Dreams of Darkness Rising (23 page)

Marthir’s equine form blurred and metamorphosed into her naked human guise, still running at a pace. She gestured frantically to Kervin but it was too late.

The black-hawk landed behind Ebfir, who was in mid-transformation into a bear, his robe unravelling. The ebony bird had entered through the open door to the roof terrace. In a crack of black smoke it transformed into Xirik.

Ebfir whirled, fur erupting from his face as he grew to the size of a brown bear. Xirik’s hands darted forwards and grasped his face, his nails sinking into the flesh as if it were butter. Ebfir wailed, shuddering and twitching as his life force drained from him. His skin, half covered in fur, dried like a leaf in autumn. Within seconds he had shrivelled to a husk and his crumbling corpse crumpled to the floor of the inn.

A roar rang out as Iogar vaulted the bar and charged across the large common room of the inn towards Xirik, closely followed by Ograk wielding his warhammer.

Marthir almost collided with Kervin at the door. She was panting and caked in sweat. The tracker fired another two arrows in quick succession as the four remaining Knights of Ebony Heart ran for cover at the edges of the square. A crackle of fire swirled around Ygris as he stepped aside to allow Marthir past. In the square a fifteen feet wall of flame erupted, sending dark smoke billowing into the spring air.

Xirik laughed as Iogar bellowed and thrust his long sword through the purple robed mage’s chest. The sword entered to the hilt then emerged from his back with a shred of cloth. The huge warrior gaped in astonishment as Xirik still stood; it was like the blow had done nothing more than ruin a good outfit. Xirik grasped the hilt of the sword and a green flame erupted from his hand, flashing up the pommel and engulfing Iogar. The Artorian warrior staggered back screaming and collapsed to the floor before a stunned Ograk.

“He’s a ghast, Kervin, he’s undead” Marthir wheezed. “We’ve got… to get...out of here.”

Ygris swore and whirled, sweat springing on his shiny bald head. He pushed to the fore of the three at the inn entrance and began to mutter incantations to battle the undead sorcerer.

Ograk, too distant from Marthir to hear her warning, charged at the smirking wizard. His huge warhammer swung down with a crippling momentum and struck the side of the pale mage’s head. With a horrible crunch the entire head imploded, as if made of nothing more than dust. Ograk wrenched the hammer back from the stump of the neck, readying for another blow.

The headless body of the wizard lunged forward as Ograk swung back. His bony hands grasped the warrior’s ring mail vest. The fingers penetrated the metal like it was paper. With no more effort than swatting a fly the headless figure lifted and threw the two hundred pound man across the length of the inn. Ograk smashed into the shelf of bottles behind the bar with an explosion of glass and liquid.

Marthir grabbed Kervin’s arm in panic and yelled for him to get hold of Ygris but the mage had entered the fray. Kervin flinched as quarrels hissed through the open door from the knights in the square.

Marthir’s world exploded as she began to turn to run. She staggered forwards, a crossbow bolt having ripped through her shoulder. A wave of intense pain flooded her mind, warm blood splashed across her tattooed breasts and she stumbled and fell through a rotten wood table.

The inn blurred for a second then came jolting back into focus as she scrambled to gain her feet. Shards of glass from the window had slid unnoticed into her bare feet. Her arm was numb and useless and the pain threatened to drag her into unconsciousness. Every part of her fought the urge to just lie down and surrender. She cursed her own frailty as she tried desperately to concentrate on a transformation but her thoughts were scattered like pollen in the wind.

The inn was a haze of noise and motion; she felt the warmth on her face as Ygris unleashed his fire magic, heard the yells of Kervin as he fired his bow at charging black knights. Was that Ograk, bleeding from a dozen cuts running towards her? Green flames met golden fire, darkness met light and the night met the day. She rolled in exhaustion amongst the splinters of the table, the wood of the shattered furniture now oddly on top of her, feeling the sharp spikes of the barbed quarrel in her flesh.

The flames hit the gallons of spirits flowing like blood from the wounded bar.

Marthir’s instinct was to curl in a ball as the explosion ripped apart the side of the inn. Through her pain-wracked brain she was dimly aware of an eruption of dust and a crushing weight that slammed down around her like a giant’s foot. In a burst of adrenaline she wrenched magical power from deep within her, drawing the energy from the ancient soil, calling on the sparse earth magic for one last spell.

Then all was dark and warm.

***

In the depths of the inky blackness it began: a single thud, like a drum. Then there came a pause, perhaps an instant, perhaps an eternity and then a second thump arose. The endless night was cold and vast but slowly warmth crept forth, invited in like a reluctant guest. The heat brought awareness, consciousness and a sense of being.

Her eyes flickered open, though only the irritation of the caked dust in them allowed her to discern between open and closed. The blackness around her was complete. She was overcome by an intense thirst and hunger, which ripped through her guts like a knife. Her mouth was as arid as the Pyrian dunes. She moved to explore her surrounds when in horror she realised she was trapped.

Weight pressed on her legs, a dull pain that mirrored the throb of her shoulder. The air was stale and dank and the smell of burnt wood was all around her.

She was buried under the inn.

The hibernate spell had worked its magic. An enchantment rarely used by even the oldest druids it slowed metabolism and functioning down to a semblance of death. Yet in this suspended state the body healed rapidly, repairing torn tissues and rent bone as industriously as ants would repair their colony.

Panic began to pulse through her as her senses returned. Marthir was entombed, probably in an air pocket, with no way out. She had no comprehension of the passage of time; she could have been here for hours or days or weeks. The panic seared one thought across her young mind: how in Nolir’s name could she get free?

The air felt abruptly thin and she began to sob in desperation. She did not want to die, not in this place. When she had been younger and visualised her end it had alternated between heroic and peaceful. In one dream she was a brave warrior, charging against insurmountable odds like a true Artorian. In the more tranquil alternate she would be lying on a bed of moss with the green haze of the woods around her. But choking on dust as the air gradually thinned? She could not imagine a more dismal end.

Tears mixed with the fine powder on her face and began to sting. Damn it, she could not die. Her life was far too bright. I burn with primordial energy, she thought, I flame like the brightest star. I am a furnace of passion and life, with too much yet to achieve, too much yet to say and with too many regrets in my short span of years.

She reached out her aura to the earth around her and with despair realised how scanty the earth force was. The place was barren; its deeper soil was leached and drained, like animals in a slaughterhouse with their flesh white and cold. Tiny tendrils wormed to the surface, enough to sustain the weeds and stunted trees that choked the city, but true nature was yet to return. If she died here would her soul permeate the ground the way it must? Or would she be trapped for eternity floating across the surface like dandelion clocks on the early spring breeze.

“It’s not fair,” she said and her throat felt as if it were cut. Goddess, she needed water or she would die of thirst before the air ran out. If I get out of this, she prayed, I will repair the torn tapestry of my past.

But how was she to manage that? She could not move and the transformation to a lion or a horse would crush her before it shifted any masonry. The answer came to her with a grip of cold dread. There was another transformation she could attempt—but it carried great danger. Was she ready for it? In the months before this mission she had practiced and honed the change but she had only undergone the preliminary rituals, not the final. She could still recall the agony of the venom as it coursed through her shaking body. She could still remember her insides on fire as she lay exposed before the high druids, their cold eyes as impassive as the great pines that loomed above them. The taste of the warm serpent flesh was even now a rubbery memory in her mouth; the blood had run hot down her chin as she completed the Rites of Eris Fe. But the final ritual, the sealing, the joining of human and beast, was not yet performed and to transform prior to that risked loosing oneself in the mind of the creature you became.

Yet what choice did she have? A guarantee of death in this dark tomb, leagues from the bosom of Nolir versus the possibility of becoming a serpent in mind as well as body. In the end it was no choice.

Marthir focused, blocking out the pains from her legs and shoulder. She recalled the sensations of scales on her flesh. She remembered the smoothness of slithering through the leaves of the forest with her tongue flicking to catch a taste of the world. She visualised the kaleidoscope of scents, as bright in her mind as the vibrant shades of a new summer’s day as the gold of the corn meets the emerald of the hills under an azure sky.

The pressure on her legs eased as her limbs shimmered and warped. She had become the snake. The feeling of the rough stone slipping under her as she slithered across it was exquisite—like silk robes drifting from her body as she stepped into a warm bath. Her senses were magnified immensely: sight was of little use yet her sense of smell and taste guided her through the warren of crevices and cracks, the tang of fresh air tantalisingly close.

She hungered still. She hungered for fresh meat, perhaps a rodent, one that she could kill with a poison bite. She would eat it whole and enjoy the richness of its flesh melting within her gut. She hungered for a mate to seed those eggs that lay within her belly so that she may find a nest and bring forth new life. In the rear of her mind she knew there was another drive, another purpose. It was something to do with men, with friends, who unlike her had legs and arms. They were in danger. Yet if it was dangerous she would need to flee, slithering away through the dark corners of this place to seek safety for her and for the young she must yet bear.

She slowed as a pungent smell assailed her. It was the scent of burnt and decayed flesh. Was it dangerous? It would seem not, for it had been dead for a long time. She approached with caution, her tongue and nostrils evaluating the corpse. It was crushed under this mountain of rubble. A name came into her serpentine mind: Iogar. Big and stupid, not slim and smart like her.

The flow of air caressed Marthir’s scales as she slid past Iogar and she squeezed through a tiny gap following its direction. It was fresh air, imbued with a rich aroma that was moist and welcoming. The stone dust powdered her green skin as she breached the surface and emerged into the night air. Her eyes adjusted swiftly as she peered around, desperate for prey.

A dead man was next to her, half buried in the rubble. There was no flesh just dry bone. It had just rained. She drank from the puddles avidly. Now she must seek prey before making her nest.

No, Marthir thought, I must find my friends.

No, she replied, with her serpentine mind. This place is dangerous; I must find prey and then a mate.

With a supreme effort Marthir took control and battered down the instincts of the beast. In truth, a large part of her did want to flee this dead city, eat greedily and even seek the warmth of a man. But the strongest part of her consciousness knew that this saga had only just begun and with a wrench of pain she began her change back to human.

She lay in the rubble for ten minutes, staring at the speckled sky and savouring the sensation of the night air on her tattooed skin. A patter of rain on her face reminded her of her thirst and she opened her dry mouth wide and relished the moisture as it trickled down her throat.

She rose with a groan and strode to a shattered water fountain on the perimeter of the square. It had once resembled a stone serpent, the dried up water spout being inside the snake’s open mouth. Rainwater had collected in the corner of the basin and Marthir drank slowly, mindful that quick consumption would cramp her stomach. An ebony statue of an old woman was crouched over the fountain and Marthir found herself staring at the gnarled face frozen forever at the moment of its annihilation.

Next she crept through the dark brambles that spilled from several of the ruined shops, weaving amongst the small purple flowered bushes in the square. Her deft hands sought out berries and with delight she found some sourberry, one of the few plants to bear fruit this early in the year. She picked a dozen berries carefully and, steeling herself, slowly munched them. Their piquant taste made her shudder.

She returned to the ruins of the inn to contemplate her next move, easing past the toppled statues that littered the square. A dead knight lay partly crushed by the rubble. Marthir bent and pulled off his helmet, on a whim. His head was now a grinning skull, its yellow bone pock-marked from acid.

She held up the helmet, turning it in the light drizzle as the red and silver moonlight struggled to illuminate the square before her. The workmanship was excellent; subtle curves and seamless joins. The faceplate was carved into a demonic image, breached only by two eye holes and a mouth slit. She had heard the flesh of the knights was bound to the metal. It was impossible to know for certain. When the knights died the armour was rigged to release acid that seared off their flesh leaving nought but bones inside the metal suits.

“Who are you strange warriors?” Marthir asked, thinking aloud. “You come from the darkest reaches of these wastes, for years only ever seen in passing or skulking around the peaks of the mountains. And now you plan something—but what? You ally with the undead and with sorcerers. You keep slaves to drive your abomination of a machine. Your armour and weapons are rigged with devices unlike any I have ever seen.”