Dreams of Darkness Rising (37 page)

“Did you perceive the passage of time, master? Did you sense the days above you?”

“Time has no meaning without reference. No, I did not. Was each of my dreams a heartbeat or a lifetime? I can not tell you. But that in itself was nothing new—time does not pass normally before my eyes even now. We stand—the ghasts—unaging in this world of decay.”

“And if our plan is true, then all shall join us. All shall bow to Vildor.”

Vildor and Xirik halted before a large table, covered in maps and tomes. Vildor tossed down the silver dagger onto the table with a clatter.

“Have you located the totems—the plague masks?” Vildor asked.

“They were where you said they would be. Fascinating objects—they reek of demonkind. But surely we do not need to invoke demons in our plan. The drain on your power...”

“May prove necessary.”

“But, master, we have five other ghasts, a score of Dark-mages and an army of black knights at our disposal. The ogres of the Gyrt-Herr caste are also to join our plan.”

“We require the totems because there is a flaw in your plan.”

Xirik froze and gawped. Vildor could see a flicker of anger in Xirik’s gaze. That was good.

“A flaw? I assure you...after two centuries of planning...what is the weakness?”

“In time. First tell me again of the Fall of the Empire.”

Xirik gestured and two gold goblets materialised from the air. He passed one to Vildor who sipped the thick red contents. His free hand drifted to the opal in his sternum. Its surface was like ice.

“The Emperor’s two sons fought for dominance of the Artorian Empire upon his death. He had foolishly continued the division of the Empire’s territories into an east and west domain. The western Praetor was quite insane, and ambitious. He excavated the remnants of the prism that we had wielded during the coup two hundred years before.”

“Aah, now this is important. Was it the exact same prism?”

“Not exactly. It had lost the black face—the one we had used at the end of the coup.”

Vildor nodded, tapping the rim of the goblet on his teeth.

“You did well to survive that conflagration, Xirik. It was misjudged on my part—the demon I invoked was not easily bent to my will. No matter. So the prism that the Praetor of the West used was four sided, as I presume was the one that the Praetor of the East brought?”

“I was not here. It was the time that I gave the Gift to Garin, in Keresh. But the magical explosion was felt throughout the Empire. The sky turned the colour of a rainbow and the world trembled. I assumed the prisms destroyed.”

“That may be an erroneous presumption. The legacy of the Cabal has a tendency to survive all manner of threats. And, in the wake of the Fall of the Empire, Artoria split into two countries?”

“Yes, master. North Artoria is an easy target—the king is an old fool and his court decadent and self-indulgent. South Artoria is the greater challenge. The queen is a formidable woman—but you are aware of the plans there.”

“I am, and am content with them. Tell me, who do we have in Thetoria?”

“Thetoria? Several Dark-mages but none of the Gifted. Can I ask...?”

“It is one of the benefits of dreaming, Xirik. The most curious insights come to you. Now if there is nothing more...?”

“If I may, master? There is one more matter I thought would interest you. We have captured a druid near the Ebony Tower. I have had the knights bring him here.”

Vildor drained his goblet and nodded. The shadows drifted from the corners of the room towards him.

“Let us go see what the child of Nolir has to say then, shall we?”

The pair melted into the shadows.

***

The bowl of spirits had turned a deep red with the blood soaked cloth. The fumes swirled around the dark room, mixing with the stench of rotted flesh.

Utrok had piled the four corpses by the window to vent the odours. Despite their near mummified states there were still some viscera with enough moisture to putrefy. The stink had not yet entranced the flies of Bulia to enter the room; even the insects had enough sense to avoid the air of evil that surrounded Utrok.

The pain from the severed arm was indescribable. He still felt the limb, still perceived the fingers and the hand. He continued to experience searing agony in the end of the arm but with no way to alleviate it. Each sliver of red-hot pain he grasped and hid away to return in kind to the little whore who had done this to him.

How had she beaten him? He had twenty years of dedication to Dark-magic, ten of which he had served in Xirik’s black cult. He could dissolve flesh with a flick of his wrist, could drink the very essence of his victim’s being. He was within a finger’s breadth of the Gift, the ultimate accolade for the practitioner of the Dark-magic.

The Gift: the sacrifice of the eternal soul, the transformation to a ghast. Then such wounds, unless delivered by silver or magnate would never trouble him again.

She had been trained, that was obvious. But by whom? He had seen the seeds of Wild-magic in her that night in Coonor four years ago. She had slid through the wall like it was smoke and into the arms of that Netreptan ranger. It had remained in his mind as nothing more than a curiosity; as far as he knew she was to go under the watchful eye of Inkas-Tarr, an old adversary of his.

The hate had kept him alive through the pain and the shock. The hate and the Dark-magic—its black energy sustaining his empty heart as he fled across Bulia and sought refuge.

The sound of boots in the alley outside the room jolted him from his thoughts. He dropped the cloth in the bowl and tightened the dressing on the stump. A golden funnel was on the table next to the bowl.

The door opened and a scrawny man entered. His eyes danced across the room and his nose curled in distaste.

“Haven’t you shifted them bodies yet, Utrok?”

“Obviously not. It may have escaped your attention, Redern, but I only have one arm. Besides, I pay you for such menial tasks as waste disposal.”

“I’m an entrepreneur, not an assassin. The Silent Knife does that business in Azagunta.”

His eyes were flitting about between Utrok, the corpses and the window. Droplets of sweat dotted his forehead.

“Did you find her?”

“No. There’s no sign. Seems this girl—Emelia is her name—is an apprentice to a Thetorian called Hunor and his partner Jem, a Wild-mage. They are well connected with the Northridge guild.”

“The petty machinations of the theives’ guild are of little interest to me. Where have they gone?”

“No-one knows. Perhaps underground? Why do you want the girl? I know where you can get...”

“Idiot! I do not sully myself in carnal weakness. It is not your concern why I am interested in her. Now have you secured me passage?”

Redern licked his lips and began rummaging in his tunic. “Sure, sure. There’s a ship leaving for Thetoria at high tide in an hour. I’ve sorted a berth for you...”

A gold coin clinked on the table. Redern’s eyes widened.

“An Eerian guilder...” Utrok said.

Redern bolted for the door but Utrok was too quick. A shadow flew from his hand striking the thief in his back. A cloud of vaporised flesh erupted as he tumbled to the filthy floor.

Utrok was upon him, pressing his serrated knife at Redren’s throat.

“Who gave you that, you little worm?”

“Oh...gods...please, Utrok,” he sobbed. “I had no choice. It was a Fire-mage, an Eerian. Please don’t...”

Utrok slid the knife across Redren’s neck. The blood splashed on the floor followed by Redren’s head.

A bloody Fire-mage earning his sash by hunting down Dark-mages; that was all he needed. Utrok grabbed his funnel and made for the window. He had to flee Bulia tonight and get across to Ligor in Thetoria. He needed blackest sorcery to regenerate his absent arm.

And then he would find the girl, wherever she was in the world, and make her pay.

***

To their credit the two black-armoured knights hardly flinched as Xirik and Vildor emerged from the shadows of the dungeon. The knights bowed and one moved to fetch their captain. The second stood awaiting orders.

“The druid, where is he being kept?” Xirik asked.

“The end cell, m’lord.”

Xirik nodded and he prowled with Vildor down the corridor. They passed a half-dozen cells along the corridor. Vildor stopped abruptly and peered through a grill into an empty cell.

“The Artorian tracker and the Fire-mage—where are they?”

Xirik turned and slowly approached Vildor. “Master, I thought you knew. They...they escaped, not long after you came to the dungeons...just after your Return.”

“I know when I came down here!” Vildor yelled. “Of all the prisoners to lose. Where is the captain of this dungeon?”

“M’lord?” a voice said behind Vildor.

Vildor turned, his dark cloak swirling. A knight stood before him trembling.

“How did they escape?”

“We...we are not certain, m’lord. There was some animal down here that killed several knights. We have sent a party after them—with a craven hunter.”

“Why the concern?” Xirik asked.

“I had much planned for them, Xirik. Get them back.”

Xirik nodded and indicated for the captain to leave. Vildor stood head lowered, grinding his teeth.

The captain had managed three steps before Vildor struck. His arm punched out into the captain’s back and the metal screeched as the pale hand ripped through it. Vildor lifted the captain into the air, blood pouring down his arm, then tossed him across the floor of the corridor. The captain jerked several times before becoming still.

Vildor stalked off down the corridor, little pools of blood marking his path.

The druid was slumped in the corner of a cell, heavy manacles around his neck, wrists and legs. His face was a mush of bruised and bloodied tissue. The spiral tattoos were interrupted by burns and cuts over his torso and belly.

The knight pulled him to his feet as Vildor and Xirik stood silently. A few slaps brought the druid back to consciousness.

“Druid—you have a name?” Vildor said.

“Farsan, fifth tier druid. You waste your time if you think I’ll tell you anything, ghast.”

“Oh, words are not the only way to discover what I wish. Why were you in the Wastes, near the Ebony Tower?”

“Go to the Pale.”

“It’s on my list. But I have been away for such a long time that I have one or two things to sort out first. One or two little mysteries to solve.”

“You speak madness,” Farsan said. Blood dribbled from his swollen lips.

“I am madness! Sanity is overrated, it limits one so. My mind has travelled to the fell niches of this world, contemplated sights that would drag your feeble intellect into gibbering lunacy. But my query is rather rational, all told. Xirik tells me that you spied in the shape of a stag?”

“It is the gift of Nolir to the blessed. A divine power...”

“Yes, yes, Blah, blah. Praise be to the saggy breasted harlot of nature. How can you utilise magic, as a human, without a gem of power?”

“It is a matter of faith. It comes from the soul, the heart...”

“The heart you say,” Vildor said. He drove his hand into Farsan’s chest, the bone fragmenting like glass. A spray of blood coated Xirik as Vildor ripped the beating heart out.

Vildor rolled it in his blood-soaked hands, watching as the beats faded. He put it to his mouth and began to chew it, the strips of muscle dangling down his chin.

“Master?” Xirik asked.

“There is something different, Xirik. A subtle taste, like an old friend. There is much more to this druid paradox than meets the eye. But we digress, my disciple. My dreams tell me our attentions should be directed east of the Khullian Mountains...to Thetoria. Tell me what young Garin has been plotting these last few years...”

Chapter 9 The Necromancer

Blossomstide 1924

Time had little meaning for Aldred in the secret chamber. He sat regarding his bloodied knuckles, slumped against the sealed door. Smears of blood on its surface marked his efforts to escape.

Aldred rubbed his sore eyes. His tears had eventually dried, much in the same way they had when mourning for his mother. The room was as silent as a tomb.

“Come on, Aldred,” he said. “This is no way for a true Thetorian to act.”

He got to his feet to explore the chamber further. On the tables were a selection of blades and sharp instruments. He picked one up and weighed it in his hand.

“Well that’ll be a lot of use against Quigor, won’t it?” Aldred said. “Steel against a necromancer. As useful as sand in a desert! Come on! Think less impetuously and more logically.”

A chill came with the thought of being discovered by Quigor. It was much the same as that feeling of trepidation one would get as a child when you had broke some expensive parental possession and awaited the wrath of discovery.

He dismissed the fear and continued ferreting through the chamber. The numerous shady alcoves that bordered the rooms were a good choice for concealment.

“Let’s hide some of the evidence first, eh?” he said to himself. His voice gave the room a sense of life.

His first move was to clean the silver bowl he had vomited in. A rudimentary sink was tucked in an alcove with a tarnished tap, presumably piped from the castle well. It creaked alarmingly as it sputtered water into the bowl.

“No point starving before Quigor arrives is there? Let’s hope this is really wine.”

Sipping from the goblet he strolled around the shelves, reading the grisly jars. A myriad collection of fantastical labels sent his mind spinning: ground Troll’s teeth, gullet of Craven, hair of maid, heart of a spurned lover, breath of a fresh grave. A long trestle table held a collection of jars, tubes and bottles, full of brightly coloured liquids.

He had wandered to the plinth the book sat upon. Aldred realised it was bound with skin, stretched taut over the thick pages. The language was completely alien to him, its runes written in blue ink. The yellowed paper was decorated with unsettling illustrations: twisted representations of humans being tortured by tall blue creatures. There were pictures of corpses rising from graves and black beams pouring like liquid night from the hands of sorcerers.