Dreams of Darkness Rising (26 page)

Jem paused and met her gaze, his hazel eyes shining. Emelia felt an unusual feeling within her, almost a discomfort and nervousness at awaiting his reply. He put his hand awkwardly on top of her own; it burned with peculiar warmth on her skin.

“You did excellently, Emelia,” Jem said. “You’ve learnt well.”

The moment between them lingered and Emelia had an odd knot in her gut as Jem realised he still had hold of her hand and flushed slightly before averting his gaze. The two stood a little too abruptly and began to prepare for meditation.

***

Even in the springtime twilight came comparatively early to Azagunta and nowhere more so than in the lanes of Bulia. At dusk lanterns and lamps were hung on hooks outside all the houses facing the street, giving the dingy thoroughfares an amber glow. There were few concerns over fires as it was rare to find a completely dry day in the dank northern isle.

Emelia navigated with expertise through the townsfolk who milled along Market Street back towards their hovels. She was returning from Marshtown where she had sold her gems and purchased a present for Jem. The small silver eye piece was tucked in a pouch at her side, wrapped safely in a soft cloth.

As she neared the southern end of Market Street she had an intense feeling of déjà vu. Instinct drove Emelia into a vacant doorway. She had learnt to trust such odd feelings over the last few years of training with Hunor and Jem. Her eyes darted amongst the sea of merchants, children and travellers and then she saw him.

Hooded and oblivious to her gaze was a black-cloaked man with ghoulishly white skin and jet-black hair. He slid through the folk around him like oil, exuding an air of malevolence. There was no doubt in her mind that this was the same Dark-mage that she had seen the night in Cheapside four years ago.

Emelia felt wracked with indecision, a desire to forget that time of her life battling with an intense curiosity to follow the stranger.

Emelia, this is foolish
, Emebaka said,
we are supposed to meet Hunor and Jem soon. This is part of the past, so leave it there.

Sensible advice, Emebaka
she replied,
but some I’m not inclined to take. Aren’t you supposed to be my wild side?

The sides of you change like the wind, Emelia
, Emebaka answered.
This is a dangerous path we are to follow
.

Emelia eased into the crowds and began to follow the dark cloaked figure. He moved purposefully along the main road then turned down a small side street. Emelia hung back slightly, using the gathering shadows as cover whilst she trailed him.

At the end of the side street he walked across a gloomy cobbled avenue and then down a second street, glancing back as he strode. Emelia hugged the dark recesses of the crooked houses that loomed over the streets.

Emelia soon reached a small square with a crumbling fountain in its centre. A green stained statue of Asha had once spouted water into its interior but now it was dry and coated in moss. On the far side of the tiny square were the metal gates to a small cemetery and a shudder ran through Emelia’s body as she crossed towards it.

She crept through the gate and into the graveyard. Azaguntans buried their dead in coffins, a tradition that had something to do with keeping the deceased flesh away from the soil. It was an odd practice but they were an odd people. The coffins were often sealed with metal clasps to foil grave robbing, which had once been a lucrative trade in Azagunta.

The dark cloaked figure was hunched over an open grave, the sides of which were muddied and slick. He was muttering mystical words and had a small coffer before him. Ever so softly Emelia drew her sword from its back scabbard. Despite her subtlety the mage stiffened and rose, turning slowly.

A light drizzle had begun in the twilight as the two faced each other in the graveyard. The gibbous blue moon provided a cool ethereal luminescence to the scene, the damp of the rain shining off the cold stones of the graves.

The mage regarded her with his dark eyes, his corpse-like skin contrasting with his jet-black hair. His eyebrows arched but then he regained his composure.

“You are far from home, little housemaid,” he said softly.

“Well I was just in the neighbourhood and I’d always wanted to ask you about the night I caught you playing with corpses in Coonor,” Emelia said, trying to sound braver than she felt.

“This is not a child’s business, girl,” he said. “Yet it is an added bonus that I will get to savour your soul as you join those corpses. I will relish the gasp as my blade slits open your belly and I carefully decant your essence out for consumption.”

“I can see why you travel alone with manners like that,” Emelia said, rain dripping off her chin. “It’s not ‘girl’ it’s Emelia and it was a polite question. What’s your business with the dead?”

The dark mage hissed and thrust his arms forwards. Emelia was prepared for his attack, the memory of his evil magic still vivid in her mind. She raised her left hand as he moved and cast her own spell. The torrent of darkness that poured towards her met the surge of magical force from her arm and flowed into the wall of the mausoleum with a crackle and hiss.

Emelia leapt forwards, her sword slicing through the rain at the mage. Although surprised by her counterattack he was swift and dodged away from her slash. His long knife with its cruel serrated edge was in his pale hand and he whirled and stabbed at her side. Emelia twisted and brought her sword up to parry the thrust with a clatter of metal.

The two opponents circled each other slowly, the rain now heavy and making the ground slick and treacherous. She caught sight once more of the strange funnel tucked into his black belt. Emelia’s heart was thumping. She was on her own here. There was no Jem or Hunor around the corner keeping a brotherly eye. No quarter would be given if she lost to this foe.

The mage stepped back into the gloom of the shadows cast by the mausoleum and his body dissolved away. Emelia looked around urgently; the graveyard was a patchwork of shade and light, he could reappear anywhere.

Emelia grasped her sword with both hands and stood stock-still. This was her true trial by fire and Hunor wasn’t even here to observe its outcome. Every lesson with him culminated in this instant. How he had taught her to stand and to wait. How he had taught her to become aware of every nuance of the world around her. She saw each drop of rain as it tumbled past, heard each tiny splash as it struck the cold stone of the graves. She could feel the flow of the wind around her, sense the echo of sounds from the hard surfaces reverberating in the night air. She had to become one with the world around her.

She could sense the Web surrounding her as her mind relaxed. Its taught magical threads were woven in a matrix of energy. She felt its pull, its tiny constant motions when she sensed a disturbance.

He came from behind, stepping from the blackness and aiming a deadly stab towards her kidney. She span as the attack came, lengthening the gap between them. His thrust, designed to gut her, scraped along the hardened leather armour, nicking the underlying flesh only superficially.

In contrast her sword slash was far more productive. The enchanted steel flashed in a deadly arc and severed his right arm at the shoulder. The limb span through the air, a torrent of blood in its wake as it flew into the pit of the open grave. The mage screamed and clutched frantically at the spurting stump. Their eyes met briefly and then he stepped back into the shadows once more and was gone.

Emelia slowed down her breathing and her pounding heart and suppressed a deep sob. She leant back against a tall gravestone, feeling the cold surface press her sweating back. Blood trickled from the small cut in her side and she pressed on it as she re-sheathed her sword.

In the small coffer sat a black opal, its impassive surface catching the little blue and silver moonlight that forced past the rain clouds and devouring it. Emelia’s eyes seemed to ache as she peered at it. She reached into the coffer to grasp the gemstone.

Excruciating pain seared up her arm like acid and she screamed. Her fingernails felt as if they were being ripped out and the muscles of her forearm cramped and twitched. A flood of images roared in her minds eye: grinning skulls, fleshless arms clawing at her, wet soil clogging her nostrils and worms burrowing into her warm flesh. She collapsed onto the mud of the graveyard, her hand scrabbling at the slick stones of the graves around her. More images flickered in her mind: charred corpses frozen in time, blood pouring like a foaming stream into her gasping mouth, a slender figure with eyes as dark as the night.

From deep inside her she could hear Emebaka yelling and cursing. A panic consumed her as she sensed she had to flee, to escape this city and this country and return to the safety of her old life, to the warmth of the basement kitchen and the security of servitude.

Whispers were all around her, murmuring from the graves—the call of the dead. The flat stones of the graves warped into leering faces that spat awful threats. The undead were coming alive to drag her soul to the depths of the Pale.

No.

A single word, ringing with the clarity of a bell, instantly stopped the fear. She opened her eyes, the rain now having plastered her blonde locks to her face. The world looked fragmented through her wet hair. She sat up, pulling it back to a tight ponytail and looked around. The graveyard was still the same: wet and muddy in the pale blue moonlight. The black opal sank slowly into the thick mud at the edge of the open grave, its coffer tilted over.

Blessed Torik, what had she done?

Chapter 3    The Trap

Blossomstide 1924

Hunor shoved the warped shutters closed and twisted the clasp, the roaring wind opposing his actions. Despite being only open for a minute they were dripping with rainwater and had soaked the unfortunate drunk who lay slumbering on the table by the window. His mangy hound had skulked under the table for shelter and sat snuffling in a light sleep.

Hunor returned to his usual seat in the corner of the Black Lamb Tavern. The poor weather had reduced the usual market day crowd to a dozen sodden men who now sat close to the roaring fire in the back recesses. The musty pub had the smell of wet dog about it and he anticipated a tirade of grumbling from Jem when he arrived. Hunor had slung his own cloak on a peg near the fire, the steam rising from its fibres. He glanced around the inn’s common room, searching for Lelen, the barmaid whose blushes at his nightly flirtations provided much of his entertainment these days. The place was sadly devoid of any female charm.

Hunor leant back in his seat, taking a gulp of ale from his pewter tankard. Habit meant he chose tables with panoramic views of whatever inn he drank in, preferably with the added advantage of some shadows and privacy. This particular one was one of his favourites and he fondly recalled hatching many a heist with Jem, and latterly Emelia on this spot. Such was his familiarity that he accepted the slight camber on the tabletop that meant when one had spilt too many flagons of ale on the table there was a tendency for your pint pot to slowly slide towards the edge.

He shifted to get comfortable on the chair. His sword was slung in its baldric on the rear of the chair. Hunor’s mood was elated despite the soaking weather; he’d wangled a great price on the document with Grisk, the go-between for whichever councillor wanted its contents so much. It had commanded enough Azaguntan gold groats to wipe the slate clean with Igred, pay Jem and Emelia handsomely and leave him some left over to send back to Thetoria, via the usual covert channels in Artoria. Not that Jem ever seemed bothered about the gold, providing he was kept in books and cogs for his clocks. But it was the principle: there was little honour amongst thieves but there was loyalty between friends. Well within reason- he had planned the whole thing so it was only fair that his cut was slightly more equal and one had to take into account the poor quality of Azaguntan coin compared to purer mainland gold.

Hunor sipped his ale thoughtfully. His gut was still full of the mutton pie that Olthik Slanteye had fed him an hour ago. If the truth be told he was sick of bloody sheep and pastry but only a fool, no only a fool who had sustained a particularly nasty head injury whilst gargling mercury, would dare to taste fish dishes from the river Dun. The dish was likely to come back to life and attempt to eat you. He had a hankering for the hake and monkfish from the wild seas near Kir. Perhaps a quick excursion back to that shipwreck of a town this summer, just to keep out of the way if Hegris Grach stated hunting for the arsonist that had cost him half a villa.

It had been in Kir that this whole escapade with Emelia had begun. That night they met her in Coonor his every instinct had said to leave her be. Yet in the years before and after that day he had only seen Jem so insistent once and that was in his decision for them to leave their old gang.

They’d spent the first winter as a trio together in Kâlastan, conning merchants while the weather improved enough to sail across the Sea Of Mists and upstream to Bulia.  There had been a few times there that he’d considered she’d be worth more sold off to one of the carpet traders. After all she possessed an instantly amiable persona and one of the most distinctive faces he’d ever seen. All of which weren’t characteristics favourable to a thief, although an asset if you were trying to flog a gigantic rug to a reticent Pyrian.

Jem’s fascination with her had put pay to that notion and in truth he had himself come to care for the girl. Her eagerness to learn was akin to a newborn puppy and she assimilated every new experience with zeal. Emelia hungered for every nuance of life and took it all on board with an unnerving intensity. He had taught her his sword craft and a pang of jealousy had risen in him when she took to it so immediately that within two years she was far more skilled than he had been at her age when Master Hü-Jen had instructed him in the traditional Shorvorian style. She had been an apt pupil when it had come to thievery also, her slim fingers deftly opening all the locks he had made in his workshop.