Dead Stars - Part Two (The Emaneska Series) (63 page)

‘Rotten battle.’

‘Too many,’ and so went their complaints. Eyrum could see the air shimmering around their hands and shoulders. Their polished armour was blackened and scraped. One Written had lost a long ribbon of his scalp. His face was a mask of blood and smoke.

They ducked as a Lost Clan dragon skimmed low, narrowly clouting one of them with its tail. ‘And those too! Where are our dragons, when you need ‘em?’ shouted Gossfring, arms shivering with fire.

Towerdawn answered him with a roar. There was an ear-splitting thud in the spinning smoke where the Lost Clan dragon had faded, and then all of a sudden it reappeared. This time it was joined by another dragon, flashing molten gold in the battle’s fire. Jaws snapped like fireworks as the dragons crashed into the snow together. Towerdawn had the other by the neck, and was clawing and raking at his unprotected belly. The noise of the two beasts drowned out the entire battle for just a moment. And it was just a moment. For that was all Towerdawn needed.

He seized his opening and his opponent’s neck in one swift, lightning move. There was a crunch as his fangs met tough scales and broke them. Towerdawn’s chest swelled and fire bubbled from his mouth, blasting the dragon from point-blank range. With his scales broken, the dragon was done for. He emitted one woeful trumpet before his throat was cooked and seared.

Eyrum yelled to his king. ‘Old Dragon! We must be making a dent in their numbers now? Surely? Can you see from the sky?’

Three more bangs shook the air and the snow at their feet. Towerdawn shook his bloodied head. ‘The girl is relentless. There are more now than when they first charged.’

Eyrum’s face sagged like an old balloon. ‘How can that be?’

‘Can we not attack her?’

Towerdawn looked over his shoulder, gazing into the smoke. ‘Durnus tries. She is too strong.’

Lerel took a knee and dug her sword into the snow. Hopeless. Nobody said it, but they all knew it. Lerel sighed. ‘Fuck this,’ she snapped. ‘We need Farden.’

Nobody said that either, but they all knew she was right.

“Even the brightest of stars fade in the daylight.”

Old Siren proverb

S
ay one thing for the dead. They’re accepting creatures.

There was no clamouring. No angry whispers. No pushing. No retribution. Loki pushed himself from his rock-dusted knees and stood tall. Like a man standing for the first time, it felt. Straight-backed and sure, shoulders rolling for the crowd. Flexing, testing, grinning, all the while grinning.

Loki was alive.

Loki was powerful.

He felt it in every pore, pocket, and follicle. Felt it in every vein, vessel, and tingle. He could feel the air, the dust, the ground beneath his cold and tough boots. Sensation, after a millennium of nothing, was euphoric. Loki looked at the dead milling about in front of him. If they were disappointed about the bridge, they didn’t show it. They gazed at him like tired sheep, eyes saying nothing. ‘I don’t envy you,’ he told them with a warm smile. He reached for the first, an old woman standing like a weary arch. Loki clasped her by the neck, took a deep breath, and savoured the soul’s power flowing into him. ‘Ahh,’ he sighed, exhaling. The shadow was a little fainter for it, a little more crooked.

‘And now to other business,’ he muttered, turning on his heel, hearing the stone crunch. With a swagger normally reserved for drunken kings, Loki ran his fingers along the crumbled wall of the Bifröst, following its curves around and around, until he was leaning over where the rock fell away. He folded his arms, rested his chin on his hands, and smiled down at the man lying slumped against the bridge’s broken wall.

Ignoring the armour, he wasn’t that much to look at. A few scraggly tattoos, faded and bled with age, spiralled around his fingers and wrists. A long beard was in the middle of escaping from the chin of his helmet, like a frothing river fleeing a tawny cave. Only his face, framed by the red and gold of his open visor, was remarkable. Remarkably young, for a fifteen-hundred year-old man. Barely in his twenties, by Loki’s reckoning, though there was an age about him that was hard to see without peering closely. It was the eyes that gave it away. Korrin’s eyes were like marbles stolen from an older man. They had a depth and a hardness to them that youth couldn’t buy.

Loki was about to speak when all of a sudden, Korrin chuckled. It was a dry old sound from a throat that hadn’t tasted the faintest hint of liquid in the best part of five centuries.

‘I’ve seen them all,’ he rasped, with a tongue as shrivelled and dry as a boot in the Paraian sun. ‘I’ve seen them all. I’ve seen creatures stranger than you’d ever care to wonder. I’ve seen men and women plainer than parchment. I’ve seen warlords nudge shoulders with thralls and peasants. I’ve seen princesses and kings mingle with their own servants, not a hint of recognition in their eyes. I’ve seen old men with young wives. I’ve seen young men with old faces. Young widowers and old bastards, them too. I’ve seen children, littler than you’d care to imagine. I’ve seen grown men by the drove. I’ve seen soldiers in their crowds, still lined up in battle lines. I’ve seen the ones snapped up before their time. I’ve seen dragons more ancient than some of these walls. The ones who died fighting, still painted in righteous blood. The ones who died cowering, still wearing the stains of their own piss. I’ve seen thieves sent to the noose. I’ve seen murderers on the run. I’ve seen judges, scholars, maids, teachers, farmers, bakers, butchers, smiths, sailors, and all the bloody rest. I’ve seen a few traitors too, in my time. And believe me, god, I’ve been here a very long time indeed. I know a traitor when I see one. Easy to spot, once you’ve seen a few.’

Loki was intrigued, he had to admit. ‘Tell me, how do you spot one?’

Korrin flicked up two fingers, making no effort to turn them over. ‘Two ways, aside from their actions. Two types, you might say. One’s a fidgety sort. They wring their hands. They might have a twitch. Plagued with guilt.’

‘And the other?’

‘Your kind. The ones who beam with pride. Like pillagers counting the notches on their blades. You’re easier to spot.’

‘And tell me, Korrin,’ said Loki, leaning close. ‘How do you spot a deserter?’

Korrin chuckled again. He flashed teeth yellow like desert sands. ‘I’ll tell you this for free. Make a man sit in one place long enough, and he’ll meet himself ten, a hundred, a thousand times over. With nobody but the dead for example, and nothing but his thoughts and actions to keep him company, there’s nothing left to do but look inwards. I’ve met Korrin the deserter. I’ve met Korrin the hero too. I know them both very well. You can’t shake me with your forked tongue, god. You’re a thousand years too late.’

Loki’s smirking face slowly switched places with an expression altogether more stony and dark. ‘It seems my time here is short.’

‘That it is.’

‘Before I go…’ Loki reached out for Korrin’s helmet, curious. He wondered for a moment what it would feel like, to a god. He already felt alive, intoxicatingly so. Would it make him even more powerful? What would it feel like? Cold steel? Warm glass? It certainly looked like glass, up close. He wondered what…

‘Agh!’

…in Emaneska had just happened. Loki clenched his fist as the burning sensation spread down his arm. The armour had stung him, seared him even. His fingertips were blood-red. Loki reached out again with his other hand, seizing a pauldron this time, and the armour bit him again. Loki clasped his hands tightly and growled, the sort of growl when no curses will suffice. Korrin snorted. ‘Failsafe. Ask Heimdall, if you ever see him again,’ he advised, sweetly.

Loki hissed to himself. What a cruel twist! How sweet, how victorious to be alive and real, only to then suffer its bitter twist:
pain
, of all things. How human! How dare it! Loki trembled with anger as he felt his power surge through his veins.

‘I remember something about curiosity and cats…’ Korrin commented wistfully.

‘It really is time I was leaving,’ Loki snapped. And with that, he went to fetch his coat, cast aside at the foot of the bridge. He snatched it from the ground and threw it on. A sliver of something red and gold caught his eye, a glimpse of fingers clasped tightly to the edge of the bridge. Loki licked his lips, edging the toe of his boot closer to the steel fingertips, ready to kick.
One nudge
, he thought,
one little nudge
.

Loki sneered. ‘Not yet,’ he smiled. He remembered what the Shrieks had told him. ‘Not yet.’

‘Tyrfing?’ came a hoarse whisper from below. Loki stepped away.

‘Tyrfing…?’

‘Tyrfing?’ Farden rasped. His tongue was numb. His teeth ached and rattled in their sockets. His face was numb. Then again, how often could he feel his face? What a stupid thing to ponder, hanging from the edge of the world. ‘Uncle, are you there?’ His voice was like a file.

Something wriggled in his other hand and a shot of pain coursed down his body, from left shoulder to right foot, like a blade had just been dragged across him. Farden winced, feeling every corner of himself suddenly ache. He preferred the numbness. Definitely the numbness.

‘Elessi,’ he wheezed, ‘hold still, damn it.’ Farden look down to where the shadow of the maid hung from his steel grip. She hung like a pellucid fish on a hook, limply dangling into the void. Every now and again she would kick, or wriggle, or reach out for the darkness of the void.

‘Fat chance of that,’ Farden muttered. He looked up at the broken stub of bridge his fingers clung tightly too. It was all that was left of the Bifröst. Just a shattered lip of rapidly cooling stone. Its colours were dying with its heat, slowly turning to the hue of old, drab iron.

His shoulder had popped free of its socket, that was for sure. He could feel the bone and gristle scraping as he swung slowly back and forth. It was a wonder his fingers were still holding on, but he wasn’t about to question them about it. It was a wonder he was still clinging to anything, never mind a dead bridge and a ghost. ‘Stubborn luck,’ he smiled grimly, thinking of the dragonscale pendant wrapped about his neck.

‘Tyrfing!’ he called, his tongue less dusty than before. He still sounded like a file. ‘Are you there?! Now would be a good time to lend a hand!’

Silence. Not even the muttering of the dead. He had heard voices before, in his semi-conscious state, but they were quiet now. Farden winced as Elessi wriggled again. He had to try something else.

‘Korrin!’ he called. ‘Can you hear me? If you’re there, I need your help.’

Silence again. Not a rustle. Not a sound. Farden wondered briefly if he had gone deaf in the explosion. He decided to keep trying. ‘Korrin, my name is Farden. You wouldn’t know me. I doubt you knew any of my ancestors. I doubt you even know what I am, or have heard of where I’m from. All a little bit after your time, I suppose. But I know a lot about you. A great deal indeed. I’m something of your inheritor, I suppose. Your heir.’ Farden looked up as he heard a scraping. A little crumbling of dust fell in his eyes. He kept talking. ‘I’ve been looking for you and that armour for a long time. Years and years.’ Farden winced. ‘That’s probably not long to you, but… Anyway. I’m not a thief, or a grave-robber, if that’s what you’ve assumed. I’m not here to steal the armour for my own nefarious means. I need it. Everybody needs it. We need it to stop…’

‘And I thought the dead talked too much,’ said a voice. Farden looked up, and saw a face he had only ever seen painted in light. Farden let his mouth flap open, no words coming out.

‘Better,’ said Korrin, thrusting out a hand flecked with old tattoos, nails bitten and crammed with dirt. ‘Give me the woman. Careful now.’

Farden took a few sharp breaths and heaved. Mercifully, Elessi was lighter than he had first thought. She still had some weight to her, more weight that a ghost rightfully should have, but still, he managed it. Heaving up and up, he raised her past his waist and chest, pausing only briefly as her face brushed his, a flash of something cold and not altogether there, and then up into Korrin’s waiting hand. He dragged her onto the rock and disappeared. Farden spat the dust from his mouth.

It took an age for him to return, and a painful age at that. Farden managed to get two hands on the Bifröst’s remains, but it still didn’t alleviate the searing of his left shoulder. His feet scrabbled uselessly at the faceless rock below him. ‘Give me your hands,’ said a voice, more familiar than the last. Tyrfing, bleary-eyed and bleeding from the nose, popped his head over the edge. ‘One at a time, if you please.’

Farden did as he was told, first the left, then the right. Tyrfing winced at his strong grip, the grip of a man who had spent the last half hour clinging to the lip of a cliff. Tyrfing hauled him up until his boots touched the bridge. Tyrfing sagged to the rock but Farden rushed to Korrin’s side, sprawled as he was against the wall. Elessi was standing nearby, still like a stone. Not going anywhere.

Farden knelt by Korrin’s side and looked deep into his grey marble eyes, impossibly deep. They flicked down to the mage’s glittering wrists, his hands, and his feet. ‘So, Farden. It appears that you were right. We do have much in common.’