Read Online Dead Stars - Part One (The Emaneska Series) by Ben Galley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ben Galley
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sailors, and people who knew how short life could be. Call it an excuse. It was all of those things.
Heimdall, the god who could hear the shadow of a cat sliding across a floor tile, stood alone on the Arkmages’ balcony, letting himself melt in the noise. For the moment his tawny eyes remained closed and squeezed tight. He would occasionally wince at the smash of glass, a window, or a carafe of wine maybe. He could hear the dripping of the taps in a tavern below the fortress. He could hear the feet stamping along to the lively tune of a skald and her ljot, somewhere by the boardwalks. He even knew which floorboards needed repairing. He could hear those who used the night to meet in alleys and cellars, to conspire and to rile. He could hear them whispering. Every single one of them.
Heimdall dragged himself from the ocean of noise for a moment, feeling a wave of nausea. It was hard, being so close to it all. So loud and so bright, here in the midst of it all. If he let himself open his eyes and ears to their fullest, he would be blind and deaf in seconds. Heimdall made sure to keep himself distant, as he was accustomed to.
Ignoring the dull beginnings of a headache to slake his curiosity, the god moved forward to the battlements and put his elbows on the stone. It felt warm to his skin, perhaps from the day’s sun, perhaps from always knowing nothing but ice-cold stone. The god smiled for a moment, and opened his eyes.
Heimdall leant forward to watch the glittering city below him. His eyes flicked about, hopping from street to street in an effort to keep them distracted. A cat was stealing some milk from a kitchen pot. On a balcony a man knelt down in front of a woman and lifted up a jewel, a ruby, if the god was not mistaken. It was a fake. In the north, between the walls and the city, a small girl sat on a stone with her head in her hands, whimpering. A few streets away, a man hammered at the door of a house with an iron bar. The man behind him was holding a knife. His hand was shaking. Heimdall drank it in. Tiny sips.
Behind him, he heard the padding of feet in soft cloth shoes. He heard fingers sliding across stone and feeling around door-frames. He waited patiently for the Arkmage to join him at the battlements before speaking. ‘I see you finally escaped the feast,’ Heimdall said, in a whisper that still managed to rumble.
Durnus chuckled in his own hoarse way. ‘Duty calls. You and the others are lucky; you can rely on the tired guest routine. I cannot.’
Heimdall smiled and sighed. He seemed to have relaxed since the morning. It would take them a while to acclimatise, he thought. It had been so long. He and Verix had definitely softened somewhat during dinner. Even Loki had been polite, and had managed a smile or two, even a laugh at one point. The Arkmage had been worried about exposing them to the hordes of greedy, curious councillors, but he had to give his compliments to the three gods; they were fine actors.
Durnus was feeling the effects of his favourite amber wine. He let his blind eyes droop until they were half-closed. Even in the darkness of his blindness, he could pick out a faint glow of the city lights. That was all he ever tasted. His ears did him proud. He too let himself melt into the noises of Krauslung. Although the beast had been stripped from him, his old vampyre senses had remained in place of his sight, and he too could hear and smell things no ordinary man could. He rubbed his tired face, feeling the creases under his fingertips, and sniffed the salty air. ‘So blissfully unaware,’ he said of the city.
‘It is the best way to keep them. I have watched a thousand cities over a thousand years, and they could not be more different, every single one of them. But their people? The same. As soon as they get the scent that their lives may come crumbling down, they tear themselves apart in panic. It is better for them to think they are safe,’ rumbled Heimdall.
‘Even if they are
Heimdall, the god who could hear the shadow of a cat sliding across a floor tile, stood alone on the Arkmages’ balcony, letting himself melt in the noise. For the moment his tawny eyes remained closed and squeezed tight. He would occasionally wince at the smash of glass, a window, or a carafe of wine maybe. He could hear the dripping of the taps in a tavern below the fortress. He could hear the feet stamping along to the lively tune of a skald and her ljot, somewhere by the boardwalks. He even knew which floorboards needed repairing. He could hear those who used the night to meet in alleys and cellars, to conspire and to rile. He could hear them whispering. Every single one of them.
Heimdall dragged himself from the ocean of noise for a moment, feeling a wave of nausea. It was hard, being so close to it all. So loud and so bright, here in the midst of it all. If he let himself open his eyes and ears to their fullest, he would be blind and deaf in seconds. Heimdall made sure to keep himself distant, as he was accustomed to.
Ignoring the dull beginnings of a headache to slake his curiosity, the god moved forward to the battlements and put his elbows on the stone. It felt warm to his skin, perhaps from the day’s sun, perhaps from always knowing nothing but ice-cold stone. The god smiled for a moment, and opened his eyes.
Heimdall leant forward to watch the glittering city below him. His eyes flicked about, hopping from street to street in an effort to keep them distracted. A cat was stealing some milk from a kitchen pot. On a balcony a man knelt down in front of a woman and lifted up a jewel, a ruby, if the god was not mistaken. It was a fake. In the north, between the walls and the city, a small girl sat on a stone with her head in her hands, whimpering. A few streets away, a man hammered at the door of a house with an iron bar. The man behind him was holding a knife. His hand was shaking. Heimdall drank it in. Tiny sips.
Behind him, he heard the padding of feet in soft cloth shoes. He heard fingers sliding across stone and feeling around door-frames. He waited patiently for the Arkmage to join him at the battlements before speaking. ‘I see you finally escaped the feast,’ Heimdall said, in a whisper that still managed to rumble.
Durnus chuckled in his own hoarse way. ‘Duty calls. You and the others are lucky; you can rely on the tired guest routine. I cannot.’
Heimdall smiled and sighed. He seemed to have relaxed since the morning. It would take them a while to acclimatise, he thought. It had been so long. He and Verix had definitely softened somewhat during dinner. Even Loki had been polite, and had managed a smile or two, even a laugh at one point. The Arkmage had been worried about exposing them to the hordes of greedy, curious councillors, but he had to give his compliments to the three gods; they were fine actors.
Durnus was feeling the effects of his favourite amber wine. He let his blind eyes droop until they were half-closed. Even in the darkness of his blindness, he could pick out a faint glow of the city lights. That was all he ever tasted. His ears did him proud. He too let himself melt into the noises of Krauslung. Although the beast had been stripped from him, his old vampyre senses had remained in place of his sight, and he too could hear and smell things no ordinary man could. He rubbed his tired face, feeling the creases under his fingertips, and sniffed the salty air. ‘So blissfully unaware,’ he said of the city.
‘It is the best way to keep them. I have watched a thousand cities over a thousand years, and they could not be more different, every single one of them. But their people? The same. As soon as they get the scent that their lives may come crumbling down, they tear themselves apart in panic. It is better for them to think they are safe,’ rumbled Heimdall.
‘Even if they are
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