurance and sheer will.