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

sliding a bottle towards Lerel. She grabbed it eagerly. Roiks took a sip of his own wine. ‘So who is she then? This girl?’
    Nuka flashed him a look, and Roiks realised he had pried too deeply. He was about to change the subject when Tyrfing answered.
    ‘She’s Vice’s master plan, Roiks. The one foretold by the Lost Song.’
    ‘The depressing old poem?’
    ‘None other.’
    ‘Knew I never liked that old dirge,’ Gabbant grumbled.
    Tyrfing nodded. ‘She was born to tear the stars out of the sky, and she can do exactly that. As Krauslung found out so very recently. “One to which the stars succumb, and bring Ragnarök upon the earth.” That’s her.’
    ‘Ragnawhat?’ Hasterkin asked.
    Shia the healer tutted. ‘Don’t you know your lore, man? The end of the gods. The end of Emaneska.’
    ‘Not if I can help it,’ growled Farden, around a steaming mouthful. He had been so silent they had almost forgotten he was there. They could barely see his face under his hood, which was still stubbornly pulled over his face.
    ‘But she’s just a girl,’ croaked Nuka’s cook. He had been as silent as Farden.
    Tinbits tapped his glass on the tabletop. ‘You should have seen her on the Manesmark hill. That’s no ordinary girl.’
    ‘Daemon, more like,’ muttered Lerel.
    There was a sharp squeaking noise as Farden shoved his chair back. ‘And she’ll die like the rest of them,’ the mage whispered as he made for the door, stew firmly in hand. ‘If you’ll excuse me…’ he began, but he didn’t finish. The sound of the door shutting was explanation enough.
    ‘My nephew is tired from a long day,’ Tyrfing elaborated, staring at his bowl. He coughed and put a fist to his mouth again.
    ‘Long day for all,’ Nuka replied gruffly. The others took their hint, and set about pouring drinks and fiddling with cutlery.
    If anybody could be trusted to lighten a mood, it was Roiks. He clapped his hands together and put his elbows on the table. ‘Now then,’ he began, a smile already beginning to curl, ‘did I ever tell you the tale of young master Gabbant here, and the stray donkey?’ Gabbant groaned, and Roiks slapped his hand on the table. ‘No? Well then, allow me to elaborate, gentlemen and lady.’
    It wasn’t long before he had the room wheezing and crying.

Chapter 5
    “Politics - Can’t live without ‘em, and you can’t kill ‘em.”
    Skölgard proverb
    A  bank of sea-fog dared to pour through the gap in the harbour wall. Its fingers tickled the ships and massaged the oily, lazy waters. Soon enough, the city was wrapped in its soft, dewy embrace, muffling the night sounds. It was a perfect evening for whispering.
    Down by the docks, the air was hazy enough with the belching of the tavern chimneys. With the sea-fog, the world had been turned into a blurred smear of orange and black, nothing quite solid, nothing quite real. A few people wandered to and fro, walking as if their eyes weren’t working properly, arms out straight and stiff, feeling for obstacles and edges. Their shadows made an odd sight indeed. Every now and again there would be a muffled thump, and a wail, or a curse. The fog smothered all.
    ‘By Njord, it’s cold tonight,’ whispered a figure, slouched against a corner. A green and black shield rested against his knee, glistening with dew. He seemed to be talking to himself, or perhaps to the fog, and for a long time nothing answered.
    ‘By any god, it is,’ finally came the reply, from a man with his back to the very same corner. There was no need for hoods, with the thick fog, but still this man insisted.
    ‘Have you got what I want?’ asked the first.
    There was a metallic thud as something heavy and wrapped in cloth landed next to the man’s shield. ‘Every last coin, as we agreed,’ replied the second. He leant closer to the edge of the corner. ‘And what of the men? Have you done what I asked?’
    ‘I have,’ came the reply. ‘They’re fed up. Low pay and poor