Dreams of Darkness Rising (5 page)

He didn’t even bother to barter
, Emelia replied.

Lord Talis nibbled on some alcas bread. “Now about the other special thing, Inkas.”

Emelia retreated to the door, stepping back whilst facing forward, eyes still down as was the etiquette. It seemed a mile away. Her eyes stung whilst she contained her anguish and fear. She reached the door and then chanced a glance up.

Inkas-Tarr had slipped out a blue crystal from his robes. It glowed with a pale light. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

Emelia exited the room, breathing fast. The sense of dread that often preceded an act that she knew was wrong fluttered within her. She closed the door and peered down the corridor. Sarik was nowhere to be seen.

What are you thinking?
Emebaka asked.

Well you should know. That crystal—it’s like a fallen star
.

We could listen…find out more
, Emebaka said.

The door must be six inches thick. How can I hear through that?

Have faith in yourself—go on, just try
.

Emelia strained to listen to the conversation in the room. A headache blossomed as she held her breath. Then, with some astonishment, she found she could hear as clearly as if she was stood by their side.

“… of power?” Talis asked.

“That much is still uncertain, I am afraid. Certainly, it is enchanted. But is it part of a prism? As yet I have not been able to ascertain this.”

“Then you need it longer?”

“Sadly, my attention will be diverted with the Choosing. Perhaps I shall return to its study after the festival is over. Can you secure it?”

“Oh yes. The room below us is double-locked and the first door you’ll recall is enchanted with a Mage-lock. Also I’ve got the only key for the inner door around my neck.”

A hand pressed onto Emelia’s hips. She jumped and turned, stifling a scream.

Stood before her was the unshaven adolescent, Uthor Ebon-Farr. He was nicknamed “The Jackal” by the servants and Uthor had earned the moniker well over the years. The features that gave his father a regal attractiveness looked cold and cruel on him. He was handsome, yet behind the trimmed silvery hair was a malignant and selfish mind.

Emelia’s heart was racing as Uthor swaggered before her. He wore a tight tunic to emphasise his athletic build but the effect was marred somewhat by his stubble and the smell of stale beer.

“Didn’t Mother Gresham tell you to take care when you peer through key holes? You might regret what you see.” His voice was a dangerous purr.

“M’lord, I…I’m…”

“I was disappointed not to see my little flame-haired favourite parading herself down my father’s corridors. But I dare say you’ll be a more than adequate stand in for my eye,” Uthor said, pressing himself closer.

Emelia felt her back catch against the sideboard in the corridor. She had no space to manoeuvre. Uthor pushed himself against her. The stale alcohol was pungent and Emelia nearly retched. Panic coursed through her. She knew little of the ways of men but she knew enough to be scared of Uthor and his advances.

She turned her face away and saw Torm cowering further up the corridor. He met her glance as he shook. A change seemed to come over him as their eyes connected. He reached for one of the swords hanging from the wall.

Emelia felt raw fear. If Torm raised a weapon to Uthor he would be put to death. She mouthed ‘no’ at him and seeing this he became wracked with indecision.

Uthor became more excited as he saw her whisper ‘no.’ Emelia’s head began to throb with each thud of her heart. Uthor’s face loomed as he tried to kiss her. Then from deep within her came a surge of anger and frustration: how dare he treat me this way!

Above the sideboard a shield crashed and clattered to the floor, its tinny sound echoing down the corridor. Uthor leapt back, eyes widened.

“My lord, are you alright?”

Sarik appeared in an instant. The door next to Emelia swung open and Lord Talis emerged with Inkas-Tarr behind him.

Emelia flushed scarlet with a feeling that if the earth opened up and swallowed her it still wouldn’t be enough.

Uthor regained his composure. “The girl had just stumbled. I was just helping her back up. Just can’t get the help these days, eh guard?”

Sarik shook his head. “No m’lord.”

“You’re probably all excited about the move in a few weeks aren’t you, dear?” Lord Talis said to Emelia. “Inkas, this is my errant third son, Uthor. Shall you join us for breakfast, my boy? Inkas will be delighted I am sure.”

Uthor shot Emelia a cold stare then strode into the chamber. Emelia bowed then scampered red-faced past Sarik and back towards the safety of the kitchens.

Inkas-Tarr stood staring after her. “A special thing indeed, Talis, a special thing indeed,” he murmured.

Chapter 2    Kirit’s Eye

Leafstide 1920

“You’d like wine? Wine? Does this look like a Feldorian tavern?” Jurges Innsman asked. He raised his voice over the raucous din of a half-dozen mariners roaring songs towards a motley collection of painted women at the back of the tavern

The neatly presented young man smiled and shrugged, idly playing with a silver coin in his elegant fingers.

Jurges scowled and rummaged for the inn’s solitary bottle of wine on the back of the filthy bar. He displayed it to the patron who eyed it closely then indicated his acceptance. The barman filled a goblet with the deep red liquid then slammed the bottle down. The young man flipped him the coin then turned to watch the card game. He surreptitiously wiped the rim of the goblet before sipping its contents.

Jurges hated foreigners even more than he hated the locals. This was unfortunate given that he owned a decrepit seaside tavern in one of the dingiest ports in the continent of Nurolia. The Rose Tavern was an ironically named example of the worst sort of drinking den in the port of Kir. The dockland region of Kir had the appearance of a colossal shipwreck. The slimy wooden boardwalks lead to creaking piers and jetties that clawed at the tumultuous waters of the Northern Ocean. Kir’s small cove gave limited shelter from the winds that wailed from the Scattered Isles six hundred miles to the north.

In ages past, in the golden era of Azagunta, Kir (or Theles as it had been known in days gone by) had been the anchorage of choice for traders sailing towards Helien or returning to Aquatonia. It survived the Plague of Dust that had decimated the majority of Azagunta in the final days of the Era of Magic and this astonished many. They joked that its price for survival was to become a source of every known plague to torment man since that day. The haughty neighbours of Goldoria dubbed it Sogox’s barnacle, an irreverent reference to the demon god of disease.

The Rose Tavern, like its dozen compatriots whose amber lights haunted the portside of the Barnacle, was a haven for slavers, pirates, dishonest traders, thieves and, of course, gamblers. Jurges sneered at the specimens that played Kirit’s Eye tonight. Multi-national card games rarely ended well.

***

At the central table sat five players, cards arranged before them. The closest to the bar was a young brown-haired Thetorian called Hunor. His glittering earrings matched the twinkle in his eyes.  On his left was Alfra’Te, a rotund Mirioth merchant who was relishing in the sound of his own voice.

To Hunor’s right was Jelbettio, a drunken Feldorian, all curls and tanned charm. The final pair of players were sullen Azaguntans—Olix and Malik—their auburn hair trimmed very short as was the current fashion amongst the criminal classes of the immoral isle.

Alfra’Te was dealing whilst chattering in Imperial, the common language of traders.

“There’s no doubt that the local market for quality carpets and cloth has dried up like an Azaguntan plague pit. I would say I’ll be heading to the Choosing when I’ve cleaned you losers out.”

His podgy hands were laden with cheap jewellery as he flicked the first set of cards out to the other four players.

“Which order is taking in this season?” Hunor asked.

Alfra’Te paused and clicked his tongue. His gold teeth glittered in the subdued light. Out of the corner of his eye Hunor could see flickering of hands between the two Azaguntans.

“It’s the Air-mages, young Hunor. Unfortunately Coonor is not the city to be visiting at the advent of winter. I swear I’ll be wearing my rugs as robes!”

Hunor and Jelbettio laughed, the latter swigging his ale as he did so.

“You could warm that fat back end of yours by enlisting to the Uristân legion, Alfra. I heard the lizards are chopping up your cousins for dinner again,” Jelbettio said, his voice slurred.

Alfra’Te flushed and his attitude became serious. Hunor winced at the jibe.

“Right…a fresh hand then, my kind sirs. The Porosti house is high, the Helgorki house is void. Threes reverse the run. Jelbettio, are you in?”

Jelbettio squinted at his six cards then tossed two at Alfra. The merchant passed two back. Jelbettio pushed a pile of gold forward. His game had been going well.

Malik, the smaller Azaguntan, smiled and asked for two also. As he moved to receive the cards Hunor transiently saw the edge of a card in his sleeve. 

“How are the tides for the trip, Alfra? I can never decipher all that nautical rubbish. It’s like Wild-magic to me,” Hunor asked, his eyes evaluating the two Azaguntans.

Malik and Olix were clearly allies. Malik, the younger one was hard hard-featured with dark copper hair and a killer’s eye. Olix, the older and taller, was scarred from his mouth to his ear bestowing him a ghoulish leer. They were also both armed with swords and, Hunor suspected, concealed daggers.

Alfra’Te, eager to forget Jelbettio’s joke, began jabbering once more.

“I’m no expert m’self, young Hunor. Never sail without one of the Guild on the ship. Having said that, I’ve sailed the trade route betwixt Kâlastan and the Mist ports that often I could probably give them a run for their money. Now if you have the Eerian moon rising, the Pyrian moon falling and the other two absent then I reckon that makes for a strong east stream across the Northern Ocean. Olix, are you in?”

Olix shrugged and scratched his scar. “With what little you’ve left me. Three cards.”

Alfra’Te exchanged the cards and Olix pushed his remaining gold forwards. Hunor looked at the twisted face. Olix had the air of a professional criminal but he and his companion had been fleeced for most of the last hour. This stank of a scam. He should have listened to Jem.

Alfra’Te turned to look at Hunor as he glanced at his cards. He had a good hand: two mages, one duke, all in strong houses. He lingered on the choice and sipped his ale. His gaze flickered across the inn behind Olix and Malik.

The inn was deep, retreating from the wharf-side door back into the shadows. A dozen lanterns lit it, sputtering the fumes of whale oil into the air. The mariners in the far corner continued to bellow out songs, rather less than more in harmony with one another, while keeping time here and there with a playful slap on the thigh of one of their women. Three or four lone drinkers slumped at the bar by the side of the smartly dressed young Goldorian. Sat on the next table, four cloaked men spoke in whispers and shot occasional glances towards the game.

 “I’m in, my vocal friend. One card if you please,” Hunor said. “Did I regale you with the tale of time I fought the Mud Ogre of Southern Foom, a beast so vile its halitosis could cripple a horse?”

Jelbettio roared with laughter and Alfra’Te looked bemused. Hunor pushed forth his gold and as he did so a large coin rolled from his pile and across the table. Jelbettio instinctively reached out for it and in his drunkenness knocked over his flagon. The cheap beer splashed over the table edge and onto Malik, who recoiled. Two cards fluttered down from the Azaguntan’s sleeve. Hunor smiled with satisfaction.

The moment seemed to hang in time as all eyes settled on the cards as they came to rest on the wet table.

Alfra’Te pushed his chair back as Olix and Malik rose, hands lunging to their swords. Jelbettio snarled and was on his feet drawing his rapier. Hunor twisted from his chair and spied the table of dark-garbed men rising and reaching for their blades.

Jelbettio swished his thin blade in the air before him and lunged. Olix parried the misjudged attack and slashed with his broad sword. Jelbettio gasped as the edge drew a deep wound in his belly, a spatter of blood covering the gold on the table.

Hunor swore as Jelbettio stiffened and dropped, foam bubbling from his mouth. Blade venom, that’s just my luck, thought Hunor. He reached behind his back and slid his sword from its sheath. Hunor then stood immobile, the glinting blade held just below waist height.

Malik approached, his eyes glittering. About ten feet behind him the four dark cloaked men moved from the table. The inn was eerily silent.

Hunor met Malik’s cold eyes with his own. Then he winked.

At the bar the prim Goldorian tutted and placed his goblet on the bar very precisely. He raised both hands, stepped forward and muttered arcane words.

The air seemed to thicken around his arms then rippled forth, like a stone thrown in a pond. The four dark-attired men were lifted from their feet as if struck by a hurricane. They crashed through the table and into the chairs, their weapons clattering on the floorboards.

Hunor made his move. Malik swung his sword and Hunor sidestepped, hooking his blade under the attack. The razor edged sword flashed in the amber torchlight.

Once more Hunor was still. Malik crumpled to the ground. The edge had carved a furrow across his left arm and face. Bright blood spurted from the flapping artery in his arm and he dropped his sword to press on the wound. The long cut on his face served to blind him as gore trickled into his eyes.

Olix looked at the devastation in horror. The four men were being held by a vice-like force. Two were wounded, with jagged pieces of wood impaled through their legs and were wailing. The other two lay under the remnants of the table.

The assassin Olix’s blade still shone with the sticky poison as he advanced. Hunor could see that his atypical fighting style had disconcerted his foe. He suppressed his cockiness—one nick from that sword and it was all over.