Dreams of Darkness Rising (45 page)

“Anyway, one of the newer boys caught a spear tip in the thigh so Ariskin’s taken him up to the apothecary for a salve. They’ve stabled the horses up at the Swan, though I’ve told them I am to be found at the Traveller’s Rest.”

“You should have turned back, Poris. I mean…bandits!”

“Stuff and nonsense. It’s part and parcel of travelling in the North now. The king should be taking this in hand as should, well if you don’t mind me saying, the baron.”

Aldred didn’t reply, his mind drifting to his father. It had been six days since the massacre at the castle. His father, the only survivor, had taken ill the following day and was permitting only his healer, Kerdir, to attend him. All the duties had befallen Aldred in the interim.

“Anyway, Aldred, it had piqued my curiosity about the omen over at St Kirchols,” Poris said.

“The omen? I’m not sure I follow you, Poris.”

“Ingor’s nuts, Aldred, is your head as thick as your castle walls? If I heard about it down at Longshanks lodge I’d have thought you’d have heard the kitchen girls gossiping about it as you tried to cop a rummage under their skirts.”

Aldred’s flushing indicated not. The two ambled from the square to Eviks Bar, the main avenue running south towards the riverside and the crossroads with the Feldoni Road. The monochrome fronted buildings of the avenue were being decorated with cloth flags and bunting.

“Six days ago—the same day as the Feast of Blood, if you’ll forgive the lay speak—the statue of hallowed Mortis in the Chapel of St Kirchols began to weep blood,” Poris said in hushed tones. He made the sign of the sun over his heart.

“What’s more, it was the first night of the red moon, always a portent of doom. A red moon bears ill tidings, as they said in old Trimena.”

Aldred felt a chill run through his body. Thus far he had told no-one of the dark magic he had found hidden deep in his father’s castle. That Quigor was responsible for the massacre, along with these foreigners, was now well known. Missives had been sent to King Dulkar informing him of this very fact. Infuriatingly the fire in the concealed room had annihilated every horror that lay within it, along with all evidence of what Quigor had been up to. The memory of the time trapped there still echoed in Aldred’s head: strange names, the Darkmaster, talk of some crystal, his mother’s voice, and those final strange words that Holbek had said to him.

“I mean, bleeding!” Poris said. “It’s an omen of black sorcery—I looked it up in the Nine Sacred Scrolls. There are a few passages on it in the Gospel of Graen. The omen tells of the dead unsettled in their graves. How exciting is that? In Eviksburg—the dullest place in all Thetoria.”

They had reached the Traveller’s Rest, a sprawling place with a huge crooked roof. Aldred had arranged to have Holbek Gartson’s wake here, paid for by the baron’s coin. The young lord paused to straighten his black garb.

“Where is Livor, Aldred? I presupposed he would be with you. Is he not staying at the castle still?” Poris asked as they entered.

“I am afraid not. He wished to stay down here in the town when he came from Oldston yesterday. I’d sent a letter to tell him of all the events at the castle and had it galloped down there on the first stage coach that day.”

“And the fact he is staying here?”

“Is best answered by him,” said Aldred. Livor had not set foot in Blackstone Castle since Lord Korianson’s dismissal.

The huge common room of the inn was bustling with townsfolk, a reflection of the respect that Holbek was held in locally. Aldred had seen many of the faces an hour ago at the funeral but none the less he was received into the room with an equal mixture of nods of deference and glares of dislike. His father had not been winning hearts and minds over the past few years.

The air was dense with smoke, sweet Feldorian honeyweed mixing with richer Island pipeweed. The press of bodies had painted the inn’s bottle glass windows with a coating of condensation. Aldred and Poris pressed through the throng towards the long bar that ran along the east wall and indicated they wanted a drink.

“I’ll go find Livor, Aldred,” Poris said above the din.

Aldred nodded and glanced around the room whilst he waited for the maid to fill the flagons. He noted Urgon Tannerson the innkeeper chatting with a serious face to Orlo Smithson, the burghmaster. Urgon’s red face shone with a drizzle of sweat that ran down and dampened his pale tunic and apron. Orlo Smithson, in contrast, was as pale as chalk with a face as lined as the bark of a great oak. He wore a ridiculous cap that sat awkwardly on his scantily haired head.

Aldred navigated subtly around them with his beverages and past Pastor Burker, the priest whom had just delivered the service at the chapel. Burker had already had a flagon too many of the crippler cider and was regaling two serving girls and Eli the baker’s son, about the recent omen at St Kirchols.

Poris had located Livor and the two were sat at a table in the corner. Livor was smoking a darkwood pipe. Aldred affectionately remembered the afternoon in Thetoria city when the pair had haggled four silver sovereigns off the price from a tattooed Azaguntan merchant.

“Livor, old friend. I can’t believe that it has been only eight days since I saw you last, though the revelry we endured at Lord Ordon’s Ball makes much of the recall scanty,” Aldred said, placing the flagons on the table.

Livor Korianson puffed on his pipe then said, “You were far too busy with Agnela Herston to notice my meagre presence, old boy.”

The friends laughed and sipped their cider, Aldred shuddering at the first mouthful. He saw Urgon Tannerson lighting the lanterns as the illumination from the windows rapidly faded.

“My father sends his apologies. He’d have come if he’d have realised it would be just yourself here from Blackstone,” Livor said.

Aldred nodded; he had not expected Lord Korianson to attend given the difficult circumstances of the baron’s dismissal.

“How goes this mysterious business of yours then, Livor?” Aldred asked. “I’m surprised there was something that Eviksburg could offer that noble Oldston couldn’t.”

“Indeed. It’s a good opportunity for investment. I’m meeting a Goldorian called Misrah Sunseye who imports printing presses.”

“Printing presses,” Poris said. “Would it be possible to invest in anything more boring? Can you not put your extensive wealth into developing a chain of brothels that give preferential rates to those of expansive girth such as I?”

Livor shrugged, catching his pipe alight again with the candle on the table. “I appreciate that the concept of increasing book production may upset your entrenched desire to keep the serfdom illiterate and uneducated but there’s a future to be realised.”

Poris snorted in derision. “Start giving them ideas above their station and where will we be? Feldor, that’s where! Then we’ll be knee deep in passionate embraces with chaps, sleeping with our sisters and worshipping trees. What say you Aldred?”

Aldred’s mind had been drifting as he watched Pastor Burker getting more animate about his omens.

“Well, in truth, I’m undecided,” Aldred said. “Surely we have some sort of printer things here in Thetoria?”

“Not this good, Aldred. There’s the opportunity. The Goldorians are enamoured with all machines. They’re simply miles ahead of us with such technology.”

“And they save on wood by tossing a few mages on the fire in winter,” Poris said. Aldred smiled thinly: he recalled a young fire mage he’d met at Prince Altred’s fete in Thetoria last summer talking of a fellow red sash that he had seen taken and burnt by the Goldorian Godsarm.

 “It’s how they produce all their Books of Trall with such clear words. I mean you look at our cheap Scrolls and you can hardly make out one word for another. It’s some metal they put in the printer that doesn’t smudge the ink.”

“Fascinating, Livor,” Poris said. “I’d hoped three years of carousing in the city would have distracted you from such banality. But, no...printing presses. When is this rather brave Goldorian going to arrive?”

 “On the morrow. I expect him on the first coach, which I would have thought would be travelling with some of the fayre folk from Feldoni way. Silverton’s celebration concluded nearly two weeks ago now.”

Aldred’s eyes were stinging from the smoke. The cider was mellowing him; he had been struggling in the last week, dwelling on his near death in Quigor’s chamber.

“Lord Aldred?” a female voice inquired.

The young lord looked up and saw two figures at the table. The taller was a heavy set middle aged man, with white sideburns clinging to his cheeks like two gigantic anemones. He was dressed in a black and gold tunic, secured at the waist with an ornate sword belt. One large hand was gnarled from a healed burn.

The woman was slender and of a similar age. She was dressed in black from head to floor with a traditional black headscarf tying her greying hair back.

Aldred recognised her as Arlana Gartson, Holbek’s widow and her companion Guntir Hawkskin, the captain of the town guard.

“Mrs Gartson, you have our sympathy for your loss. My father sends his apologies, he is indisposed at present,” said Aldred.

Mrs Gartson smiled at Aldred. “The baron has shown great generosity already by paying for the wake. I am forever in his debt. I know Holbek would have been humbled.”

The young lord held her hands. They were cool and dry to the touch.

“It was the least we could offer for the years of service to the family.”

There was an uneasy silence and then Mrs Gartson pulled away and began to leave.

“M’lord? How did Holbek die?”

Aldred was taken aback by the question and it must have shown on his face.

“Bravely,” Aldred said. It was the best reply he could offer.

Mrs Gartson nodded mutely and curtseyed. “Thank you, m’lord. With your leave I shall attend the mourners.”

The widow walked towards the throng of townspeople in the centre of the common room. “I’ll …I’ll find out. I’ll find who was responsible. I swear,” Aldred said.

Mrs Gartson paused without turning and then she slipped into the noisy crowd. Aldred took a big gulp of cider. Poris gestured he was going for another round and ambled from the table.

Guntir was the first to break the silence.

“Arlana ought not to have asked that, m’ lord. Forgive the presumption. Grief is like a purgative that must be worked through the system.”

Aldred rubbed his forehead. “No, Guntir, she is right to ask. Truth be told I don’t know what to tell folk. I saw little of what the townspeople call the Feast of Blood and far too much of the evil Quigor’s den.”

The heavy set captain stroked his impressive sideburns.

“They were bleak times when Quigor arrived like a black-hawk in the castle. I was never fond of him, m’lord. Made no secret o’ that. I was a good friend of master Helgint afore he died. Anyhow I suppose it were none of my business given that I’d left the service of your father some years ago. It’s fair to say that no good ever came from your father’s kin in Oldston.”

Aldred finished his cider and glanced for Poris. “Uncle Urenst? I always found him a good sort. Perhaps a little quirky.”

“Pardon me for saying so, m’lord, but it was more his brother, your father’s other cousin I referred to. The one your father called ‘the runt.’ Argas Enfarson.”

Aldred looked with interest at Guntir. He had forgotten that Quigor had come on Argas’s bidding. Was there a connection between him and the voice of Garin that he had heard emanating from the pieces of face in Quigor’s dark lair?

“I am certain my father regrets his decision after all this misery and will communicate that to the family,” Aldred replied a touch frostily. Or does he? Your dear father is more than aware of my talents. The fell words still echoed in his mind.

“As you say.”

“So Guntir are the preparations for the fayre going as planned?” Livor asked.

“I must admit, m’lord, that the talk of these omens has put a slight dampener on the festivities, especially given they began when the slaughter at the castle happened.”

Poris was returning with a tray of sloshing mugs and his ears pricked up at the talk of omens. Aldred let his mind drift as the pair began a long tirade about mutant lambs, curdled milk and bleeding statues. What had his father got into? Quigor had accused the baron of indulging in sorcery, of a fascination with ogre spell books. He’d seen it himself before it was burnt to a cinder. It must surely be nonsense. Aldred felt suddenly emotional: he longed for the day when parents were infallible and wise, untarnished by such darkness.

“Guntir, there’s something I meant to ask you about. I’d heard a name the other week and wondered if it struck a chord with you? Hunor. Perhaps from the Barrowlands?”

A collective shiver went around the youthful Thetorians at the table; the Barrowlands were the stuff nannies were inclined to use as a method of scaring naughty lordlings into staying in their cots.

“He would have come to the castle at some point when younger,” Aldred said.

Guntir twiddled his sideburns as he pondered the name. “Aye, it does. You may know my brother Kindar serves Baron Benrich the Younger. He was with Benrich the Elder back in oh-six, during the Spring Rising. And I think one of the sworn lords was Lord Markson. One of his boys was called Hunor.”

Livor leant closer and said, “That would be the baron whom the king executed in oh-six.”

“What happened to this Lord Markson? I can’t say I know of him or his lad,” Poris said.

“He died during the Battle of Kingsfield that summer, along with many a good man. I think he had another lad who died as well, after, of a sour wound.”

“As I recall from historical studies at the college the uprising started in Baron Benrich’s lands. Correct me if I’m wrong but wasn’t it due to taxation, on the church?” Livor asked.

“You’ve a good mind for something that happened when you were only a babe, m’lord,” Guntir said. “After the Summer War, the fourth Thetorian and Goldorian war, King Dulkar was left with huge debts from the Goldorians as part of the peace settlement. He really squeezed the northern baronies, but as ever, we coped. But then he went after the wealth tucked away in the chapels and for many it was the last straw.