Dreams of Darkness Rising (63 page)

The guard’s headless body was slumped against the wall. The blood from the stump of his neck had ebbed to a trickle. A smear of crimson glistened on the wall and up to the roof of the townhouse.

Aldred felt as if he were in a dream. He reached for the guard’s horn but with dismay saw it was crushed.

With a jolt he realised it was going for Livor. He snatched the small crossbow with its silver quarrel. It was sticky with the guard’s flesh.

“When I returned that night, she kissed me deep

Then turning away she took a leap

To the waters so swift, and away she did drift

For she said I was already complete.”

Aldred sprinted across the courtyard towards the wide alley that ran between Jordir and his neighbour’s house. He heard a muffled cry and the hiss of a crossbow firing. A quarrel skimmed past his shoulder.

The creature was upon the three men in the alley. Aldred could see it had adopted a half-man, half-wolf form which was huge.

Its jaws tore a guard’s arms off at the shoulder and spat it casually to the cobbles. His companion plunged his long sword into the monsters back but it seemed not even to feel the blow. Its claw raked off his face and he tumbled back towards Aldred, dead.

“Each night I search, from shore to shore

Gripped with desire, to much to endure.

And if I found her. I’d desperately whisper

A man can be whole yet still need more.”

Livor lay still at the creature’s feet, covered in blood. Aldred’s sword was pinned under him.

Aldred raised the crossbow and fired it at the monster’s head. The vampyr whirled and the silver-tipped quarrel struck it hard in the shoulder, black blood spattering the wall of the alley.

With a guttural cry the vampyr’s flesh warped and flowed and it resumed the full form of the wolf again. Its powerful legs propelled it past Aldred and into the courtyard as the song reached its crescendo. Aldred’s cries for help were drowned as the cheers rang out.

“Oh under the bridge, over the bridge

Silver Lady, where have you gone?

Oh in the water, ‘neath that ice cold moon

Silver Lady, where did you go?”

Tears ran down his face as he knelt by Livor in the blood-soaked alley. Aldred pulled his friend onto his lap, the warm blood running down his legs and pooling on the ground. Livor’s eyes flickered open but the light in them was fading fast.

“Aldred, I’m scared,” he said, blood trickling from his mouth.

“Hush, Livor. Hush. We’ll be fine,” Aldred said. “This is our time. We’ve great deeds to do.”

“Not me, Aldred—I have no more time. I’m scared.”

“Sshh. We’ll get a healer. It...it’ll be fine,” Aldred said. He tried not to look at what remained of Livor’s chest.

“No—no time.”

His voice was a whisper now, like the gentlest breeze of the night.

“The vampyr. I…saw it.”

“Be quiet, Livor, don’t strain,” Aldred said. “I saw it too.”

“No—no. You—don’t understand. I—saw it—change,” he said, his voice almost inaudible. His life was drifting from him with each weakening heartbeat.

“The—vampyr—it’s your—father—Mortis help me—it’s the baron.”

Aldred felt himself falling back and the cold hard cobbles on the back of his head. He was vaguely aware of strong hands lifting him. All he could see was the lifeless corpse of his best friend.

And all he could hear was Livor’s last words sounding again and again in his mind.

Chapter 12  Goldoria City

Sunstide 1924

Night contorted even the most benevolent places into sinister shapes. To the anxious mind of Gilert Hersten the slender pines of the Godswood, reputed to soar so high in worship of Mortis, were like ebony fingers scratching at the star speckled sky.

The squire was sweating as he navigated along the trail etched into the spongy floor of the forest. It had been ten minutes since he had left the camp, which had been made at the side of the Gods Highway, on the road from Oldor Bridge to Incala. In another night they would have passed the roadtown and in another three they would achieve Goldoria City.

By then it will be too late, he thought. By then my opportunity for justice, and a little reward, would have been missed. By then the witches will be in the master’s house and he would be further under their spell.

Gilert paused as clouds obscured the red and silver moonlight. Superstition had that a full Pyrian moon and a waning Eerian one were harbingers of violent death. Red moon on silver: blood on steel.

How far was this accursed cottage? The messenger had said but ten minutes into the woodland along the trail: any longer and his excuse of gathering extra wood for the fire would seem a fabrication.

As a young boy the Sacred Knife had both thrilled and terrified Gilert. He distinctly remembered lying to his sot of a father about poaching pears from the neighbours’ trees near Valikshall. For months afterwards he became convinced that the Knife would somehow know; that their insidious network of spies and informants would have seen him, though he had eaten all the evidence in such a short time his belly had ached worse than if it had had worms.

Now, fifteen years later, he went to meet them, bursting with the knowledge that a high ranking Knight of Goldoria—one of the Order of the Gilded Pool itself—was conspiring and travelling with witches.

The cottage sprang from the moonlight. It was derelict, the thatched roof decayed and the timber frame rotting and partially collapsed.

The squire entered the cottage, cringing at the curtain of cobwebs that hung from the door. Mummified flies were wrapped in the thick strands.

The interior of the cottage was musty and damp, the scent of moss and mildew lingering in the dank air. The light was poor, the red moonlight struggling to break through the splintered shutters. Gilert was so nervous he thought he was going to be sick.

“Hello?” he said. “H-hello? It’s me, I’m here. I’ve got information for you.”

A strangely accented voice spoke out in Imperial.

“That is good. Come closer, boy.”

Gilert could now see a broad shape against the far wall. It stood still, with a voluminous hood over its head.

“Umm, forgive me my Imperial is a bit basic. Can we converse in Old Goldorian?” Gilert asked.

“No. It is part of my disguise to speak this way. Now what have you got to tell me?”

“It’s my master, the Goldorian Knight Sir Krem Listerthwaite. He has fallen under the enchantment of sorcerers and even now travels with the unholy spawn. They tempt him with their cavorting and foreign fornication.”

The dark figure remained immobile and then the voice echoed once again.

“And how know you of their wickedness, boy?”

“I saw the blue light of sorcery from their room, sir. Then I saw a brown dwarf and a witch leave the room. She had a glamour on ‘er, I swear. A real beauty but like a rotted pear, sir, all foul on the inside. They went down to the inn where master was with a foreign knight and more of the magicians.”

“And you have told no-one of this?”

“N-no. I wanted to tell the Sacred Knife first. For the good of the Father and for Goldoria and the Synod. I never even thought o’ a reward.”

“Naturally. Approach me now, I shall show you your reward.”

Gilert walked towards the figure, his shoes scuffing on the rubble and planks of rotten wood.

The squire was three paces from the figure when he sensed something wrong. The moon lit the man as one of the shutters creaked open. With a wrench of nausea, Gilert saw the man was a corpse, pinned to the wooden pillar with a serrated knife. His face was wide in terror and the skin had sloughed off, hanging from his cheeks like wet paper.

Gilert span with a scream and ran for the door. A figure grew from the shadows, coalescing from the depths of the room. He was as pale as the corpse, with black hair and velvety robes. One arm was twisted, like an old branch, and ended horribly in a claw much like the talons of a huge bird.

The squire froze in terror as the Dark-mage approached him. His tights were wet with his fear.

“It was a well deserved fate for your little holy assassin. Even I quall at how foul a spell the Touch of Sugox can be. Exquisitely painful too,” Utrok said.

“Please, don’t. Don’t hurt me. I won’t tell anyone, I promise. About this. About the witches,” Gilert said, snot streaming down his quivering chin.

“Oh shush, shush. You will tell me. And then my companion here will become you, so then it won’t really matter will it?”

“I don’t understand,” the squire said.

From Utrok’s side stepped another figure, wrapped in a black cowl. Instead of a face it had a smooth featureless visage.

The squire’s screams sounded briefly across the copse before halting abruptly. The moons cast sinister shadows on the ruins of the cottage: red and silver, blood and steel.

***

Tiny embers danced like fiery fairies as Hunor stoked the fire with a branch. The wood smoke was rich and pungent, the smell of smouldering pine.

Hunor sat down on a log that rested by the roadside where they had made camp. Decades of backsides had worn it as smooth as glass; decades of travellers on the final stretch of the Gods Highway as it ran along the south fringe of the Godswood and towards Goldoria City.

Marthir approached, dressed in her neobalt. It was belted around her shapely hips and she had peevishly slit the skirt up the side; she displayed a marked degree of bare thigh.

“So the sulky squire came back with the wood eventually,” Marthir said.

“Aye. Probably thought he’d stoke up the pyre just in case we spot any witches. Are you planning on giving the old knight a heart attack showing all that leg? What’s m’lady had to say?” Hunor said, patting Marthir’s muscular thigh.

“Miserable old cow just gave me one of her stares of doom. Do Eerians go grey in their twenties because they’re so staid and priggish before their time?”

“They’re a funny nation all right. Jem was mad keen for the cleanliness of Coonor when we went a’ stealing there. But my word, they live in a bubble, on the fringes of the world. Orla just typifies that pompous isolation.”

Marthir looked wistfully at the fire.

“Yes, I can see Jem would thrive in such a place.”

Hunor looked at the druid. “You tore Jem’s heart out when you left for the Great Forest, love.”

The druid continued to stare into the flames, the dancing glow making her eyes shine. “I know, Hunor. I know.”

“And it’s taken years of friendship to heal that wound. Years to get him past his…affliction.”

“Again, I know,” Marthir said. “I’ll be frank, though I know such talk makes men uncomfortable. We loved like the moth and the flame. Brief, intense, yet doomed. I accepted the moment I gave myself to my faith, to Nolir, that my future with Jem was hopeless. Now it genuinely fills me with joy to see him love again.”

“I’m not certain what you mean, Marthir.”

“There are some lies that even you struggle with, you rogue,” Marthir said with a laugh. “I was married to him. I do know his little puppy dog look. The way his eyes drift to the girl. Mind you she turns Kervin’s head equally. I’d say old Kervin will give Jem a run for his money.”

“And you…did you move on? Is there a string of tattooed tree huggers in your wake?”

“I’m not certain it’s your place to ask,” Marthir said. “But yes, there have been umpteen casual lovers since I parted with Jem and not all of them human.”

Hunor decided to allow that last statement to ride and was relieved to see Jem, Emelia, Mek-ik-Ten and Kervin approach.

“Evening prayers done yet?” Hunor asked.

“Your absence was noted. I told Listerthwaite that you preferred solitude whilst in communion with the Father,” Jem said, rubbing his forehead.

“Ha! You see, Marthir, all those years of my glibness have rubbed off on him.”

“Hardly,” Jem said. “You need to take this more seriously, Hunor, and…by the gods, Marthir—what are you doing?”

“Feeling free. It’s like wearing a shroud,” Marthir said. “I’m certain Emelia feels the same.”

“I…erm…they are rather restrictive,” Emelia said, biting her lip.

“They’re meant to be. The neobalts emulate the nun’s habit. I can’t believe this! We tread a knife’s edge as it is.”

“Aw, come on,” Hunor said. “The knight’s as ignorant as they come. He’s too busy trying to turn Orla’s head to dig too deep into our cover story.”

Jem looked in exasperation at Master Ten and Kervin, who shrugged.

“Don’t underestimate the knight,” Kervin said. “They wield significant authority and those null-blades can punch a hole through any magic.”

“Null-blade?” Emelia asked, slumping wearily on the grass.

“It’s the rather ornate dagger he has on his belt,” Kervin said. “The blade is magnate and steel alloy which is then tempered in the Pure Water from the Gilded Pool.”

“It will cut through mystic energy,” Jem said. “It’s how the Knights of Goldoria were so successful in the First War of Brothers. Only the more revered ranks are allowed the null-blades. Its peculiar effect only works whilst held, though—fascinating enchantment.”

“Isn’t it totally hypocritical?” Emelia asked. “Using an enchanted blade in a nation that vilifies sorcery?”

Jem met Emelia’s gaze and she saw sorrow in his eyes, illuminated by the flames. “They do not see it as magical. In their own warped perception they regard it as a holy weapon—magnate steel, gods-silver, imbued with the sacred properties of the Pure Water.”

“We could use one to cut through the cheery atmosphere here, eh?” Hunor said. “Have we got a chance now to talk about Goldoria City and where we are going with this crystal?”

“Five minutes, probably,” Jem said. “Orla and Listerthwaite are changing out of their armour.”

“I’m unsure whether we need to be more concerned about their friendship, given that Orla struggles with deception,” Kervin said, stoking the fire. “Like two peas in a metal pod, aren’t they?”