The Written Read Online Free PDF Page B

wooden cup of something and a bowl of
homemade porridge.
    ‘Good morning,’ she said with a
bright smile, her face the opposite of Farden’s mood.
    ‘Is it?’ Farden coughed and
tried to look awake, fighting off the effects of the night before.
He grabbed a nearby shirt and threw it on to cover his wound.
Elessi put the breakfast on a table in the corner of the room and
began to sort out clothes for his journey. Farden stalked over to
the table and sniffed the juice. Apple. He downed it in one gulp
and grabbed a spoonful of porridge. He managed one mouthful before
feeling ill.
    ‘How’d you sleep?’ Asked Elessi
as she cleaned part of his armour. His battered sword was on the
bed. The tired mage swept the blade from his scabbard and looked at
the notched edge, scarred from many a battle.
    ‘I need a new sword,’ he said
absently, then turned his attention to the maid bustling around in
his room. ‘I slept well, thank you for asking. Durnus and I talked
long into the night. Is he up yet or should I go wake him?’
    ‘Rumour has it he went out
hunting last night, but he should be in his room. It makes my skin
crawl when I think of what he’s been up to.’ Elessi shivered
momentarily.
    ‘He can’t help his nature. And
it does wonders to keep the villagers out of the forest.’ Farden
smiled wanly at his own joke. His head pounded like a drum.
    ‘Your armour is all cleaned,
and there’s a fresh cloak and tunic here for you. Fresh supplies
are in your ‘aversack as usual. I know how you don’t like searching
the kitchens for food, what with the other maids there,’ she said,
and made to leave. She lingered at the door for a moment.
    ‘Thank you Elessi,’ said Farden
as he tried another spoon of breakfast. She look as if she were
about to say something but thought better of it and closed the
door.
    Farden milled around in his
room for a bit, struggling to shake the numbness he still felt from
the drug, the nevermar, the night before, and the strange remnants
of a vivid dream he could have sworn was so real. The mage rubbed
his cold skin and shook his head slowly.
    He could feel the hangover
dimming his magick, like alcohol and the ability to walk in a
straight line. Farden took a warm cloth from a bowl of warm water
and dabbed it at the wound at his side. It was healing up nicely,
but was still an angry red and sore. It would be healed by the next
day. His fingers traced something on his back for just a second and
then he turned to face a bronze mirror in the corner of his modest
room and stared at his reflection.
    Farden looked exhausted. His
dark, almost black, hair, was in a bit of wilder state than usual,
and from behind the tangled strands that lay across his face he
could see dark rings surrounding his grey-green eyes. The mage ran
an exploratory hand across his face, and examined the rest of him,
rubbing stubble and dust between his fingertips and blinking at his
bronze alter-ego to try and make it more acceptable. He was a tall
man, just over six foot and well built, perhaps a few years over
thirty. Nobody but Farden was sure. His arms and body bore
countless scars from blade and magick, random streaks of pinky
white criss-crossing his already pale skin like the paths of a
snail. There was a small tattoo on each of his wrists, a black
circular symbol with a line of thin script passing through it
towards his hand in a key shape. He scratched at them briefly and
then put on his red and gold vambraces to cover them up. Next came
a brown tunic made of rough cloth, and over that went his thick and
simple armour made from steel plates. It hugged his body closely,
but still allowed him to jump and move like a mountain wolf if
needed, unlike the thicker, more elaborate suits of armour from
Skölgard or Nelska. Farden strapped on a thick rust-coloured belt,
some more plate armour for his thighs, and heavy black ranger’s
boots. Lastly he donned a long black cloak with a hood and strapped
his sword into its