Dreams of Darkness Rising (47 page)

Orla caught herself staring at Hunor, looking at his stubbled face and long brown hair. She turned her gaze back down the trail they had followed into the heights of the Silver Mountains. Behind them the weaving path drifted to the heath lands of the hills bordering the barony. The path ahead forked: one branch dove into a ravine, the second followed the curve of the mountainside around. Hunor’s caution had paid off thus far. They had skirted a dozen miles past Fort Birsdale which guarded the Thetorian side of Evik’s Pass. It would be similarly wise to evade the fortifications—and necessary border checks—on the Goldorian side of the pass.

“Orla? Orla?” she heard Emelia croak.

“Lady Orla, if you please. You should try and rest whilst your friends debate the route to their Galvorian hermit.”

“Lady Orla, how is Mother Gresham? And Lord Ebon-Farr?”

 “That’s not really your concern, young lady.”

Emelia paused and Orla had a twinge of guilt. She knew she was taking out her dark mood on the girl. Nonetheless Emelia was still a servant. It wasn’t her place to enquire of her superiors in such a manner.

“I know I have little right to ask, given that I ran away. But the Keep was my home,” Emelia said.

“Very well, though it is most irregular to be answering this enquiry. Gresham slows by the month, the Guild Healers say her girth had taken its toll on her heart and her legs shine with dropsy. She purges daily to try and reduce the swelling.”

“And m’lord?”

Orla hesitated. What could she say to a servant? That Uncle Talis had been shaken deeply by that night at the Keep? That his anger had at first forced the Archmage Inkas-Tarr to leave the heights of Coonor and then stagnated into guilt and regret. How could she explain that Talis had altered? How could she tell Emelia that he was now a moderate, espousing reform and the welfare of the lower classes?

“He is well, Emelia. He is well,” Orla said. “Although if you have such concern over the wellbeing of your former masters then why did you flee the Keep?”

“My friend died. She… fell.”

“Yes, I recall that. Uncle was most perturbed by the events,”

“By Onor’s putrid breath he should be! It was his damned son that pushed her.” Emelia’s eyes glittered with fury.

 “Are you insane or just febrile, girl? Karak and Geldir didn’t even live in the Keep then. In fact why am I even humouring the moronic rambling of a sullen maid with a reply?”

 “Evidently you forget to defend your cousin Uthor. Is that blood running thicker than sense? Or do you protect his rotten bones because he’s a knight now?”

Orla spluttered at the impudence of the girl; to think she had being taking pity on her.

“Yes, that makes the most sense. You defended that bully Minrik’s actions before he died as well. You know as a maid I used to dream of the honourable knights. Every morning I would rise early to try and see the dawn patrol return. Even when I used to feel worthless and devalued, staring at the floor boards in deference and retreating out of rooms, I used to wish I was Eerian so that I would be one step closer to the noble order.”

“Girl, I warn you.”

“What a joke. The only one with any honour amongst you is dead and his name was Unhert.”

“Enough!” Orla screamed. How dare she sully the name of the Knights and the memory of the fallen.

“That’s enough from both of you,” Jem said. He and Hunor had ridden over and were observing the argument with concern. “You’ll bring every nearby soldier, goblin and ogre down on our heads.”

“She insults the Knights,” Orla said.

“She has a burning temperature and sickness. Yet with all due respect, Lady Orla, your current conduct hardly engenders regard for the Knights of the Air.”

“You go too far, mage.”

“Some would argue we don’t go far enough. I have no particular opinion one way or another on the knighthood. But the Eerians? I find it woeful that a nation that spawned a mighty empire—that bestowed us an enduring common language and a culture that permeated most civilised nations—finds itself so arrogant as to feel it can take children from across the seas for a pittance and work them into an early grave. All in the pretence of charity.”

Emelia unbuckled her waist strap and slipped from the saddle onto the rocky path. She wobbled drunkenly as she struck the ground. Hunor dismounted and Jem took the reins. The action broke the escalating dialogue. Orla glared icily at Jem. He held her gaze.

It was speculation as to what would have happened next had Hunor not suddenly pricked his ears up.

“Did you hear that?”

Both Orla and Jem looked blankly at him. He froze and listened intently then gestured towards the ravine trail.

“I can hear voices and the sound of armour and swords.”

 “Let us solve your mystery then.” Lady Orla turned her horse and cantered off into the ravine. Hunor scowled then indicated Jem to follow her whilst he sat Emelia down.

“Stay here, love, and try not to pick any more fights with passing knights, eh?” Hunor said. He stood and loosened his sword in its back scabbard then ran towards the gully trail.

***

Orla entered the ravine, her gauntlet resting on her long sword. The initial passage was narrow, the cliff sides sheer either side of the path. After twenty or thirty feet it widened into a ravine over two hundred feet wide, although the cliff remained similarly steep both sides. The floor of the ravine was dry and dusty; no stream had flowed here for many years. The path continued along the centre of the ravine before rising to exit through a narrow passage similar to the one Orla had emerged through.

In the ravine were a collection of figures: the source of the noise. A brown horse trotted warily in front of one of the cliffs, a slumped figure on its back. Orla noted it had no saddle. Four mounted knights and a strange creature were arranged in a wide horseshoe formation. The knights were armoured in black plate, their helms cast to resemble leering demonic faces. The knights pointed crossbows at the horse and its unconscious rider. Yet it was the creature that fascinated Orla the most: it stood seven foot tall with four muscular arms, its head was that of a black wolf and across its back it carried two long serrated swords.

“It’s called a craven, but don’t let the appellation fool you. I’ve never seen one run away yet,” Jem said, riding level with her.

“The dark knights—do you recognise them?” She drew her sword.

Jem shook his head and he squinted at the group, some eighty feet away. His eyes widened and he gasped.

“By the gods! It’s Kervin, Hunor,” he said as Hunor came jogging into the ravine. “It’s Kervin on the horse.”

Hunor took in the scene in one glance and drew his sword.

“Jem, a shield, quick. Orla take the craven before its gets to Jem.”

Orla bristled at the orders but began to prepare her charge. The four dark knights aimed their crossbows at the horse and fired. The quarrels hissed like snakes towards Kervin and the horse, then halted in mid-air as they struck Jem’s magical barrier. The tips sprang open into rosettes of vicious barbs before tumbling to the ground.

The knights whirled on their steeds. The monstrous craven came charging towards the trio, drawing the pair of swords. Jem thrust forth an arm and magic surged into the creature and it slowed, its fur buffeted by the flow of energy around it. The craven shook off the attack and renewed its charge.

Orla rushed to meet it, her long sword glittering in the spring sun. The clatter of clashing metal was harsh and loud in the ravine as the two fought. Orla parried and feinted in a blur of blows, her magnate blade giving her the edge of speed if not power. The monster was snarling its hatred, saliva swinging in pendulous droplets from its maw. It stood as tall as her horse.

***

Jem urged his steed forwards towards the knights, Hunor keeping level with him. The mage saw the horse shimmer and melt, its long legs shrinking to short powerful ones as it became a mountain lion. Kervin rolled off its back and onto the ground.

“Hunor, the horse…the lion…do you think?” Jem asked.

“Knowing our luck, mate…that’s all we need.”

The first black armoured knight bore down on Hunor. In a whirl Hunor sliced his blade low across the belly of the horse, evading the knight’s devastating slash. He rose to parry a blow from the second knight. The impact jarred his shoulders.

Jem rode his horse at the third knight. The tendrils of the Web were luminescent in his mind’s eye, spread across the glen. He mouthed words of power and sent a loose rock rolling under the thundering hooves of the knight’s horse. It tumbled with a whinny, throwing its rider forward and under Jem’s steed. The crack and splinter of bone mixed with the harsh sound of rent armour, as the knight thrashed under the hooves.

Hunor struck left and right at the mounted second knight. The first knight turned his horse and then scrabbled in panic as the saddle slid from the black horse’s back. Hunor’s immediate opponent hacked at him. He sprang back then aimed a precise blow across the join between cuisse and poleyn. His sword cut deep, severing the leg in a spray of blood. The knight screamed and slipped back, tugging on his reins. His horse reared and Hunor dove under the flailing hooves and out the far side. In a blur of motion he thrust his sword backwards into the flank of the knight. The bloodied blade punched into the mail hauberk exposed under the back plate. The knight jerked and stiffened, then slumped forwards dead.

“Hunor, go and assist Orla against the craven. I shall deal with the knight,” Jem said. He rode towards the dismounted first knight.

The mountain lion circled the fourth knight, who had drawn his sword in favour of re-loading his crossbow. Hunor sprinted back across the ravine towards Orla and the craven.

The dismounted knight advanced warily. Jem focused his mind again and felt magic surge out at the knight. The mystic energy slammed the knight backwards towards the wall of the ravine. A screech of armour sang out as he crunched into the stone.

“Curse you, wizard, those of the Ebony Heart do not yield to your trickery,” he said.

He threw a small metallic sphere towards the mage. It arced through the air then struck the rocky ground a few feet from Jem.

The explosion sounded muffled in quality in the confines of the ravine yet the flare of light was as intense as the sun. Jem gasped as the world flashed white then black: the glare had blinded him. His horse reared in panic as white hot balls of phosphorus burnt its skin, throwing Jem from the saddle. His back jolted as he landed on the ground.

Jem coughed and spluttered. His mouth was full of dust and grit and he could hardly breath such was the raw ache in his ribcage. Panic crawled through him as he clambered to his feet.

He drew his slim sword and crouched low, ears straining for any indication of his assailant. He could hear other noises: the roars of the lion and the sound of claws on metal, the clash of blades from Orla’s direction, the scrape of leather on stone. His opponent was coming closer.

***

Hunor halted forty feet away upon hearing the crash of the explosion. Across the ravine he could see Jem crouched. The dark knight was advancing, clearly trying to flank the mage. Hunor glanced at Orla, who fought the craven with vigour. She landed a blow on one of its four arms sending black blood onto the rocks. Her cuisse was dented, though the craven’s strike had not drawn the knight’s blood.

In the end it was no contest and Hunor ran back towards his friend Jem. The black armoured knight saw him approach and slowed his advance. Hunor stopped some ten feet from the knight and the pair began to circle.

“Fifteen paces in front of you, Jem,” Hunor said.

“Hunor? I thought you’d run off to play saviour to your lady friend again,” Jem said.

“No, old mate,” Hunor said. “Best let her work off some anger without my assistance. It seems you were right about this being the wrong path to take though.”

Hunor calmed his breathing down and relaxed his mind. The scene seemed to blur: he became acutely aware of each breath, each heartbeat. His eyes watched each step the knight took, the angle of his foot, the shifting of his weight.

The knight lunged and then span. Five-inch blades sprang from his gauntlet with a click and he slashed with both these and his long sword. In one fluid motion Hunor stepped laterally, then forward and brought his sword upward, across and then back inwards. The dark armoured knight stumbled past him then fell to his knees, blood running thick from the gouge in his mail-covered neck.

***

Lady Orla blinked back sweat as she parried the relentless blows of the craven. Its breath was ragged too, which was some consolation. Her leg was numb from a blow she had received, the armour having bent into her thigh. Her sword arm ached and she recognised she was too long out of practice for an opponent such as this.

The craven leered and thrust towards her. She blocked one then two slashes from its dual blades, sparks raining down onto the monster’s chest. With a jolt its third arm slammed into her belly and she felt herself dismounted, her boot slipping from the stirrup.

Her free hand scrabbled for grip, finding the edge of the saddle. She swung herself down off the horse, her shoulder screaming at the awkward angle. The horse bolted as she landed, the craven pushing past it to get at her.

Its blades rained down at her with increased force.

I’m on a back foot here, she thought, and this monster has far superior height and strength. I’d give my commission for my helmet and shield right now.

Orla sidestepped and slashed her sword into the creature’s side. The blade sliced into the monster’s black ring mail and drew black blood and flesh. With a roar of pain the craven jabbed down hard with a muscular arm and the blow caught Orla on the left pauldron.

By Torik my shoulder, I can’t feel it. Get to your feet you stupid girl or you’ll be joining your griffon.

A flash of steel was above her and she braced herself for the decapitating attack. A brown boulder abruptly obscured her vision.