Dreams of Darkness Rising (50 page)

Eager to ensure more information was forthcoming Aldred nodded dumbly.

“This was some years ago? Does he no longer travel with these companions?”

“Why are you here, Aldred? If you’ve got dark wizards in your castle and some Pale-spawned creature lurking through the shadows of Eviksburg should you not be with your father?”

“My father…my father has been unwell.”

“So unwell he can not recall why he was the only survivor of a massacre other than my brother, his Goldorian friend, some girl and an Eerian knight? I am not the most world wise of women but last time I checked the Knights of Air tended to fight on the side of light not darkness.”

“It is not my place to question my father’s recall but to thank Mortis that he has lived through the evil,” Aldred said, slamming his goblet on the table.

“Indeed, whilst he then accuses my brother of party in a crime he would not commit. I’m sorry, Aldred, I fear there is little more I should tell you.”

An uneasy silence followed, though Hela did not leave the hall.

“Lady Hela, I am sorry,” Aldred said finally. “I’m famous for my intolerance to good wine. I am just confused at the moment and your brother was the only source of information I could think of that would throw light on what happened. My father has spoken little of it except to say that Hunor and his companions were part of the massacre and thieves to boot, though he has not elaborated what was stolen.”

Hela slowly returned to her seat and drained a goblet of wine.

“Very well, though if you did find Hunor I would strongly advise you to avoid any attempt at capturing him. If you think I am fast with a knife then you have much to learn, my young lord.

“In truth I know not where Hunor lives now. For the past eight years or so it has been apparent from his letters that he has indulged in, shall we say, more inventive ways of restoring the family wealth. Successfully, I must add, for we have paid our debts and are now rebuilding our lands. My husband is in Benscastle even now, securing lands and labour.

“Hunor has taken to sending money and missives via an intermediary in North Artoria, a knight called Sir Tinkek. I suspect Hunor has been living around the Isle of Thieves and guarding his whereabouts closely. He draws a draft from the Guild of Goldsmiths then dispatches it via courier, I assume on one of the merchant galleys he trusts, to Tinkek. Tinkek draws the money with an identical sigil to Hunor’s draft in Azagunta then—after a short period—draws another draft which is then dispatched to my husband and me. We then take it to the Guildhouse in Bentown.”

“So the money is laundered?”

“After a fashion. It covers the trail well and is better than sending a crate of gold, although the amounts are rarely that extravagant. I know Hunor is still with Jem, the Goldorian he counts as his closest friend and they have also an apprentice, but his letters make no mention of Eerian knights.”

Aldred looked in dismay. “So this Artorian knight, Tinkek, is he the only real way of finding Hunor?”

“Probably. It’s possible Hunor might head to Artoria, to the port of Belgo where the knight lives, if he’s in difficulty. It’s a long way to go on an off-chance though. He might rather head back to Azagunta. Who knows?”

“Indeed, who knows? That’s the dilemma.”

“You’ve got someone closer at hand who’s seen my brother recently though,” Hela said, rising again and making to retire.

“I have—who are you talking about?” The wine was dulling his wits.

“The knight in your dungeon. The one your father is hiding away,” Hela said. With a slight bow she strode from the hall, leaving Aldred swearing silently into his wine.

***

The damned Eerian knight, Aldred cursed, as they rode back through the Barrowlands the next day. He had mentioned it in passing to Hela when recounting the tale, as they sat awaiting Lady Inger at the start of the meal the evening before. His father had not even mentioned whether the captured knight was still alive and indeed he had only discovered the Eerian’s presence in the dungeon by accident from a conversation that Jirdin, his manservant, had overheard. He’d felt such an idiot when Hela had stated such an obvious source of information. Once again his impulsiveness had overtaken his common sense and driven him on a two day journey on the word of a dying man rather than a two minute walk down into the dungeons. Livor would have a field day when he told him.

“You look the worse for a fine night of wine, m’lord.”

Aldred glanced at his companion, Uhurk, a rotund merchant who travelled north with a wagon of cloths and carpets to trade in Eviksburg.

“I’m afraid so. Lady Markson’s hospitality has taken its toll.”

“We prefer lighter wines in the taverns of Kokis. After all it’s more for the palate than the inebriation.”

“So I hear. I met many southerners in Thetoria City whilst at college. They seemed to talk more than drink. Perhaps that was their secret.”

“A swift riposte, m’lord. Now perhaps I can ease your suffering with a recounting of the highlights of the last theatre season. Truly marvellous.”

Aldred allowed his mind to drift away from the merchant’s drivel. The Kokisian journeyed with two armed guards and Aldred had agreed with Relium that slower progress was a small price to pay for more swords if they encountered any bandits. The two Kokisian soldiers were well armoured, with chainmail hauberks, spiked maces and crossbows slung on the side of their saddles.

“…and the Gilded Theatre was graced with a visit from Prince Altred—not to be confused with Duke Altred of Kokis, the king’s brother—and I hear amongst the chattering classes that an engagement to the beautiful Princess Marcella of Feldor is nigh.”

“Well I pity her then. I hear he’s quite the boor.”

“Well I can understand how the north feels a little underprivileged. I mean you did start a revolt.”

Each jolt of the wagon was sending pulses of pain through his head. Aldred was willing for a hundred dark wizards with a thousand faces in jars to come and relieve him of his torment.

He was not to be disappointed. The wagon and horses slowed to rise up the hilly road through the Barrowlands. Aldred heard a hiss in the still air. A dozen paces ahead two arrows sprouted like black branches from one of Uhurk’s soldiers. He slumped forward in his saddle, blood running from his punctured neck.

The second Kokisian soldier reined his horse and grabbed for his crossbow as two arrows thudded into his thorax. His horse trotted towards the wagon, eyes wide as he twitched, his tunic soaked with crimson.

Aldred jumped from his horse and yelled to Otius and Relium to take cover. The pair rode their steeds back to where Aldred crouched behind the wagon, two arrows soaring past them. The second Kokisian soldier and his horse reached them and Aldred tugged him and his mount in towards the four, trying to keep behind the cover of the broad wagon.

The soldier gurgled horribly as he slid from his saddle and one look at his face told Aldred he was not long for this world. Aldred seized the loaded crossbow and the quiver of quarrels from the saddle then let the horse go.

Otius was wet with sweat. “Engin’s nuts. They’re goblin arrows. How in the Pale are goblins this far from the mountains?”

 “We’ll remember to ask them when they slit our throats,” Relium said. “Looking at the arrows I reckon they’ve only two archers. How good a shot are you, m’lord?”

Aldred looked in surprise. Uhurk the merchant had crawled from the wagon seat and huddled next to the young Thetorian sobbing.

“I’m good. I’m better with a bow but not too sloppy with a crossbow.”

Nodding grimly Relium pulled a shield from the saddle of his own horse.

“I’ll draw the arrows, m’lord. Get the buggers for me.”

Relium jumped forward, the shield held close, and bolted from the cover of the wagon. Otius bobbed his head above the wooden chasse of the wagon, his helmet crammed tightly on his head. Aldred peered over the edge, the crossbow ready. His mouth was dry with fear.

He spotted a dark shape a hundred yards up the slope rise and take aim as Relium scrambled across the road. Aldred pointed the crossbow at the figure and fired. The quarrel struck the bandit in the neck, a spray of blood jetting from his carotid.

An arrow thudded into Relium’s shield. Aldred ducked down and placed a quarrel in the crossbow, his hands slick with sweat. The mechanism was stiff as he cranked back the lever and he slipped transiently and cursed.

Relium was running back towards the wagon when an arrow sprang from his thigh. The soldier tumbled, blood running down his left greave from the wound.

 “Hundred and twenty yards to the left, m’lord. Swiftly,” Otius said.

Aldred aimed as the archer loosed another arrow at Relium. The soldier yelled in pain as the shaft drove through his shoulder, pushing the mail into his flesh. Aldred drew on all his skill and fired. The quarrel struck the bandit in the head and the impact sent him reeling back against the grass of the hillside, dead before he struck the ground.

“M’lord, they are coming up close. Quickly,” Otius shouted.

The bandits were racing down the hillside, in wake of the death of their two archers. They appeared a ragged bunch wearing rusty, dirty armour interspersed with filthy furs and battered helms.

“Goblins, half –goblins and back-alley accidents. I count seven. We’re screwed,” Otius said.

“We can’t leave Relium, not after the bravery he’s just shown.”

Aldred stepped from behind the wagon, knees shaking. He loaded the crossbow once more and as the foremost bandit came towards Relium, sword ready, he let loose. The bolt struck the bandit in the chest, punching through the rusted ringmail and into his heart.

Aldred strode forth, tossing the crossbow aside and drew his long sword. His insides felt like ice. This was no duel on the college riverbank; no quarter would be given. He fought for his life here.

“Leave us be, bandits, and you shall be spared this day,” he said.

The largest bandit laughed, his twisted goblin face creasing like worn green leather. In guttural Imperial he said, “Much funny, man boy. Only need your head. Ligor say so.”

Aldred paused as Otius came to his side. Relium had crawled next to the merchant, a trail of blood smeared along the stones of the road.

“This is madness. The name means nothing. Be gone with you,” Aldred said. In truth the name did seem oddly familiar.

“Ligor. Said all who see stone die. Rules. Much coin,” the goblin said.

“M’lord, watch out!” Otius yelled as one of the bandits abruptly charged from the side.

Aldred parried the slash from the sword, adrenaline pulsing in his veins. He feinted and thrust, his blade skirting the surface of the bandit’s ringmail. At his side, Otius roared and began hacking and slashing like a man possessed.

Aldred’s forehead was matted with sweat as he fought his opponent, ever mindful of the second bandit that closed to his right. His half-goblin foe was broad and strong but Aldred had the advantage of agility and years of tuition.

The bandit let down his guard transiently and Aldred landed a blow. The sword thrust punctured through his opponent’s shoulder and into the wood of the wagon. The bandit screamed, blood pouring from his mouth and Aldred sliced the keen edge of his sword across the half-goblin’s throat.

The second bandit was upon him even as the first fell. Aldred deflected the sword thrust and tried to manoeuvre to gain more space. To his left Otius had hacked the arm off one bandit and was battling a second. A flare of hope arose in the Thetorian and he attacked his own opponent with renewed vigour. An instant later that optimism collapsed as the bandit leader thrust his short spear into Otius’ back. With horror Aldred saw the barbed tip erupt like a blossoming rose from Otius’s chest and he slid forward dead.

Aldred backed slowly away from his opponent, sword raised before him. His heart was galloping. It couldn’t end like this, on a muddy road many miles from home. After all he had endured in Quigor’s crypt. After all he had yet to learn. He couldn’t go to his grave with so many unanswered questions. Yet there was no ghost to save him now.

Relium had slumped unconscious from the blood loss and the merchant sobbed like a child. There was no aid to be had.

“Come on then. Let us see this battle through! My mother awaits me,” Aldred yelled.

The four bandits prowled towards him laughing, spears and swords wet with rain and blood.

A voice echoed down the road, its enunciation a touch theatrical.

“Tis a poor day indeed when the sole audience for my varied talents is one such as this.”

A slender man strode to Aldred’s side, his short black cloak pushed idly over one shoulder. He was garbed in a loose chequered tunic, with exaggerated sleeves in the Feldorian style. His black tights were muddied from travel as were his fancy buckled boots. He brandished a slim sword and a dagger in his hands.

“Look, boys. More dumb Thetorian want scrap. Look like he lost one before, by look his mush,” a goblin said.

“Nah! Not local. Azaguntan, no mistake. Can smell ‘em,” another goblin said.

“All look same to me,” said a third.

The Azaguntan’s head was bald and shiny and his face handsome despite a pale scar that ran across his left cheek.

“A fierce critic I see! It is oft said that words cut deeper than swords and I fear their scars are far less visible,” the stranger said. “I am once more reminded of the eighth act in Deradov’s epic play Voltag’s Doom. If you’ll forgive the vanity I shall cast myself in the lead of Irthig the Black as he prepares to fight the demons conjured by the fell Voltag.”

“Bloody ponce,” the goblin said and lunged forwards. The oddly attired man weaved to the side, the spear thrust jabbing into thin air. His sword glittered as he leapt past the leader and sliced at the surprised bandit behind him. The hapless bandit screamed as the blade sliced across his belly, splintering the decrepit armour. Entrails spattered like writhing worms onto the road.

The stranger moved in a blur and Aldred was so taken aback he almost neglected to parry the spear thrust of the goblin that now renewed his attack.