Dreams of Darkness Rising (20 page)

Emelia stifled a cry as the floor ascended up her chest to her neck. She felt a cold tingle that flowed like icy water through her head and then her vision went black.

An instant later she was drifting slowly down through darkness. Her body was light and felt insubstantial, as if she were now a spirit. After what seemed an eternity, yet in truth was but a few seconds, her feet touched solid floor and the tingle disappeared leaving a wrench within her gut. The heady scent of the mint and coriander overpowered her and she retched violently, feeling warm vomit splash down her arms.

Emelia pulled her hands away from Jem and Hunor and stood straight. Hunor chuckled in the pitch black.

“Don’t worry love, I caught it at the lower end my first time. Thought someone had sat me on a cursed privy! I swear I never left it for an entire week.”

Emelia pushed out her wet arms, trying to orientate herself in the inky blackness. Her hand brushed against one of the men’s back.

“Easy, darling,” Hunor said. “We’ve only just met. I haven’t even asked your name. Some gallant Thetorian I am, eh? Now hang on a second. That’s the trick.”

A spark flashed in the dark and a torch sputtered to life, Hunor’s flint box having caught the oily material that wrapped around its top. Hunor took the torch and lit the six others in the cold chamber they now stood within. Jem was rubbing his arms clean with a large cloth, a look of intense concentration on his face.

The roof was vaulted with six pillars rising from the room’s edges and then curving at their apices to merge in to the stone of the ceiling. It gave the chamber the feel of a shrine and despite the glow from the torches there was more shadow than light. Emelia shivered, partly with the cool of the room, partly with the awareness of how she was crossing a line of no return.

“What is it then?” Hunor asked as he approached one of the doors in the chamber.

Emelia looked puzzled at him as he slid the key into the lock of the door.

“Your name?” Hunor asked as he opened the door.

“It’s Emelia. My name. Emelia. Just Emelia,” she replied and moved forward to join Hunor at the door. Jem took one of the torches from its sconce and followed.

Hunor smiled and then stepped carefully into next room and the other two followed.

Lord Ebon-Farr’s vault contained the culmination of the heirloom of perhaps fifty generations of his family and Emelia was rendered speechless by its content. She heard Hunor emit a slow whistle as the torches cast a warm light over the array of gold and platinum that cluttered the room. The walls had a heaviness that seemed to soak up the sound so that their footsteps were eerily silent as they strode across it. Racks of gilded goblets leant against the pale walls, interspersed with bejewelled platters, tiaras, sceptres and rings. They had a certain order to them that spoke of some attempt to catalogue the treasures that sat within this place. Jem slid his torch into a vacant sconce and set about rooting through the glittering prizes, like an oversized squirrel.

Hunor looked with admiration at a suit of plate armour, its enamelled breastplate emblazoned with a silver eagle.  He gently stroked the front and commented to Jem. “It’s a magnate alloy, really light. I’ll bet that’s what those air knights wear.”

Jem nodded, rifling through a rack of swords and maces. He paused as he found a broad sword and slid it from its scabbard. The torchlight reflected off the blade and Emelia gasped at the beauty of the weapon. The hilt and grip were gilded and the pommel was hooked into the image of an eagle’s head. Jem muttered some strange words and Emelia saw symbols carved on the blade begin to glow green.

He turned, re-sheathed the sword and then tossed it to Emelia. She squealed in surprise and caught the weapon, then looked sheepish at her clear inexperience with such an item.

“It’s got some Galvorian enchantment on the blade I think. It must be magnate too, to be able to hold the charm,” Jem said. Emelia looked in awe at the sword, afraid to draw it from its scabbard again. It was amazingly light in her hands.

“Well Emelia, that’s the first payment in your apprenticeship. In the markets of Azagunta that’d be worth twenty times your pretty face, I’m afraid to say. Perhaps for the first lesson Jem’ll show you some card tricks and I’ll show you how to stick that in some ruffian before he sticks a cheaper one in you.”

“Hunor, I think this is the chest we need. Take a look,” Jem said.

Emelia noticed a change come over Hunor, as if a switch had been clicked in his mind. His face became serious and he handed Emelia the torch as he stalked past.

The chest was small, perhaps two feet across and eighteen inches deep and tall. It was made from polished mahogany inlaid with golden bands and small discs of platinum. Each disc was inscribed with a protective rune and the central disc had a tiny keyhole in its centre.

Hunor scratched his light stubble, his gold earrings glinting in the torchlight. His hands slipped over the surface, probing its contours and crannies before settling on the keyhole.

“Oddly enough I’d have said it was Pyrian in design, but I think that’s a red herring. It’s a Mirioth trap-chest,” Hunor said.

“I assume you can crack it, Hunor?” Jem asked. “The runes mean that it’s protected against magic which ultimately means that I can’t phase shift it back up with us.”

Hunor glanced at Emelia and Jem, then grinned.

“Is Esmerelda Fishgusset the least successful harlot in the port of Kir? Of course I can crack it! The trick’s not loosing my face or my fingers from the acid behind the lock whilst I open it.”

Jem nodded and subtly stepped back from Hunor. He indicated for Emelia to hold the light closer to the crouching thief. The chamber suddenly felt very claustrophobic as Emelia watched her new mentor begin his work.

Hunor had pulled out a leather roll of picks and implements and was carefully selecting two to use. He slid two long picks gingerly into the lock and then gently began to manipulate the tools. Sweat beaded his brow and his concentration was total. Emelia found herself holding her own breath.

After about five minutes Emelia heard a click. Hunor placed his hand on the lid of the chest as a spring began to propel it open. He reached to his leather roll and pulled out a slender pair of tweezers and then slipped the implement under the crack between the lock and the lid. He slowly extracted a minute vial of purple liquid.

Emelia backed away as he placed it in a cloth bag and then slid it across the stone floor. “Acid cloud. That’s just really mean.”

Jem had been busy arranging some of the treasures he had disturbed back into order. Emelia noted the pedantic way he had lined the rows of weapons and shields against the wall.

Hunor opened the chest and chuckled in delight. The interior was padded with velvet—within it were three diamond rings and the blue triangular crystal that Emelia had seen the day Inkas-Tarr had returned it to Lord Talis. Hunor slipped all the items from the chest into one of the pouches that hung from his belt and stood with a flourish.

“The job’s in the bag, my friends. Let us make haste from this chill place and into the frigid embrace of Lower Eeria!” Hunor said, drawing the sword he kept strapped to his back.

Despite the tension of the last ten minutes Emelia burst out laughing, taken up by the charm of this man. She smiled at Jem, who shook his head in mock despair and drew his own sword. Emelia awkwardly pulled out her new sword. Both Jem and Hunor stepped back as it jerked out from the scabbard and almost sliced them both. They both grinned at the deep blush that blossomed on Emelia’s face.

Their moment of silliness over, the three exited into the antechamber that they had first entered, re-sheathing their swords. Jem gestured at the ceiling.

“Back up is the better option I’d say. We can’t go through the vaults walls or floor as it’s enchanted and if we descend from here I’m fairly sure we’ll land in the officers’ mess, which will be good for my strange love of vintage port but not so good for our escape. So up we must go and then a swift and silent escape the same way we came, eh Hunor? No diversions to take some impressive work of art?”

“You loved that bust we took from that merchant in Bomor, Jem. If you hadn’t made me drop it…”

“It weighed eighty pounds and we were sliding down a rooftop four stories up,” Jem said to Emelia.

“No appreciation of art these Goldorians,” Hunor said as he began to chew the mint once more.

***

Something subtle had changed in the day chamber when they ascended into its cool interior once again. Emelia sensed it immediately but the tension in the air seemed lost on her two companions. The wave of nausea hit her once more but less vividly than before and after a minor retch, with little to show for it, she was back on her feet.

Emelia shivered as she surveyed the room. All was as they had left it: the faint embers of the huge fire; the leather armchairs; the cluster of tables in the room’s centre; the cabinets and sideboards on the room’s periphery. It was the same sensation she had experienced when she had walked down the corridor earlier in the day: a feeling of being observed.

Jem and Hunor were securing their packs and talking in hushed tones about their pre-planned escape route. It was as they did this that Emelia noticed a wisp of blue smoke worming its way under the door from the corridor and into the room. She watched in fascination as it spiralled upwards and then began to coalesce, unnoticed by her two companions.

“Err...Jem, something’s wrong,” Emelia said.

Jem turned, his lips pursed and eyebrows raised. His face dropped in astonishment as the smoke transformed into a tall man. His bald head was tattooed with runes and he wore robes similar to those of Inkas-Tarr. Emelia instinctively darted for cover beneath the oak table that Uthor had pinned her against earlier.

The Air-mage raised his hands as Hunor and Jem leapt into action, the former drawing his sword in a blur. The air crackled with electrical power around the mage.

The chamber erupted into a gale. A ferocious wind blasted like a battering ram into Hunor and Jem, lifting the companions from their feet and propelling them backwards through the air. Jem slammed with a crash into the large mirror over the fireplace, scattering shards of glass around him like rain. Hunor grasped onto the side of the leather armchair as he flew past but the move simply lifted the chair with him towards the large stained-glass window.

Emelia stifled a scream as Hunor span towards the window. On its other side was a thousand foot plummet to a rocky death. Hunor twisted and the armchair was propelled with an explosion of glass through the window, its beautiful scenes of Eerian mountains and heroic knights annihilated by the impact. Hunor dropped lower as he neared the shattered window and jammed his legs onto the stone wall then with a grunt managed to force his way safely into the corner between floor and wall.

Jem was bleeding from several cuts on his shoulders and back and was desperately trying to fight against the hurricane. The pressure of the wind dropped abruptly and with a thud he tumbled down onto the ashes of the hearth, a cloud of soot erupting around him. Emelia could see a look of intense disgust on his face.

The Air-mage spoke, his voice shrill in the wake of the hurricane.

“My name is Ekra-Hurr, Wizard of the Air and brown sash ferenge. I am the guardian of this treasure you have procured. Your fortune has turned for the worse, base thieves, for now you face the elemental might of the Air-mages. This charlatan magic you practice will avail you little against the ancient powers of the wind. Surrender now and I will ensure you both a fair trial and a kind death, should it come to that.”

Hunor was regaining his feet, his sword in his hand but Jem was clearly still struggling to stand.

“No offence, pal, but your sweet talking blows more hot wind than your magic,” Hunor said. “Give us your best shot.”

Ekra-Hurr snarled and the air crackled around him once more, his robes billowing. The room flashed white as lightning coursed from his hands. Hunor was swift, rolling to the side behind an upturned table. The lightning bolt exploded into the table with a peal of thunder and it burst into flames.

Hunor moved swiftly behind fresh cover as Ekra-Hurr’s lightning began to build once more around his raised arms. Emelia could see from her hiding place the look of ecstasy on his face at the power he was wielding and it sent a chill through her. He did not look like the merciful sort.

Hunor was weaving across the room as lightning forked again towards him. He scooped a fallen shield from the floor and threw it into the path of another bolt. The shield flared with a bright flame then fell like ornate slag to the floorboards. Smoke was beginning to fill the room, its choking cloud snaking out through the shattered window and into the night air.

Emelia’s heart was racing at the pace of the battle. It was surely only a matter of time before either half the garrison arrived or the Ebon-Farrs came to investigate.

Jem was on his feet now, tunic caked in dark soot. He thrust his arms forwards in rage. A small table, one of the leather chairs and two heavy brass pokers from the fireside tumbled through the air with ferocious force towards Ekra-Hurr. The Air-mage snarled and directed his electrical blast towards the missiles, which exploded as the energy struck them. Smouldering wood cascaded around the room and Emelia winced as a glowing hot poker hissed into the floor five feet from her arm.

Once more the wind arose from the Air-mage and soared towards Hunor and Jem. Hunor anchored himself against one of the heavier tables, his ponytail writhing in the gust. Jem gritted his teeth and forced his own magical force against the hurricane. Goblets, platters, bottles, shields and books danced like leaves in the air, suspended between the two opposing forces.

Despite the ringing of the wind in her ears Emelia could somehow sense that the corridor was echoing to the sounds of the garrison’s boots. Tears welled to her eyes as she realised that capture was inevitable; her freedom had been short-lived. Once again a sense of indignation boiled within her and then impulsiveness took over.