Dreams of Darkness Rising (27 page)

Hunor looked up from his ale as a group of hooded strangers entered the inn, the water running in rivulets down their travelling cloaks. There were four of them, two of whom were bulky in appearance, perhaps armoured under the large concealing cloaks. They spoke quietly and went to the long bar to order drinks. Still no decent company for a game of Kirit’s eye; he could feel the craving in his gut, like an itch he could not scratch.

Where were Jem and Emelia? Hunor sipped from his ale and glanced at the door. He was excited about the loot and felt the need to tell them about it, to garner some praise for his canny profit. Jem would probably be nonplussed about the cash. Hunor had a vibe of him of late that he was gearing up for another crisis of conscience.

In his best estimate Jem had them about bi-annually. The last occasion had been after a trip with Emelia, then perhaps seventeen, to Port Multir in Goldoria to steal a set of jewelled eggs from one of the port’s many churches. Goldoria was always a touchy place for Jem. If you added the dark trauma of his past in the country to the fatal risks of getting caught performing magic it inevitably set the Wild-mage moaning about life in general.

Hunor recalled Emelia being quite perturbed that there were more noble goals than the acquisition of wealth. After all, it had been his primary teaching for the preceding two years. Jem had started hankering after embarking on an altruistic quest or some such nonsense. Hunor saw Emelia’s young eyes light up with the idea of knights, giants and ogres. Naturally there was little choice but to quash all further discussion with a subtle reminder that it was Jem who had made them leave that life behind six years before. He felt a little grim doing it, any mention of her remaining unspoken but implicit, but it was for the best. After all he and Jem were a team and foraging for goblin gold was high risk both in terms of his general health and the low profit margin. Let the knights of the world take on noble quests; that was how they got their thrills. He owed the world no debt, well with the exception of two or three moneylenders in Azagunta still waiting to settle.

Jem and me, we are a team, he considered, but what of Emelia, our apprentice? Last night she’d shone; she’d pulled off the job when it all started going britches up and had shown a perfect distillation of his and Jem’s tutorage. But could he see them as a trio: burgling, robbing and scamming? An apprentice could never really be a contemporary. His affection for her, despite her beauty and charm, was like that of an older brother. Was that it? Was she a surrogate sister for him, in the absence of his own? That was not a healthy dynamic in the heat of battle or the crisis of a heist gone awry. He’d asked himself this a number of times of late: would he put his neck on the line for her? Jem, he’d bail him out no question, but Emelia? Was she all that much to him? Of that he was still uncertain and last night when the robbery began to go wrong he had been concerned the decision was about to be thrust upon him.

He rubbed his head, the ale was starting to seep through into his common sense and that wasn’t so advisable before Jem arrived. Too much ruminating—that was his problem. Maybe it was time to cut Emelia loose and let her make her own way. It would be difficult but perhaps it would be for the best.

“You look pensive, Hunor,” a voice commented.

Hunor’s head was instantly clear as he looked up at one of the strangers who now stood before him. He was slim, perhaps about forty years old, with a scruffy blond ponytail. He had left his cloak at the bar and wore a voluminous white shirt, brown leather belt and brown woollen trousers. The style was Thetorian but his complexion and pale eyes spoke more of Aquatonian origins. Hunor tried to place his face and was dismayed that despite its odd familiarity he could not remember where he had seen him before. A long wooden pipe jutted at a jaunty angle from his mouth. A thick curl of pipe smoke weaved like a serpent around his head.

Hunor shrugged, noting that the stranger was unarmed.

“The muddy climes of Azagunta are a place to be pensive about, my friend. I see as a stranger in this place you seem to have mistaken me for someone else. Perhaps I may take the liberty of directing you to another inn where such a man may be found?”

Unperturbed the stranger pulled a stool to the table and sat, dragging on his pipe. The rich scent permeated the air around the pair. It smelt of warmer lands, its odour like a mulled wine or a hot bath at the end of a long weary day. Feldorian tobacco from the Nimgor peninsula, Hunor guessed, but intermingled with pipe weed from the stormy Scattered Isles. An odd mix, he thought, perhaps similar to the man who smoked it.

“I’ve had the misfortune of being too long on this filthy island to be so easily diverted, Hunor,” he said. Hunor’s eyes flicked across the inn; the man’s companions were loitering near the bar, still hooded.

The blond stranger’s face contorted in a strange spasm, the muscles in his neck taut. He twitched then resumed the conversation as if nothing had occurred.

“In fact I’ve travelled a hundred leagues from Port Kir to have this chat, Hunor, so yes, I’m fairly sure it’s you. You are a fair thief, perhaps bolstered by the arrogance of youth and a strong belief in the ability of your companion Jem. Of late you’ve commenced the tutorage of a young girl who you no doubt hope will keep you comfortable in your retirement. Shall we dally around further or get to business?”

Hunor sipped his ale and met the man’s stare; he had a manic quality in his eyes. The thief sensed both a repressed danger and air of power about him. His nerves were beginning to jangle a little; it was time to stall in the hope that help was on its way.

“Then you’ve got me at a disadvantage, mate, as I’ve not the foggiest who you are. Perhaps you’re in town for the ‘Annual creepy mad man pipe-smoking’ jamboree? Or is it the ‘collect debts that have been paid off several years ago in The Barnacle’ away day? If it was your sister I got into trouble then my heartfelt apologies; I was always a sucker for arm pit hair and pipes.”

The stranger grimaced once more, this tic lasting a good ten seconds. It held a certain fascination to watch, as if one was inwardly betting as to whether he would come out of it or stay with a contorted expression forever.

“Your wit is wasted in this place! Perhaps a career in the music halls of Kokis would have been a wiser option for you,” the stranger said. “I do forget my manners, I’m afraid. I have had more names over the years than days of the week but today I am Thintor, though my friends refer to me as Lemon-bite. I was asked to convey regards from Scarseye in Kir.”

Hunor’s mind raced. Was Scarseye was a Guildmaster in Port Kir now? But even if that were the case, what did the Kirian guild want with him?

“Scarseye? You know, Lemon-bite, I’ve never had the chance to really get to know the guy, let alone owe him cash. What would he want of me? Last time I was in Kir it was when Linkon was running the West Avenue Boys.”

“I know Hunor, I saw you then. Did you hear what had happened to Linkon? Crazy story, my friend, just crazy.

“Scarseye had had his warped eye on the Guildmaster spot for a few years and truth be told was warming up to stage a coup. Then in spring time of ‘twenty one’ these two assassins pop up to try and take Linkon down. Now here’s the irony. He sticks two quarrels in the first and a hatchet in the skull of the second...then drops dead. No poison. No wounds. Not even some dark death spell. His big fat heart had packed in, probably with all those cakes that rotted his teeth to little yellow pegs. Isn’t that a cracker?”

Lemon-bite guffawed, his eyes rolling in the manner of a rabid dog. Hunor cracked a smile at the tale. He was gauging the distance to the window he had shuttered earlier; with a quick sword slash he could be there and through it before the three at the bar could move.

“Anyway we couldn’t find who’d sent them. The Silent Knife denied it flatly, decrying them as rank amateurs from overseas. They looked Artorian to me—you know, that sandy brown hair and earthy features. Well the one with a head left did anyway.”

Hunor very slowly eased his legs from under the table.

“That’s sad stuff, mate, sad stuff. I imagine it must be the Black Brotherhood wandering off their patch. Pardon my apparent hardness when I ask what in Ingor’s nipple clamps this has to do with me?”

“No need to apologise, my cutpurse chum. When Linkon snuffed it all his dirty little secrets went with him and unfortunately one of them is of great interest to the three companions I have with me. So Scarseye sent me here with them—so as to get them out of his hair and, in truth, to save his scrawny neck.”

Hunor’s mouth was dry now; his arm eased towards his sword.

“With due respect to your cabbage faced crime lord, he has no sway down here in Bulia. I’m tight with Igred in the Northridge and…”

“My new friends aren’t ones to be diverted by gangsters, Hunor,” Lemon-bite said. “You’re in deep crappola to be honest.”

Hunor’s eyes met Lemon-bite’s and the two stared at each other for what may have been an age. Over the blond man’s shoulder Hunor caught sight of Jem entering the inn followed by a dishevelled looking Emelia, running to catch his attention. The three hooded figures by the bar turned and Hunor saw the trap sprung.

“Jem, it’s a trap!” Hunor yelled, his hand lunging for his sword.

Lemon-bite’s hands darted forward and he uttered arcane words as Hunor’s sword slid from its scabbard. The table shot backwards into Hunor’s abdomen with the force of a charging horse and sent him crashing into the wall behind.

Jem and Emelia jumped forwards as Hunor yelled in pain, Emelia drawing her sword in a flash. The hooded figures were upon them in a heartbeat. The shortest figure thrust a twisted hand outward and shouted an incantation. Wind whipped his wet cloak around him, as if the shutters had flown open once more, then a sizzling bolt of lightning hissed from his fingers and into Jem.

The shower of sparks lifted Jem off his feet. He slid across the inn floor and smashed into the table where the dog cowered in fear. A stench of burnt flesh permeated the air. Emelia roared in fury and leapt into attack, her glittering sword slashing at the hooded mage.

The clatter of steel sang out in the confines of the inn as the second hooded figure parried the blow. Pulling back the hood the combatant stepped to protect the mage. Emelia gasped as she saw that her foe was a tall stern faced woman with grey hair tied in a bun. Her cloak fell back to display plate armour; she wielded a long sword adeptly.

Emelia attacked in a blur, her sword darting like an extension of her arm. The woman’s step had inferred her next move and Emelia reacted, reversing her slash at the woman’s exposed neck. Her opponent had feinted, however, and parried the slash then twisted her blade to try and disarm Emelia. The young thief grimaced as her wrist seared with pain but held on to her weapon. She felt the stinging dampness of her side wound under her tunic.

The third figure was moving to outflank her or perhaps to finish Jem. Emelia swung several sword slashes at her foe then pointed her left hand at the third man. A surge of magical energy slammed into him, sending his armoured form flailing against the hooded mage.

The distraction had dropped her guard and her opponent moved swiftly and professionally. Emelia saw the sword flash towards her and parried with her own weapon but was unprepared as the woman’s mailed fist smashed into her jaw. An explosion of pain erupted in her vision and she reeled back, desperately trying to concentrate. Her sight returned with a roar of thumping blood as the woman pressed her advantage. Emelia parried two then three blows, backing into the bar. A sword slashed at her arm and she whirled away, aiming a low attack to the abdomen of her foe. Her blow skimmed off the woman’s sword and cut into the cloth and the armour, carving a furrow in the plate mail.

But the slash had left her open and the woman brought the pommel of her sword up into Emelia’s chin. The impact was savage and Emelia bit her tongue, tasting fresh blood as she overbalanced. Her sword clattered to the wooden floor and as she lunged to retrieve it the woman struck her on the side of her head with the flat of her blade.

A hood of blackness descended over Emelia, as brief as a thought or perhaps as long as an eternity. Her hearing came back an instant before her vision but soon enough to tell her all was lost. She lay flat on her back with the tip of a sword pressed to her neck. She could see a floppy Jem to her right, being hoisted to his feet by the muscular warrior she had struck with the magical bolt. He was also grey-haired and stern, his loosened cloak revealing a silvery suit of plate armour.

Hunor was pinned to the wall like a butterfly, his face contorted in pain and turning purple with the effort of breathing. His assailant was smoking a long pipe as he rambled on to his captive. The other mage slowly lowered his hood and a chill came through Emelia as she saw his face.

It was Ekra-Hurr, the Air-mage from Coonor.

***

Twenty minutes later the situation had deteriorated from simply grim to totally hopeless. The inn had cleared during the skirmish with the exception of Olthik who was wisely keeping to his side of the bar. Jem had been bound at the wrists with the same thick rope that secured Hunor’s hands. Emelia’s head felt the size of a house and her jaw and tongue were so painful that she found it difficult to talk.

It was evident now that the two warriors were Knights of the Air. They were in a hushed discussion about their plans. The two mages, the Wild-mage Lemon-bite and the Air-mage Ekra-Hurr were clearly not amiable companions and stood separately, both keeping a close eye on their captives.

At a nod from the female knight Ekra-Hurr produced a small bottle and proceeded to pour a drop into Jem’s mouth. He coughed and shuddered. Emelia’s blood ran cold—was he poisoned? Jem took a deep breath but otherwise seemed unaffected. The Air-mage limped towards her.

“What poison is that you feed us?” she asked.

“It is Goldorian Pure Water, little witch,” Ekra-Hurr said. “I’ve already told Lady Orla that it’s a waste on you. It’d be cheaper to allow me to flay the flesh from your deviant bones with a hurricane.”