The Written by Ben Galley

held a sword. By the gods
it must be at least fifty years ago,’ chuckled Durnus.
    Farden seized the opportunity
to change the subject. ‘That’s because you’re a dusty historian,
old friend. But have no fear, I’m sure there’s still some fight in
you yet.’
    ‘Hah! That’ll be the day.’ The
vampyre went back to his book laughing. To illustrate his point
Farden picked up a nearby book and blew the dust from the cover. He
cleaned it with the palm of his hand and squinted at the faded
title. “Treatises on Shapeshifting” ,
that’s a bit dangerous isn’t it Durnus? Playing with the old daemon
arts?’
    Durnus looked at the book and
shrugged. ‘Just curious, and it’s not just daemons that can
shapeshift, my dear mage. What do you think I am? Or Jergan for
that matter? Both curses have their roots in the ancients,’ he
said, and then wagged a didactive finger in the air. ‘Did you know
that the powers that bind a lycan are completely opposite to that
of a vampyre? If a vampyre were to be bitten by a lycan, one of
pure breed, then it could technically cancel the two out.’
    ‘What would happen?’ asked
Farden, but the vampyre shrugged again. ‘Who knows? Hence the
book,’ he sighed. ‘But you need rest now. It’ll be a while before
I’m ready.’ Farden nodded and stood up to stretch. ‘And please heed
my words Farden, as your friend. I know what your temper can be
like.’
    ‘I shall.’ Farden walked
towards the door and pulled it open. His old friend was right;
there were a few people in the world that he cared about. Farden
thought of one in particular, and suddenly an idea blossomed in his
mind. ‘Durnus, can you send me to the quickdoor at the Spire?’
    The vampyre thought for a
moment and then nodded without turning. ‘I don’t see why not. If
that’s what you want.’
    ‘It’d be good to see Manesmark
before I go to the city.’ Farden left the old man to his books and
turned to go. Durnus could have sworn he heard the mage whisper a
thank you before he closed the door.
     
    Elessi was wandering the
corridors of the Arkabbey tower. After hearing a rumour that Farden
was back, she had gone looking for him with angst in her heart, but
now it was late and her search of his room and the cavernous dining
hall had been fruitless. She was wandering up and down the spiral
staircases of the abbey tower, peering in empty rooms and listening
to the wooden doors of locked quarters and rooms home to sleeping
soldiers. The earnest maid skipped up the steps to the training
halls near the bell tower, holding her skirts above her shoes. A
dull thudding tumbled down the stone hallway on her left and she
paused in her stride. Yellow torchlight spilled from a door
half-closed at the end of the corridor, and the rest of the hallway
was bathed in lazy moonlight pouring from a thin arched window.
Elessi crept forward, running her hand over the rough walls. Her
work-worn fingers felt the cracks and pitted surface of the grey
stone. The noise grew louder as she approached, like a sharp deep
crack of fire against wood.
    She reached the doorway and
peeked through the gap into the hall. Her pupils shrank in the
bright yellow torchlight. Flashes of light and fire skipped over
the wooden beams of the yawning roof, and she shuffled around to
get a better look at the cause of the noise. There, standing
shirtless and sweating, was Farden, throwing bolt after bolt of
fire at a wooden man-shaped target. The mannequin swung wildly,
suspended from the wall and shackled to the floor on short iron
chains. It rocked and bucked under the powerful blasts of magick.
He wore nothing except a pair of black trousers, and in the dim
torchlight she could see Farden’s chest heaving with deep arduous
gulps of air and his shoulders were bathed in sweat. And there was
something else. Elessi’s eyes were now fixated on his back. Lines
and lines of thin black script covered the mage’s shoulders and
lower back, punctuated by swirling