arouse any suspicion.’
‘Very well,’ said Heimdall, smiling politely. While Verix found her own armchair beside Heimdall, Loki wandered to the windows that spanned the entire length of the far wall. He stared out at the city far below, hands still firmly in his coat pockets. Modren watched him intently. He didn’t look like a god. Like the mage, he was fair-haired. He had deep brown eyes, flecked with yellow, and his skin was pale and clean-shaven, youthful. Modren tried to assess his age, but found himself getting confused the more he watched him. He looked younger than Heimdall, that was for sure, but it was hard to tell. He was neither tall nor short, somewhere in the middle, neither muscular, nor skinny. He just was . The Undermage frowned. It was an odd sort of description, but it was the best he could summon. Maybe he was still sleepy.
Durnus soon joined them, bearing three glasses of amber-coloured wine. Modren and Tyrfing took theirs, and Durnus felt his way to his chair. Verix was staring at him intently. Somehow, Durnus knew it. He smiled in her direction. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘You look nothing like your brother, Ruin,’ she whispered.
‘Then I will take that as a compliment,’ replied Durnus, with a tight smile. ‘And please, call me Durnus, or Arkmage, if you prefer. Anything but Ruin.’
‘Though your blood reeks of daemon.’
Durnus’ smile faded. ‘That it probably does.’
‘Verix,’ chided Heimdall, and the goddess looked confused. She ran a hand through her strange, sea-green hair.
‘I’m sorry. I’m used to speaking my mind,’ she said.
‘As goddess of truth, I’m sure you are,’ chuckled Durnus, and the moment was forgotten.
Heimdall clapped his hands. Modren was trying to assess him now, staring as intently as he dared. The god was pale-faced, like his comrades, and his hair was golden, like dried wheat. The god was as tall as the Siren Eyrum, but once again, impossible to fathom. It was the same with Verix. Their faces, aside from the colour of their eyes and hair, seemed to evade scrutiny like the very stars themselves. Modren found that the harder he looked, the stranger they became. Their chests did not rise and fall with their breathing. They did not blink. Not a single mole nor blemish marred their skin. The closer he leant to them, the larger they grew. Modren moved forward to take his drink from the little table in the centre of the circle, and found himself confused at how much Heimdall had suddenly grown. The god towered above him, in ways the Undermage’s brain couldn’t comprehend. He felt bludgeoned by his mere presence, breathless in the man’s shadow.
‘Modren?’ said a voice, shattering the mage’s thoughts. Modren blinked, and realised Heimdall was staring down at him, a bemused look on his face.
‘Sorry, sir,’ he muttered. ‘It’s not every day you meet a god.’
At this, Heimdall laughed. It was a deep booming sound, like thunder. For a moment, it shocked the others in the room, and then somehow some of the tension seemed to bubble off, and the mages and Durnus found themselves relaxing.
‘I imagine not, Undermage. I imagine not.’ Heimdall shook his head. ‘What strange times these are, that gods sit in armchairs and watch men drink wine. For the first time in my existence, I have trouble trusting my eyes and ears.’
Durnus smiled and sipped his wine. ‘To business, then?’
‘Indeed. Loki, come sit,’ ordered Heimdall. The younger god did as he was told. He tore himself away from the window, and, ignoring the last spare chair, he perched instead on the edge of a stool.
‘Where do we possibly start?’ Verix asked.
‘First things first,’ sighed Tyrfing, running his hand across his jet black beard. ‘Has there been any sign of her?’
Heimdall shook his head sadly, a hint of frustration in his flaxen eyes. ‘Wherever the spawn is, I cannot see her, not here, nor from our fortress. She is too strong.’
‘What of
‘Very well,’ said Heimdall, smiling politely. While Verix found her own armchair beside Heimdall, Loki wandered to the windows that spanned the entire length of the far wall. He stared out at the city far below, hands still firmly in his coat pockets. Modren watched him intently. He didn’t look like a god. Like the mage, he was fair-haired. He had deep brown eyes, flecked with yellow, and his skin was pale and clean-shaven, youthful. Modren tried to assess his age, but found himself getting confused the more he watched him. He looked younger than Heimdall, that was for sure, but it was hard to tell. He was neither tall nor short, somewhere in the middle, neither muscular, nor skinny. He just was . The Undermage frowned. It was an odd sort of description, but it was the best he could summon. Maybe he was still sleepy.
Durnus soon joined them, bearing three glasses of amber-coloured wine. Modren and Tyrfing took theirs, and Durnus felt his way to his chair. Verix was staring at him intently. Somehow, Durnus knew it. He smiled in her direction. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘You look nothing like your brother, Ruin,’ she whispered.
‘Then I will take that as a compliment,’ replied Durnus, with a tight smile. ‘And please, call me Durnus, or Arkmage, if you prefer. Anything but Ruin.’
‘Though your blood reeks of daemon.’
Durnus’ smile faded. ‘That it probably does.’
‘Verix,’ chided Heimdall, and the goddess looked confused. She ran a hand through her strange, sea-green hair.
‘I’m sorry. I’m used to speaking my mind,’ she said.
‘As goddess of truth, I’m sure you are,’ chuckled Durnus, and the moment was forgotten.
Heimdall clapped his hands. Modren was trying to assess him now, staring as intently as he dared. The god was pale-faced, like his comrades, and his hair was golden, like dried wheat. The god was as tall as the Siren Eyrum, but once again, impossible to fathom. It was the same with Verix. Their faces, aside from the colour of their eyes and hair, seemed to evade scrutiny like the very stars themselves. Modren found that the harder he looked, the stranger they became. Their chests did not rise and fall with their breathing. They did not blink. Not a single mole nor blemish marred their skin. The closer he leant to them, the larger they grew. Modren moved forward to take his drink from the little table in the centre of the circle, and found himself confused at how much Heimdall had suddenly grown. The god towered above him, in ways the Undermage’s brain couldn’t comprehend. He felt bludgeoned by his mere presence, breathless in the man’s shadow.
‘Modren?’ said a voice, shattering the mage’s thoughts. Modren blinked, and realised Heimdall was staring down at him, a bemused look on his face.
‘Sorry, sir,’ he muttered. ‘It’s not every day you meet a god.’
At this, Heimdall laughed. It was a deep booming sound, like thunder. For a moment, it shocked the others in the room, and then somehow some of the tension seemed to bubble off, and the mages and Durnus found themselves relaxing.
‘I imagine not, Undermage. I imagine not.’ Heimdall shook his head. ‘What strange times these are, that gods sit in armchairs and watch men drink wine. For the first time in my existence, I have trouble trusting my eyes and ears.’
Durnus smiled and sipped his wine. ‘To business, then?’
‘Indeed. Loki, come sit,’ ordered Heimdall. The younger god did as he was told. He tore himself away from the window, and, ignoring the last spare chair, he perched instead on the edge of a stool.
‘Where do we possibly start?’ Verix asked.
‘First things first,’ sighed Tyrfing, running his hand across his jet black beard. ‘Has there been any sign of her?’
Heimdall shook his head sadly, a hint of frustration in his flaxen eyes. ‘Wherever the spawn is, I cannot see her, not here, nor from our fortress. She is too strong.’
‘What of
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