Chapter 4 Teaser!
Hello all,
This is another slice of tasty prose from the upcoming story, "The Written". Please forgive any mistakes in there, it's still the first draft and haven't yet had the chance to read through. Let me know your thoughts! I've been writing a few little musings based on the concept "if trees could talk", and another one about kidnapping a man and sending him into space without his consent. Work is duller than watching string grow, and I'm in a strange mood from being cooped inside all day! Either way, I've got a gig at the Boileroom in Guildford tomorrow night with Deadlight, so looking forward to that very much. Meanwhile the fish are noticeably fatter, so I might have to get a virtual cat to keep their numbers down...
‘I hope so,’ she said and turned to walk back up the path. The mage watched her until she disappeared behind the little ridge. ‘Politics…’ he muttered and kicked a pebble before leaving for the city.
A few hours walk from Manesmark, nestled in a valley between the twin peaks of Ursufel and Hardja, lay the immense citadel of Krauslung, home of the Arkathedral and the ruling powers of the magick council. Farden reached the huge city just as the afternoon was starting to give way to the dark winter evening. The sky was still bright even through the clouds, but the cold darkness of night lingered on the horizon, ready to sneak across the mountains. The hooded mage strode over the frozen soil of the valley floor, staring up at the two steep mountains either side of him. Their rocky faces were sheer and towered over the city walls that had been built between them, using the cliffs as foundation for the thick stone defences. Acres and acres of fields stretched out in front of the city. Houses and shacks that were home to hundreds of peasants squatted in the shadow of the soaring walls. A stream of travellers and city folk flowed through the massive main gate, its huge archway dominated by the gatehouse above it that almost rivalled the Spire at Manesmark in height. Stone battlements crested the walls, and from there a small army of guards watched over the arriving visitors and peered down from arrow slits. The uneasy ten-year ceasefire with the Sirens had forced the Arka to double their defences.
Farden had joined the slow moving throngs of people heading towards the city. His boots crunched frozen grass and he pulled his cloak around him to ward off the approaching cold. Merchants at the roadside called out to the passers-by hoping to make a few more sales before night fell. Pigs and goats were being herded in small groups by young children covered in mud. A few dark-skinned men from the south were sat around a campfire, curved swords at their side and muttering in a low foreign tongue. The smell of exotic spices and meat tickled Farden’s nose.
After a short while weaving through the massed crowds he reached the huge archway of the main gate. The thickness of the stone and the massive iron gates never ceased to amaze him, even for one as far-travelled as he, and the mage stared up at the murder holes and gigantic stone blocks suspended above his head. But ahead of him was the main city, and from the vantage point of the gate he could see the whole of Krauslung spread like an intricate carpet ahead of him. The mountains above him dipped and fell, giving way to a narrow sloping valley that ended in a horseshoe-shaped harbour and the Port of Rös. The sea stretched out for many leagues before stumbling across the islands of Skap in the far distance, dark blotches stretched out on the horizon like a hook curving to the north. The Össfen mountains drew themselves up like steep walls and marched on for miles on either side of the valley, warding against the bitter waves of the winter sea.
Farden switched his attention back to the city. It had been many months since he had been here last and the mage had almost forgotten the impressive view. On his right, against the precipitous walls of Hardja, stood the Arkathedral, forged from grey granite and white polished stone from the cliffs in the west. The main great hall perched on top of the huge hive-like building. The hall was crowned by two tall spires either side of its steep arched roof. These short towers held the twin bells named after the two mountains that flanked the city. Farden hadn’t heard them ring in years. Like the layers of a cake the Arkathedral spiralled down to the city streets, its concentric curtain walls hiding libraries, halls, kitchens, barracks, training yards, and regal abodes for the Arkmages and the council members. This was the heart of the Arka, where the balance of magick was kept and the council decided the fate of many. Statues of the goddess Evernia and Heimdall, the god of foresight and knowledge, stood at the gates of the Arkathedral.
The rest of the city buzzed as Farden made his way deeper into the citadel and down into the valley. The lower streets were thin and winding, crammed with people and activity under the tall claustrophobic buildings. The shops and houses of Krauslung were piled storey upon storey, with the finer citizens living at the top where the air was cleaner. People leaned out of stained-glass windows and shouted to others in the streets. The gutters were full of running water from the winter snows, and the hollers and yells of the streets became a roar. Farden shrugged his shoulders and sauntered through the busy crowds. He relished the hustle and bustle of the capital. Here no-one paid attention to him; he could melt into the dark alleyways and market stalls and nobody would look twice at the shady mage.
Making it onto one of the main avenues that ran through Krauslung like vital arteries, Farden watched the more established merchants relax at the their stalls after a long day of profit, smoke pipes and chewing on tough bread. Arka soldiers stood on every corner. Their polished silver armour shined in the last rays of early evening light. A tavern to Farden’s right suddenly burst forth with loud music as two bards, or skalds, erupted with tales of heroes and beasts. The half-cut patrons all sang along, several spilling out into the streets to slam their tankards together in flurries of brown ale.
To his left a group of fine ladies, their faces painted and their hair up high, ran gloved hands over jewellery and ornaments at a shop window. Farden smiled. This is how the city always had been: the poor living right alongside the rich, neither ever crossing the gap between the classes but willing to live in rough harmony as long as their way of life was maintained. That was where Farden thought he fitted in. He was not rich, but nor was he poor. He was part of the glue that held the Arka together, a servant of the ruling magick council whose job it was to maintain the balance, the way of life for these people. It was odd in his mind, how thankless this task was, yet somehow he was still so dedicated to it. One of the women looked a little like Cheska, but he pushed her from his mind and back to the task in hand.
Farden headed north along another wide street lined with houses. He fixed his eyes on the gates of the Arkathedral fortress ahead of him and started the long walk up the steps to the great hall.
