from the sky. It fell to the sea in pieces, puckering the rolling waves with glass and spray. A lonely scrap of sailcloth drifted away on the wind.
‘Water beats fire, six to five!’ called a sailor, and the biscuits and coins were swapped with an equal measure of grins and grimaces.
‘Another round!’ somebody cried, but Tyrfing held up his hands.
‘We’re all out of bottles, I’m afraid.’
‘What a shame,’ mumbled a familiar voice, as the crowd began to dribble away, back to their chores.
Tyrfing turned to face his nephew. ‘You’re alive. What happened to your face?’
Farden rubbed his cheeks, wincing. ‘Somebody left me a dull razor.’
‘Nonsense,’ Tyrfing grunted. ‘You’ll sully a good blacksmith’s name.’ While Farden picked at a spot of dry skin, Tyrfing cast a glance over his shoulder. He drew a little bottle from the inside of his coat and raised an eyebrow at his nephew. ‘Fancy raising the score to six apiece, Farden?’ he quietly offered. A few of the nearby officers heard his words, and slowly the crowd began to knit itself back together.
Farden looked at the bottle as if it had fangs, sharp gnashing fangs. ‘Er…’ was all he could say, as his uncle stared down at him, wind tossing his hair to and fro. Farden looked around and caught the stares of some of the Written. He sucked his teeth. His skin itched uncomfortably.
Tyrfing smiled and tapped the bottle, waggling it in front of Farden’s face. ‘Dust off that Book of yours. Cast a spell or two. The reputation of fire is at stake here.’
Farden shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, uncle.’
‘Come on. Modren told me about the lock spell you broke.’
Farden cleared his throat sharply. He dusted off his cloak, even though not a single mote of dust could be seen on it. ‘A fluke. I gave my magick up a long time ago,’ he quietly confessed, but the wind carried his voice further than he would have liked. There was a muttering between the nearby mages, part disbelief, part told-you-so whispers. Farden bowed his head. He had half-expected this. Alienation from the other Written. The lone wolf, once again.
Tyrfing looked down at the deck. His hands fell to his side. His brow was furrowed like the cracks of dried mud. The ship rocked under them for a wave or two, and then the Arkmage shook his head. He asked the question on everybody’s bitten lips. ‘Why would you give something like that up?’ he asked, simple as a river stone dropped in a millpond.
Farden knew it was a question without an answer. At least, without an answer that had the sting of a long and guilty explanation. An answer for the privacy of a cabin, not for the ears of the onlookers, the eavesdroppers, the ones looking down their noses at him now. Farden turned to the sea, hunching his shoulders.
Tyrfing clapped his hands. ‘Back to your training!’ he ordered, ‘or back to your bunks. Some of you are on watch later. Get to it, or…!’ A cough cut him short, and Tyrfing put his hands to his mouth. He turned away, leaving Farden to stare at the sea.
It was an age before anyone bothered to speak to him. It was probably for the best. The mage had his thoughts. The two kept each other company. Three would have been a crowd.
It was Nuka that finally ventured over. Farden felt a heavy hand on his hunched shoulder. He found the captain brandishing a mug of hot beer at him, like a club. ‘Drink?’ he grunted.
Farden sniffed the proffered mug. It smelled of spices and barley, of the tang of alcohol. It was early afternoon but the wind and his stillness had made him cold. He took the steaming drink in both hands and thanked the captain.
‘Don’t mention it,’ Nuka said, and moved back to his wheel. He tested the wind with a wet finger and hummed to himself before jerking the wheel starboard. The mage, boots now somewhat attuned to the movements of the deck, felt the ship respond beneath him. The distant, rocky headland came in line with the
‘Water beats fire, six to five!’ called a sailor, and the biscuits and coins were swapped with an equal measure of grins and grimaces.
‘Another round!’ somebody cried, but Tyrfing held up his hands.
‘We’re all out of bottles, I’m afraid.’
‘What a shame,’ mumbled a familiar voice, as the crowd began to dribble away, back to their chores.
Tyrfing turned to face his nephew. ‘You’re alive. What happened to your face?’
Farden rubbed his cheeks, wincing. ‘Somebody left me a dull razor.’
‘Nonsense,’ Tyrfing grunted. ‘You’ll sully a good blacksmith’s name.’ While Farden picked at a spot of dry skin, Tyrfing cast a glance over his shoulder. He drew a little bottle from the inside of his coat and raised an eyebrow at his nephew. ‘Fancy raising the score to six apiece, Farden?’ he quietly offered. A few of the nearby officers heard his words, and slowly the crowd began to knit itself back together.
Farden looked at the bottle as if it had fangs, sharp gnashing fangs. ‘Er…’ was all he could say, as his uncle stared down at him, wind tossing his hair to and fro. Farden looked around and caught the stares of some of the Written. He sucked his teeth. His skin itched uncomfortably.
Tyrfing smiled and tapped the bottle, waggling it in front of Farden’s face. ‘Dust off that Book of yours. Cast a spell or two. The reputation of fire is at stake here.’
Farden shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, uncle.’
‘Come on. Modren told me about the lock spell you broke.’
Farden cleared his throat sharply. He dusted off his cloak, even though not a single mote of dust could be seen on it. ‘A fluke. I gave my magick up a long time ago,’ he quietly confessed, but the wind carried his voice further than he would have liked. There was a muttering between the nearby mages, part disbelief, part told-you-so whispers. Farden bowed his head. He had half-expected this. Alienation from the other Written. The lone wolf, once again.
Tyrfing looked down at the deck. His hands fell to his side. His brow was furrowed like the cracks of dried mud. The ship rocked under them for a wave or two, and then the Arkmage shook his head. He asked the question on everybody’s bitten lips. ‘Why would you give something like that up?’ he asked, simple as a river stone dropped in a millpond.
Farden knew it was a question without an answer. At least, without an answer that had the sting of a long and guilty explanation. An answer for the privacy of a cabin, not for the ears of the onlookers, the eavesdroppers, the ones looking down their noses at him now. Farden turned to the sea, hunching his shoulders.
Tyrfing clapped his hands. ‘Back to your training!’ he ordered, ‘or back to your bunks. Some of you are on watch later. Get to it, or…!’ A cough cut him short, and Tyrfing put his hands to his mouth. He turned away, leaving Farden to stare at the sea.
It was an age before anyone bothered to speak to him. It was probably for the best. The mage had his thoughts. The two kept each other company. Three would have been a crowd.
It was Nuka that finally ventured over. Farden felt a heavy hand on his hunched shoulder. He found the captain brandishing a mug of hot beer at him, like a club. ‘Drink?’ he grunted.
Farden sniffed the proffered mug. It smelled of spices and barley, of the tang of alcohol. It was early afternoon but the wind and his stillness had made him cold. He took the steaming drink in both hands and thanked the captain.
‘Don’t mention it,’ Nuka said, and moved back to his wheel. He tested the wind with a wet finger and hummed to himself before jerking the wheel starboard. The mage, boots now somewhat attuned to the movements of the deck, felt the ship respond beneath him. The distant, rocky headland came in line with the
Similar Books
