Dreams of Darkness Rising (65 page)

The group began trotting down the Highway as it wound towards the city. The sun was descending behind them and the light caught dozens of copper domes amidst the purple stone of the city.

Approaching the city they could see a gigantic figure astride the gates. Its true size only became apparent as they neared. Emelia estimated it to be a good hundred feet high, carved from the purple stone of the landscape. Its once precise edges were now blunted yet it remained an awe inspiring edifice. Her heart was pounding as they drew closer, but she couldn’t let the others see.

“The Father, Mortis, looks upon all who enter this city. He strives to repel all sorcerers and warlocks from His hallowed streets,” Krem said.

“Like you,” Emelia heard Orla whisper in her ear. She whirled but the knight was looking up at the statue, an innocent expression on her face. A glance at the others told Emelia no-one else had noticed.

The huge gates to the city were attached to the insides of the statue’s legs and the smooth purple stone of the walls ran from the exterior of his thighs. Emelia could see the glitter of armour in the waning sun: purple and gold uniforms, the colours of Goldoria.

Two guardsmen saw the approaching Goldorian knight and snapped to attention, pulling their awl pikes rigid.

“Easy boys! Just returning from a spot of monster slaying. Picked me up a council of nations on my travels as you can see,” Krem said.

The guards smiled politely, eyeing the group with frank suspicion.

“While I’m here, give me a pass scroll there’s a good man,” Krem said.

The guardsmen exchanged glances and one nervously replied, “I’m not certain it’s my place to do that, sir. Cardinal Jeltir…”

“Has no bloody place to tell me what I can or can’t do, boy,” Krem said with a roar. “I’m a commander of the Knights, you fool. I’m on first name terms with the Lord Commander and the High Cardinal. Now unless you want to be posted in the sewage pits or inspecting syphilitic whore houses for the rest of your natural life I suggest you hand me a pass or two. Now!”

The guard shook visibly as he scrabbled for two small scrolls and gave them to the knight. Krem kicked his horse past the guards with a snort of derision and the others followed into the city.

***

The main boulevards of the New Quarter were wide, with slender trees and bushes bordering the cobbled thoroughfares. Many of the larger buildings were domed and the innumerable temples were topped with shining caps of copper.

The Goldorians were sombrely dressed in plain tunics and tights, caps on their neat heads. Moustaches were clipped and precise and the women wore buns or plats. Marthir and her slit skirt attracted many disapproving glances as they passed. Light was starting to dwindle and Emelia noticed that the main streets were lined with tall street lamps, though none were lit. Most squares had a clock tower and the shining copper faces indicated it was nearly six hours past midday.

The group stopped at the edge of a large square. Sir Krem leant over on his horse to Jem.

“I’m certain you know the City well enough, freeman Jem,” Krem said. “My residence is on Sunny Bank, about half way up the hill in the Old Quarter. You’ll need this pass scroll to get through the gates in the Old Wall. The funicular stops near my road but I hate the blasted thing so I’d recommend the walk up. We’ll take your horses and wagon and leave them at the Grand Stables inside the gate.”

“Are we not going up the hill with them?” Kervin asked as Krem turned to address his squires.

“No, the Revered Library is in the New Quarter,” Jem said. “Most of the other grand places are at the top of the pinnacle though—the observatory, the grand temple, the citadel of the knights, the High Cardinals’ residence.”

“Jem, enough with the tour,” Hunor said. “Sir Krem, can I get one of the scrolls so I can go through to the Merchant Quarter?”

“Certainly, young man. It is a district rife with foreigners so take care. Be reassured we do not allow sorcerers to leave their ships at the portside.”

City folk bustled urgently around them as they dismounted and handed the reins to Sir Listerthwaite’s squires. Emelia caught the cold eyes of the squire and felt a shudder rise within her.

By Torik, this place is just like my dream, she thought. I need a chance to tell Jem...or Kervin.

A gang of priests rushed past as the clock tower struck six. They wore beards dyed gold and long purple robes. Emelia could feel anxiety in her belly at their glares.

The squires began to lead the horses along the street towards the next set of gates. Hunor slipped his beloved sword from the rear of the small wagon just as Marthir began to tug it forward. He wrapped it in a bundle of cloth. Master Mek-ik-Ten leant towards the thief as he turned to leave.

“Tread with care on these streets of gold. Even the brightest lanes have dark corners,” he said. Master Ten strode to catch up Lady Orla and a very gloomy looking Marthir, as they followed Sir Krem towards the Old Quarter.

Jem grasped Hunor’s arm and said in a low voice, “I’ll mirror that, Hunor. Take care. I’ve an uneasy feeling.”

 “Come on, mate, it’s hardly Kir. Anyhow you’re the pair of sorcerers amongst thousands of zealots. I’m just a scruffy vagabond disguised as a swamp dwelling Goldorian. This time tomorrow we’ll be sat on a ship on the Sea Of Mists.”

Jem smiled thinly and watched Hunor amble away into the crowd of Goldorians.

Chapter 13  Darkness in the City of Gold

Sunstide 1924

In Hunor’s opinion the Merchant Quarter was Goldoria City’s only saving grace. In the other quarters you felt as if you were a two headed demon of the Pale, such were the looks you attracted. In the busy dockside, however, the flotsam and jetsam common to every port in Nurolia gave a colour and vibrancy to the stale city. Even the call for evening prayer was diminished here by the cries and yells of the traders and sailors.

Hunor thought of the Merchant Quarter as a patchwork of the city’s history, sewn together by a hundred sailors sodden with rum. The ubiquitous purple stone mixed with brick and timber, with thatched roofs and slate and battered copper domes, dappled white by the screeching gulls. Buildings tumbled together, layer upon layer. Above the street there were more levels still, a criss-cross of bridges and walkways, balconies and platforms. Alleys wound between the buildings, enticing the inebriated to a night of confusion, with their blind endings and twists and turns.

“Don’t be late in the morning, my friend,” Elbek-Trall yelled, as Hunor left the quayside. “The tide does not sleep like a lazy Thetorian and Kâlastan waits like an eager lover.”

“Don’t go spending all that gold and end up dead from syphilis, you old sea-dog,” Hunor said with a wave.

“I’ll be too busy checking whether it is genuine, camel-breath.”

“Always has the last word,” Hunor said quietly to himself. The gold had looked real enough when he stole it from a rotund merchant two hours ago.

Hunor paused at a street corner. Across the lane two lamplighters were igniting the stone and copper streetlights with a long smouldering taper. They stood on tiptoes to reach the wick, in its copper and glass box eight feet off the ground. They had just filled the small oil tank within the shaft of the lamp-post from one of the slimy barrels in their cart. Their hair shone like the carapace of a huge insect. The stink of whale oil and paraffin always brought this city to Hunor’s mind.

The bundle of cloth which concealed his sword was awkward to carry. He made a mental note to thank Listerthwaite if he ever saw him again—the pass scroll had allowed him passage without a glance at the Merchant Quarter’s gate.

Hunor brought a small time piece from his pouch. This was the prize of the day, eased from the pocket of a richly garbed Goldorian priest. He’d wanted one for years, ever since Jem had droned on one evening about the portable clocks. Amazing to think this could all be achieved without magic.

The amber glow of the street lamp illuminated the watch face. The wheels of time, he mused, inexorably turning. If he could move those tiny hands back round what would he change? Would he have said ‘no thanks’ to Linkon Arikson in Kir when he hired them to steal that bloody crystal? Or would he have tried to grab Sir Unhert back in Thetoria that night at Blackstone Bridge? Or would he go back further, back to when Hü-Jen had died? Would he be doing all this now if his mentor had lived?

Hunor shook the maudlin thoughts away. With regrets lay doubt and in the life he lead a moment’s hesitation was usually your last.

Hunor’s foot stumbled on the uneven cobbles and the watch slipped from his hand. He stopped its tumble to the street with a lunge, just as a crossbow bolt hissed through the air where his head had just been.

He dove for cover behind the lamplighters’ wagon as a second bolt thudded into the greasy wood. Hunor slid his sword from the bundle of cloth, the lamp light making it shimmer like fire. His eyes darted around for his assailant as the two lamplighters scrambled for their lives.

A third bolt hissed towards him from above but this time Hunor was ready. He whirled and Ur-iy-Sytk flashed up, slicing the projectile in mid-flight. Hunor’s eyes caught a flash of motion about twenty feet away in the gloom between arcs of lamplight.

A Shadow-assassin, Hunor cursed, my luck has just run out. The buggers are nigh on invisible in the dark: the only light you see is the flash of the dagger before it opens your neck.

Hunor stood like a statue, his senses tuned into each tiny aspect of the world around him. The assassin would abandon the crossbow now he had seen his defence. The assassin’s next move would be to slip in close through the depths of the shadows.

The only sounds now were the distant calls of the gulls and melodic chants of prayer, rising and falling like the waves at the nearby dockside. Focus Hunor, listen for the atypical. There it is, the slight scrape of leather on stone—dry rough stone not smooth cobble…he’s coming down a wall.

Hunor spun as the assassin attacked. His sword parried the thrust of the long dagger, aimed at his throat. Twisting the blade around, he kicked out and the assassin slammed back into the cart. Hunor slashed at the black figure but he dodged and the attack tore a rent in the side of the oil barrel.

Paraffin gushed forth, splashing over the assassin. He rolled away from Hunor and melted into the shadows again. The stink of the oil brought tears to Hunor’s eyes but gritting his teeth he ignored the smell. A moment’s hesitation would be his last.

The lamplighters coughed and gagged as the fumes overcame them. Hunor noted their taper had gone out after lighting the prior lamp, which given the pool of paraffin was fortunate. He swept his sword in a ritualistic motion, in preparation. This next clash would be the last.

The warm glow from the streetlamp shimmered on Ur-iy-Sytk. A reflection of motion caught his eye on the blade’s surface. The assassin came from above, dropping silently from the slender bridge that arched over the street.

Hunor struck upwards, the edge of his enchanted sword shattering the glass and copper light atop the streetlamp. Oil spattered like blood, catching the flame of the burning wick. With a sound like a sharp intake of breath the assassin burst into flames as he dropped past the spray of burning lamp oil.

Hunor leapt back as the assassin crashed to the cobbles and the remainder of the paraffin pool went up. The heat was intense on his face as he drew his arm up to shield it. The assassin staggered to his feet, a human inferno. Hunor sliced his sword in a deadly arc and the assassin’s head span from his flaming body.

Smoke clawed at his throat and it was several seconds before Hunor noticed his trouser leg was alight. He rolled down an adjacent alley with a curse, smothering the flames on the filthy cobbles.

Hunor began running, ignoring the pain from his blistered limb. He scampered like a cat down the alley, re-sheathed his sword and then jumped, his strong fingers grabbing onto the irregular side of the building. With a scrape of leather he gained a foothold and scrabbled up the wall and onto the overhanging ledge. He lifted himself flat to the wall then, edging along the ledge, vaulted across onto an adjacent balcony and from there up onto the thatch of the roof.

The city spread out before him, its vista now one of roofs and domes: the landscape of the thief. Dark clouds rolled ominously over the three moons that shone in the sky. Hunor could see the lights of the houses on the slopes of the pinnacle and the tiny glow of the funicular ascending towards the summit. Below the giant rock was the New Quarter, where he had left the others two hours ago.

They were under attack: he had to go warn them. How had they known to ambush them here? Had Orla been true to her oath? Hunor swore at himself. Of course she had, these were shadow assassins, minions of the black arts.

He had a choice. He could go to the New Quarter and try get to Jem, Kervin and Emelia. Or he could try get to Krem’s residence where Orla, Mek-ik-Ten and Marthir were—with the crystal.

In the end it was no choice. The fate of the crystal—however important—was a secondary consideration. He had promised Jem at the farmhouse in Thetoria. They were a team and he would let the world hang before letting Jem and Emelia down.

Hunor sprang into the night, his agile feet propelling him across the rooftops.

***

Spots of rain pattered on the thick ash in the centre of the square. Emelia let the powder sift from her fingers with disgust. Amongst the pile of ash she could see charred bones and scraps of blackened cloth.

Kervin’s hand touched her shoulder and she blinked back tears as she turned to him.

“Come under some cover. It’s going to throw it down any minute,” he said.

 “I can hear the screams in my mind. The air is thick with their pain, with their fury at the injustice.”

Kevin took her arm gently and the two walked towards the steps of the Revered Library.

“I come from a nation that thinks it’s acceptable to chain me to one that would happily burn me for something that was no fault of my own,” Emelia said.