Dreams of Darkness Rising (11 page)

Kervin stepped forward and thrust his sword into the chest of the recumbent knight. The warrior twitched once, gasped and then fell limp. Smoke began billowing with a hiss from the eye slits in his helmet. Marthir continued her attack, claws scratching a hideous sound as they furrowed the dead knight’s armour.

Kervin kicked the lion in the rump making her jump forward in shock. She rounded with a snarl and readied to leap at him. He held his sword out to the side in a gesture of supplication.

“Marthir…Marthir! Listen to me, girl, get control now. You are a woman, a human…a druid. Come on.”

Kervin could feel sweat trickling down his neck as the lion’s green eyes locked with his own. Its haunches tensed and then Marthir pounced, the bronze fur a blur before him. He gritted his teeth for the impact, keeping his sword to the side for he had no wish to harm his friend.

In mid-leap the leonine form of Marthir shimmered and it was the human shape of the druid that bowled into him, sending them both sprawling. Kervin looked up into the panting face of the Artorian girl. Her green eyes were wild and her pupils dilated. She hungrily kissed his mouth. He could taste the iron tang of blood and then she rolled off him, sweat pasting her short hair to her face despite the chill of the dusk.

The tracker groaned and avoided looking at the naked form next to him; his wounded shoulder was still wet with blood. Damn these druids, he cursed, it was so much simpler in battle before she joined them. Avoiding her more passionate urges was as dangerous as evading the ones full of blood lust.

Kervin glanced at the part of the broken crossbow bolt that jutted from the tree and yanked out the shaft from his shoulder, pressing on the wound to stem the bleeding.  He limped over to Ygris. The mage moaned as Kervin approached.

“By the ten thousand concubines of the rutting Sheik of El-Tuhor I think my days are at an end. Take my saddle bag of gold my friend and spend it on endless nights of jiggling ecstasy with women that would make your mother sell her hovel in shame!”

Kervin laughed as the mage pressed on the wound in his side that had already stained his dark robes a worrying red. If he was talking then he would live, at least long enough for Marthir’s ministrations and healing salves.

Marthir had regained her composure and was calming one of the horses. She ran her hand along its neck and then pulled loose a black leather saddlebag. She knelt and opened the bag, bringing out a large book.

“Why have these knights gone to all this trouble for a book about the dead city of Erturia?”  Marthir asked.

The druid’s question drifted in the forest air like an early morning mist.

***

Emelia.

The familiar voice seemed to be calling from a vast distance, sounding faint and immaterial.

Emelia!

A blissful heaviness enshrouded her, comforted her. It was like a mother’s womb, secure and removed from the terrors outside. Her instincts implored her to stay within this tranquil haze, to keep as far away from the acuteness of reality that awaited her should she strive to emerge.

Emelia. You cannot stay here.

All of her senses jerked back into action at the same instant and she jolted awake slumped in a filthy alley.

She looked around in disbelief and then at her own arms and legs as if she was a soul who had drifted in error into some giant marionette. What in Blessed Torik’s four winds had happened to her? Her skin was dirty, with cuts and scratches criss-crossing her hands and knees. Her hair was matted with grime, curly ringlets having escaped the bun; her yarkel wool cloak was ragged and snagged.

Come on you idiot girl, focus your mind, you are in danger here
, Emebaka said. Emelia concentrated, ignoring the sting of the scrapes on her body. Her memory was fragmented. It was as if the last few hours had been painted on one of the Keep’s stained glass windows then shattered with a stone. Shards of recall came back: images of pushing through crowds, running down jostling streets and stumbling past droves of merchants.

The panic that had so driven her was gone now and in its wake she found herself shaking like a leaf in the breeze. Tears welled to her eyes then flowed down her cheeks. Was she loosing her mind? She recalled those vivid dreams of being chased by some wild dog and falling towards the shining cobbles of the square, each night the ground getting closer and closer. If you died in your dreams did you die in the world or did some part of you just disappear forever?

Sandila had once said the Azaguntans believed dreams were your spirit leaving your body at night searching for messages from the Gods. What messages were the gods trying to convey to her? Nothing made sense any more, everything was changing and it terrified her.

What had got into her at the carnival when she had heard the masque’s voice? How ridiculous that anyone should even care about a housemaid or what she had ever done or ever heard. She had surely misheard it, misinterpreted some comment to some other person of importance in the crowd? A pang of unease still sat in her stomach: was she so certain it wasn’t true?

Emelia wiped her tears on her muddy sleeve and rose to her feet, wincing at the ache in her thighs. The Moon’s malady they called it in the kitchen: the sickness of the mind. Captain Ris had talked about it one evening with Mother. A young soldier had gone insane after some terrible incident in the lower city involving the miners. They had found him stood naked outside the gatehouse wailing like a new widow. Sandila had made some lewd comment about his lack of clothes and the effects of the cold and Gresham had struck her squarely with a spoon.

Moon’s malady or not we need to get from this place, Emelia
, Emebaka urged.

You’re the one always nagging me to run away, to escape this little rock pool of a city
, she retorted.

This isn’t the right time for you to do this, we must return to the Keep and accept the punishments
, Emebaka replied. 

The punishments were likely to be painful, she thought, as she emerged from the alley. Runaway servants were made examples of to the others and as far as Gresham was concerned that would mean the birch. Tears sprang to her eyes again. How was this fair? Why was it happening to her?

Emelia had emerged into a winding street, its surface covered by cobbles and patches of browned straw. The houses leaned nosily over the road, producing a gloom that was deepening as dusk approached. Several city folk went about their business, pushing past without a second glance. In a nearby doorway a girl nursed a baby. A pair of old men sat smoking long pipes on a doorstep, their voices croaking like two skinny toads. From twenty yards away she could hear the noise and jubilation of a tavern, its golden light pouring like spilt ale onto the street.

Emelia shuffled down the road, keeping her head low and her cloak tight around her. The state of the buildings spoke to her of Cheapside, the furthermost district of the lower city before the road that descended to the plateau of Minerstown. This was not an area for a young girl to be at night alone, especially a naïve housemaid like her.

A gang of lads emerged from the tavern laughing and hooting. They were well dressed for such a neighbourhood. A flurry of hope arose in her as she saw them. Perhaps she could implore them for assistance and an escort to the upper city. Emelia advanced, fixing her gaze on the tallest boy and trying not to catch the eye of any of the street’s other denizens.

“Uthor, my old mate, this is a splendid jape. Where are we to drink next? There’ll be no taverns left that’ll serve us after your trick with that serving wench!” one of the smaller men said, sloshing ale from a tankard.

Emelia froze at the sight of Uthor Ebon-Farr. Uthor snorted then began to urinate against the wall of the tavern.

 “Plenty of places down here, boys. This is how the Thetorians celebrate—they have the right idea—not like our stuffy countrymen. Got to enjoy yourself while you can. Father sends me to the Knights soon enough, then there’ll be no rounds on good old Uthor.”

Emelia retreated and walked straight into a drunken man staggering towards the tavern. He groped at her, chortling loudly, his scabby hands trying to get hold of her shoulders. Emelia moved with surprising speed, side-stepping his fumbling. The oaf fell onto the muddy road and roared in anger, his hand darting back and grasping her ankle.

Uthor and his companions turned to stare at the commotion. One of the lads, a short nobleman with a petulant face, pointed with a swaying arm.

“Look boys, a harlot in distress. Who’s for saving the day?”

The group erupted into laughter and Uthor looked with recognition at Emelia as she tried to liberate her ankle.

“No rescue needed, chums. She’s a floor scrubber at home. Father can always buy another.”

Fury roared through Emelia’s ears and she kicked out at the drunk who clutched her foot. The kick struck the bridge of his nose and it split like a ripe tomato flecking blood over the cobbles. He screamed and released her; she whirled and ran.

Streets flashed past as her shoes echoed on the stones of Cheapside. Emelia was in many ways a natural athlete, with strong muscular legs and a nimble frame, and the distance she put between her and Uthor’s gang was admirable. After ten minutes, she began to tire. She chanced a glance over her shoulder, then slowed to a more civil pace and walked down a deserted back street.

The buildings were changing in character, the patchwork nature of Cheapside giving way to older structures. It was dark now and the moonlight provided limited visibility as she entered a small square that lay before a large pair of iron gates. The sound of flowing water was near and with relief she realised it must be one of the two rivers in the lower city, the Garnet or the River of Stars. That would give her a chance to get her bearings.

A figure caught her eye as she entered the square and she instinctively stepped back into the shadows of a large house. It was a slender man, with a dark cloak and jet black hair and he was stood at the iron gates. He eased through a narrow gap in the gates and disappeared from view.

She wondered whether this stranger may be implored to help her. It felt a better option than retracing her steps and encountering Uthor. Emelia walked over to the gates and glanced at the sign. It made no sense to her illiterate eyes and she slipped after the man.

Emelia was in a small garden interspersed by engraved stones. The grass had grown over them, like overly long hair. The gravelled path crossing the lawn was dotted with little mounds where it had seeded further. There were four small buildings that were difficult to see in the half-light. The closest had an iron door that stood open. The buildings were bland and functional, with few windows and flat slate roofs.

A tingle of excitement and daring arose in Emelia as she crept forward. Her own breathing seemed to be astonishingly loud in the silence of this curious garden and her breath left a vapour trail behind her as she crept to the door.

Emelia glanced through the open door but the man was nowhere to be seen. If she was so sure about this gentleman then why hadn’t she called out? The corridor beyond the door was decorated with  dust and cobwebs. It ran ten feet and was lit only by mediocre light from a window so filthy as to be near opaque.

Emebaka’s voice whispered,
tread carefully, Emelia, there is something dark going on here
. She paused and considered turning and leaving but a twist of curiosity gripped her, pulling her forward like a fish on a hook.

In a small hall at the end of the passage the cloaked man stooped. He had slid a stone slab from the floor and Emelia could see that there were about a dozen more placed on the floor. The slab had been covering a dark pit and with horror Emelia saw a skeletal arm lolling out of the hole, its mummified flesh hanging from it like parchment. By Torik, she thought, I am in a cemetery.

The dark man was placing a metal casket into the hole. He paused for a moment and opened the casket as if confirming the contents. A blackness seemed to emanate from the interior, a paradoxical gloom, which shrouded the man’s hands in inky shadows. He snapped the lid shut and then lowered it into the grave. The stone cover grated as he slid it back over the hole.

Emelia was shaking as she snuck back out of the room. She did not have long before he turned towards the passage she had just emerged from. Her heart pounded in her ears and she felt suddenly desperate to pass water even though her mouth was parched. Emelia’s foot scraped against the wall as she exited. The pale man jerked around and his dark eyes met Emelia’s.

He smirked and prowled towards her, his hand reaching for a long knife at his belt. Emelia ran as if Nekra herself was after her, shoes clattering on the dusty stone as she flew from the doorway and into the cold air. Her foot skidded on the gravel as she landed and she stumbled then righted herself, sprinting on towards the gates. The iron frames looked skeletal in the moonlight and ridiculously far away.

This was no masque making phantasmal threats; this was a sinister man with a knife who was intent on her murder.

Emelia reached the gates and began squeezing through the gap, scraping her belly on the flaking post. The bitter scent of rust filled her nostrils as the powder fell on her face—it was like the odour of old blood. She spared a glance back and saw the man emerge from the mausoleum door, brandishing his dagger. A golden funnel was tucked in his belt, its glitter like a coin in the murky depths of the ocean. Terror gave her a burst of energy as she scraped past the gates and into the square. How had she got into this mess?

Please Torik do not let me die here in this lonely square. All her dreams, all her hopes would come to nought, bled out on the mucky cobbles of this dingy corner of Coonor.

Two voices startled her as she darted across the square and Emelia nearly ran full tilt into their owners. A pair of the city guard, part of Lord Ebon-Farr’s garrison, were before her, looking with curiosity at her bedraggled figure. Emelia almost cried with relief; she had reached safety at last.