Free The Written by Ben Galley

as electricity flew through his bones and rattled
his spine.
    ‘Stay quiet old man, otherwise
you might make me do something I’ll regret.’ Nervously the
blacksmith stifled his yelps and fell deadly silent, eyes wide and
terrified. A few muffled questions came from behind his hand. ‘You
lied to me about the silver mirror, and I warned you what would
happen.’ Farden jolted the man again ruthlessly, and then he slowly
uncovered his mouth.
    The smith panted and bobbed his
head. ‘I remember yer, I remember! I’m sorry! I’ll do whatever you
want, er, you can ‘ave yer money back I swear! Jus’ please don’t
kill me...’ sobbed the man. ‘...yer not goin’ to kill me are
yer?’
    Farden narrowed his eyes and
watched the pitiful man squirm. ‘Lucky for you,’ he snorted, ‘you
can keep your money old thief. But you can have your mirror back.’ And with that Farden whipped the fake
silver trinket from his side and hit the man full tilt in the jaw,
cracking bones and snapping teeth from their roots. The smith
crumpled to the earth in a flurry of glass and spit and went
silent. The mirror skipped and skittered over the dusty floor and
collided with the stone wall of the forge with a clang. Farden
looked at his glowing face in a shard of glass, and took a deep,
calming, breath.
    Farden stood up quickly and
pulled his hood down low over his face. Without a word he walked
down the nearest alleyway and melted into the shadows of the ugly
town. Lightning flickered on the horizon as another storm
approached over the faraway hills.
     

Chapter
4
     
    “ Those of
special circumstance, can find themselves alone, by the field the
house the mountain crag, the blood begets the bone.
    Friend of foes, and fair thee
well, watch out for shadows black, for darkness comes to them too
soon, a wing’d teeth, bared blades, and trap.
    They want what is different,
but as all, we want the same, thus blood becomes the birthright,
and thy night becomes thy shame.
    They judge us by the
difference, they judge us from thy teeth. But we watch their necks,
we’ll string them up, and leave them there to bleed.”
    Vampyre poem of unknown
origin
     
    Durnus was dozing in his loft
room, watching the fire crackle and spark as the wet wood popped
occasionally. His sleepy mind was churning over thoughts of war and
countries, kingdoms and traitors, and of the legends of old. He let
himself melt and rove through his thoughts, listening to nothing
but the rain hammering on the stained glass windows, and the wind
howling through the dark afternoon. It would be night soon, and
there was nothing better than hunting in the rain. He let his
eyelids droop some more.
    Behind his comfy chair, propped
up in the corner of his room, was a tall archway made from black
stone and metal scaffolding, tied and strapped to the wall with
thick grey rope. The contraption leaned out from the wall and over
a wooden lectern holding a very thick brown book. The black stone
flickered in the candlelight. The old vampyre turned his head to
check on the thing in the corner, as if it might have moved, and
then turned back to the fire to close his eyes and enjoy the warmth
of the big armchair and the soft upholstery beneath his paper-like
fingers. All was quiet in the Arkabbey. Then there came a banging
noise from the corridor outside his room. Durnus sighed.
    All of a sudden the door was
thrown open with a startling bang and a dripping Farden burst into
the warm room and collapsed to his knees, palms splayed on the
stone tiles. He was breathing hard and trying to fight from
coughing.
    ‘Farden!’ The vampyre hauled
himself upright and rushed to the mage’s side. From his hoarse
gaspings, Durnus made out the word “water” and went to a pitcher on
a bedside table. He filled a cup and returned to give it to the
mage. Farden downed the whole thing in one go and tossed the vessel
aside. He stood upright and groaned.
    ‘By the gods that feels better.
I’ve never run that far