Free Dead Stars - Part Two (The Emaneska Series) by Ben Galley

Farden nodded to him, but they didn’t speak. It was only when another man came to the stern, a man in armour and a cloak, that the quiet, moonlit hissing of the waves was broken.
    ‘Fine night,’ said the man, gruff-voiced. He had a deep Arfell accent.
    ‘That it is,’ replied Farden, looking him up and down. The man looked like a Written. Farden could tell by the way the man lounged against the railing, oozing confidence, a confidence that only came from the feeling of a Book in your skin. Farden noted his grey hair, though it could have been the white of the moonlight, and the unique sparkle in the armour that covered his chest and legs. Scalussen, no doubt. Farden stared at the man’s face. ‘Do I know you?’ he asked.
    ‘You did,’ the man replied. ‘A bloody age ago.’
    ‘Efjar,’ ventured Farden, unsure. His visitor nodded.
    ‘The Iron Keys. Vice’s old regiment. First year.’ Farden bit his lip as a name tried to form itself in his mouth. The man beat him to it. ‘Gossfring.’
    ‘Gossfring!’ Farden blurted, like a cork escaping a beer bottle. ‘Gods, that was an age ago. I didn’t recognise you.’
    Gossfring smiled. ‘I’ve aged something terrible, I know. I remember the days when the whores wouldn’t know which one of us to swindle first, so dashing we were. Ugly bastard I am now,’ Gossfring chuckled. ‘But I tell you, if you think I’m ugly, you should see Korti. Got a face that would make a mirror cry. Hah. He’s here too, y’know. And Shol. And Enf the Boot. But I hear your memory ain’t what it used to be. On account of the…’ Gossfring waved a nondescript finger at Farden’s face.
    Farden turned back to the sea. ‘Yes.’ Rumours were like diseases. Caught from the last person who had it until it comes around again, when the first person is either dead or immune. ‘Well.’ It was all he could say. Nevermar was a curse word to the rest of his kind.
    Gossfring held up his hands. ‘Hey, I ain’t judging, Farden. I’ll leave that to the younger mages.’ He tapped his nose. ‘They whisper, but I know it’s only temporary, see?’
    Farden turned back to the man with a quizzical look. ‘Temporary? Are we talking about the nevermar, or my decision?’
    Gossfring shrugged. ‘A decision is it? A choice? Either way. It don’t matter. No hero of Efjar can banish their magick for good, not after what I saw him do to the minotaurs. Ain’t possible. You’ll see, in the desperate times we’re in. It’ll fight its way back out,’ he said, and it looked as if that was all he had come to say. He adjusted his cloak and half-turned to leave. ‘We just wanted you to know it’s a pleasure having you back with us. There may be a few who doubt you, but for us vets… well, once a Written, always a Written. Tough life it is. Makes you do tough things. Things no man can explain. Things no man should need to explain.’ Gossfring chuckled then. ‘Ramblin’, aren’t I? Anyways, that’s all I wanted to say. Enjoy your wine, Farden.’
    Farden nodded a goodnight to the man and watched him leave. It was a while before he moved, deep in thought over Gossfring’s simple wisdom.
    When he finally did move, he reached for the bottle and let its mouth hover over his empty glass. A single drop of wine dribbled from it, and then he tilted it back. He held it up to his eyes and the silver moon and swilled the dregs of it around. ‘Hero,’ Farden muttered to himself and the wind. Gossfring’s words swam around his head.
    Farden dangled the bottle over the railing and let his hand grow limp. The bottle landed in the ship’s wake with a splash, lost to the inky, silver-lined blackness. Even though his eyes had lost sight of it, Farden aimed a hesitant hand at the sea and the unseen target. He strained so much that his fingers bent to claws, and the tendons stood out like bones on the back of his hand. For a long time, nothing happened. Then, just as he couldn’t stand the pain in his head