Dreams of Darkness Rising (43 page)

“Thought you’d be hungry,” his friend said. He tossed Hunor a cloth bag full of seed.

“Do I look like a squirrel?” Hunor asked. He poured the seeds into his hand.

“Only one that’s been mangled by a hound. Your posh lass is keeping the boy enthralled down there.”

“Oh aye? She’s full of surprises warn him.”

“I’ll confess I was a bit worried when I saw a woman with a sword but she seems to know her business.”

Hunor laughed then tossed a seed into his mouth.

“Onor’s spit! They’re hot!” he said, coughing. “Been away from home too long when I wolf down arynx seed like that. You’d be right about her knowing her business, Jaan. Eerian lasses are a different breed. Same with Emelia.”

“The Islander?”

“Aye. It’s difficult to explain but she’s got this aptitude at whatever she attempts. In four years she’s picked up Wild-magic and can wield a blade like a veteran. It’s strange. Physically she’s amazing.”

“You’ve got that right,” Jaan said.

“Not like that, mate! Anyway you’ve got your own ball and chain now, what with the wife and the kids.”

Jaan nodded, munching on a mouthful of seeds. The pair drifted into silence for a minute, soaking in the view.

“I’ve never regretted coming up here from the Barrowlands,” Jaan said. “The times when I get a hankering for a scrap with the baron’s lads from the fort, I just come up to this rock and stare. Humbles me, this view does. On a fine spring day, the light of Mortis illuminates the grassland all the way to Eviks Pass. Nolir, Torik, Shurk and Asha have done a grand job with the lands. Like a bunch of master craftsmen.”

Hunor shrugged. “Fair enough. Never been one for religion myself. I see what it has done north of the border, especially to my mate Jem. I reckon you make your own fortune in this world. The gods aren’t bothered about a rough little cutpurse like me.”

“Your old man was religious though.”

“Aye, you remember right, Jaan. All it got him was a sharp ending on the end of a royalist lance. He tried to instil some faith in my wayward mind. It’s fair to say that the Nine Sacred Scrolls of the Trimena were far less appealing than stories of adventurers and pirates.”

“And knights?”

“Don’t get me started. It’s like been lumbered with a whining bloody child. Every step we took from Blackstone she’d harp on about how we should go to the king and tell him ‘what really happened.’ She’s no idea how duplicitous Dulkar is.”

“What really happened?”

The thief looked at his friend. He knew he could trust him.

“Its best if I don’t tell you, Jaan. I think the knowledge would put you in danger. Something really dark went on with the baron and I don’t expect he’d hesitate to kill you.”

Jaan stared away from Hunor.

“No offence then, mate, but I need you to get going. I appreciate the visit and I appreciate the money even more. But, well, I’ve moved on from all that trouble. Maybe you need to too.”

“Chance would be a fine thing.”

“No, I mean move on from Hü-Jen. You can’t let it keep driving you into more and more recklessness.”

Hunor flushed, his jaw clenching. “With respect Jaan, you weren’t even there that night. Don’t you worry—we’ll be gone by dusk.”

The thief slid off the rock and began striding down the hill. Jaan sighed and followed.

“Hunor, don’t leave in a rage. We’ve known each other too long for that.”

Hunor turned and glared. His red face was calming.

“You’re right, mate. Sorry. Just worried about Emelia and what we’ve got ourselves into. Anyhow we’re supposed to be reckless. We’re Thetorians!”

The pair laughed and slapped each others back. Hunor descended the slope towards the farmhouse.

***

Lady Orla Farvous sat on a slab of stone adjacent to a half collapsed wall with her armour laid out on the grass before her. One of Jaan’s sons was balanced on the wall, his bare legs swinging in the morning sun. Orla was oiling the joins in her armour and working polish into the grooves. She was recounting a tale to the boy and Hunor paused out of view to listen.

“So it was with a heavy heart that Sir Kel-Tor returned from battle with the mountain giants atop his griffon. His three comrades, the very first Knights of the Air, had all fallen beneath the deadly clubs of the giants. Clubs that were as long as trees, shod with steel spikes as broad as your arm.

“Yet in his despair there was the sense that history was in his grasp. The delay to the giants’ advances had been essential. For at the vital moment, as the king of the giants—Echriz Skullsplitter—smashed the walls of Coonor as if they were but glass, the Netreptans arrived. Echriz had grown over-confident, smug in the knowledge that the magic of the Air-mages, an order then in its infancy, could not harm him. Yet as the sky grew dark with hordes of bird men his mocking countenance faded and the arrows fell like a hard rain on the king, his giant brethren and their lapdog trolls.”

“Have you fought a mountain giant, m’lady, atop your griffon?” the boy asked.

“I have, several years ago now. They’re awesome creatures, young man. Think of a troll, now they are a good ten feet tall. Quadruple that and you’ve an idea what you are looking at,” Orla said.

The boy paused. “Quadruple, m’lady?”

Orla laughed. “Four times, master Hinfer, four times. Think of one sheep then, well, stand three more on top of it.”

Hinfer nodded, chewing some salted beef and then his eyes widened. “So that’ll be like two of father’s cottages piled atop each other? How can you fight that m’lady?”

Orla eased back on the slab, the sun illuminating her face and grey hair. “With speed, courage, armour and sharp steel in your hand.”

Hunor descended the grass bank with a forced stroll, trying to imply he hadn’t been skulking within earshot.

“And a ton of griffon beneath you so you can reach his boulder of a head!”

Orla stiffened, looking embarrassed at her relaxed demeanour with the farm boy.

“And we appear to be lacking in those. What value a grounded Knight of the Air?” she asked.

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll find some use for you, Lady Orla. Run along Hinfer, I think your mother was after you. Something about lambing.”

Hinfer scurried from the wall.

“And don’t go and hide in those caves, little mate,” Hunor said. Hinfer pulled a face and scampered away.

Hunor watched him go then sat besides Orla.

“Are you recruiting to the knighthood from the farmlands of Thetoria now, m’lady?”

Orla smiled thinly. “The boy has a deep curiosity and he has clearly heard all the tales of Thetorian legend a dozen times over, though as I understand they tend to revolve around drinking, duels and winning the day by being roguish.”

“They’re my favourites,” Hunor said. He nodded at the pauldron that Orla was oiling. “Is the armour magnate?”

Orla ran her fingers over the contours and etchings on the shoulder guard.

“Your entrepreneur’s eye is correct, Hunor. An alloy of steel, magnate and coke.”

Hunor picked up a cuisse and tossed it in the air. It felt as light as his own hardened leather armour. “You use the magnate for the lightness then, not for the magical binding?”

She shook her head. “Some of the upper ranks, first and second lances have wards and enchantments on their armour but generally it is saved for weapons.”

“Like Emelia’s sword?” Hunor gestured at the weapon resting against the mossy wall.

“Emelia’s sword? I think you conveniently forget you stole it from the vault of my uncle Talis. Your own usage of it was a necessity in the skirmish with the demon but I certainly don’t plan for the girl to reclaim it.”

“She’s not in particular need of it as of now.”

Orla’s irritation faded slightly. “How is she? I assume Jem is with her at present?”

“Where else? She’s hanging on despite the wound but she’s running a fever that would make an Incandian jealous. We can’t tarry here too long no matter how grim she seems. We’ll need to ride up through the hills and into the Silver Mountains west of Evik’s pass to find Mek-ik-Ten.”

“And Jem feels certain that finding this Mek-ik-Ten is the only hope for Emelia’s festering wound?”

Hunor looked over at her. The knight’s manner had changed subtly. “Jem and I have great regard for him—he pulled us through some…crazy times. Jem seeks him for his counsel as well as his healing skills.”

“You mean counsel with regards the blue crystal?”

“Amongst other things. Jem means to keep the crystal for the time being. I assume you realise that?”

Orla’s jaw muscles flickered in annoyance. “Indeed I do. You know my own feelings are that we should return the stone to its owner back in Coonor. Where better to secure it than the impregnable walls of the Citadel of Air?”

“If it’s at all like the Keep then its hardly secure—not when a two bit thief like me can steal it. No, I can’t see Jem giving it away so easily. Anyway you owe us for saving your proud behind. That’s in the code of honour or something isn’t it?”

Orla flushed and Hunor thought perhaps he had gone too far.

“That much is true,” Orla said. “It is my eternal regret that my bravado cost my men their lives and in many ways I dread the return to Coonor and the task of informing their families of their loss.”

If she knew one of them was still alive tucked away in the baron’s dungeon she’d be dragging us back there, Hunor thought with an unfamiliar sense of guilt.

“I am also sure you can see why Coonor is the last place we’ll be heading irrespective of the choices you make,” Hunor said. “Whatever good word you may or may not put in for us, Jem and I are looking at spending the rest of our days breaking rocks in the Cloudtip quarries and Emelia will be dragged back into either servitude or prison.”

“I’m…ah…not certain what would happen, Hunor. The whole situation is not as clear cut as I once thought.”

“As you say, m’lady. I’ll go start sorting the packs out. Can you manage the horses or can you only handle griffons?”

Orla glared her reply and with a wink Hunor left the knight to don her armour.

***

In the confines of a back room Jem tended to Emelia. He had tidied the room, organising the packs in his own precise manner. Jem had been putting off attending to Emelia’s wound dressing. He drew a deep breath and knelt by her bed.

“Easy Jem, control yourself,” he muttered. His sweating hands lifted the pus soaked cloth from the wound. The erythema had spread onto her chest and a sweet odour assailed his nostrils.

He gingerly removed the dressing and looked around for the basket to throw it in. A blob of blood and pus ran onto his skin as he turned. He dropped the cloth in a panic.

“Damn it. Damn it.” His heart thudded fast in his ears and he felt faint. He reached for the bowl of water and began scrubbing the slime off, harder and harder.

“Jem?”

The Goldorian froze and stared at Emelia. Her eyes were red and sore and her skin pale.

“Emelia. You need to rest. I’m sorry I awoke you. It was just…”

“I know. Jem Gem. Diamonds… I’m scared. He’s after me. After, happy ever after. Can we live happy ever after?”

“You’re not making sense, Emelia. You need to rest.”

“Voices, Jem, there’s too many in head. Dead. Are they dead voices calling? He is dead but alive. Chasing me. The Darkmaster. Is this the Moon? The malady?”

“You’re running a fever. Rest, Emelia, please. I’m looking after you.”

Emelia smiled and eased her head back onto the pillow. Within seconds she was asleep.

Jem looked pensively at her. It was like hearing the voices calling from the poorhouse in Parok once more. After a minute he dipped some soap in the water and gently dabbed the wound. The soap was pungent. Hunor had said it smelt like a tart’s powdered corset when he had given it to Jem on the journey. He’d procured it from an apothecary in the town of Hayford as they had skulked past. Jem had been so happy he could have kissed him.

“Who is this Darkmaster, Emelia?” he asked softly. “Why does he haunt your dreams?”

Jem gently touched her flushed cheek. “I am sorry that you have been put in such danger, my young friend. When we took you from your servitude that night in Coonor I felt what we had done was correct—was noble and just. Yet now I see you clinging to life, your wound turning like the last fruit of autumn.

“Hunor still has reservations in which I have never shared. Yet now I find myself doubting for different reasons. I doubt whether I had the right to bring you into our chaotic world, away from your closeted life in that keep in Eeria. What price your freedom should the demon’s savage wound take its toll?”

Jem took a deep breath, an icy sensation in his chest. Tears were starting in his eyes and he could feel the magic pulsing within him like water boiling in a kettle. Focus Jem, harness your emotions.

“I saw the potential for the Wild-magic within you aching to be realised. Yet is it always right to open the stable door knowing that the mare may fall at the hurdles in the fields beyond? Is it better to gallop and leap, with the wind on your face or stay safe and secure in your stall?

“Truly I have failed you Emelia,” Jem said, his voice cracking. “You tried to tell me of your dreams of darkness, of the dark wizard in Bulia, of your sense of trepidation as we came to Thetoria. Yet I was so preoccupied with my anger at Hunor landing us into trouble yet again that I did not give it the credence it deserved.”

Jem reached into his pouch and pulled the blue crystal out. He held the glass up before him, watching the dregs of light from the adjacent kitchen filter through its deep colour. He could sense the power within it, far more easily than the time he had first seen it in Coonor. What was this crystal that a demon of the Pale should be brought forth to secure it? Why did the Air-mage covet it so before his grisly end?

“I have been found wanting as a teacher and mentor. You have learned so much in such a short time but the passion that Hunor imbues within you for thievery and swords craft has diluted the discipline necessary to control the Wild-magic. For it curses the mind.”

The slim Goldorian shook as he spoke now, his hand trembling as he tentatively touched Emelia’s lips.