Dreams of Darkness Rising (68 page)

“Quickly now, m’lord, the potion has worked well but I am uncertain of its duration.”

The two hastened down the stairs and into the guard room. The rich odour of food had improved the sweaty smell of the chamber. A chorus of snores greeted them, ringing out from the crumpled bodies of the guards. An Azaguntan elixir for Azaguntan guards: the irony had not been lost on Aldred when Ekris had given them the draught.

“Ekris?” Jirdin asked.

“He’s securing some uniforms and mail from the barracks. He’ll wait for us near the south hall, by the statue of Emperor Tilmoth.”

Jirdin nodded, pulling the keys off the belt of an unconscious guard. “The foreigner has a good sense. The hall has been hardly used for years.”

Aldred nodded as Jirdin scraped the heavy key into the lock of the door to the corridor. Jirdin’s statement hung in the air, weighed with words yet unspoken. The pair moved down the corridor towards Unhert’s cell.

“Jirdin—I know your feelings about the Azaguntan, but I need him.”

“He is no mere troubadour, you realise that of course?” Jirdin said, flatly.

“I’m no fool. In truth I am unsure exactly what he is or why he is aiding me. It’s a risk I have to take.”

“You dip your hand in a tub of vipers with that one. An actor with a sleeping draught—what did it cost you, m’lord?”

They were near the cell now. Their boots slid in the foul puddles that had coalesced on the corridor floor.

What had it cost him? When Ekris had arrived he had sat before Aldred unusually silent. Finally he had said, with not a trace of his theatricality, ‘This is the third time you have required my service, a service I give willingly. The price I ask is of two things: firstly that I accompany you to Artoria. Secondly, at some point in the future I will ask of you a service and I must have your word that you will perform it willingly and without question.’

“A promise. That is all. A promise,” Aldred said as they reached Unhert’s cell door. Jirdin frowned and unlocked the damp wooden door. Aldred stepped past him and into the cell.

It was empty.

A wave of nausea surged through Aldred. Sir Unhert was gone. He had risked it all for this. He struck the walls, swearing.

Jirdin had paled but regained his composure, cursed not by the raw emotions of youth. He knelt and first examined the stinking straw in the corner then the metal bowl, running his fingers inside the gruel stained rim.

“He must have moved recently,” Jirdin said. “There are few places where they can be keeping him. It would seem Engin is having his fun with us this day.”

“And every other day of my life! We shall have to abandon this idea, Jirdin. Let us go to Ekris and make good our escape,” Aldred said, pacing back and forwards.

Jirdin did not reply but came out of the cell and strode down the corridor. Aldred followed, his face etched with anger and frustration.

Jirdin was in the main guard room, scratching his chin. Then he turned to the young lord. “Forgive me for raising the subject, m’lord, but when you were imprisoned by Quigor you spoke of a secret room.”

“Aye. I recalled mother’s tales of hidden chambers, secreted by the Eerians who built the castle during the First Empire.”

“A wise woman your dear mother,” Jirdin said, searching the grimy fringes of the chamber. Aldred cringed at the snores of the drugged soldiers.

Jirdin finally found what he sought and gestured for Aldred to come closer. The stone flag at his feet had its surface disturbed; two slight furrows in the shape of a semi-circle ran from the wall. Aldred quickly began to evaluate the wall and within a few seconds had found the atypical stone he sought.

Aldred twisted the rock and, with a click, a concealed door opened. A dingy corridor was on the other side, lit by a single lantern. Four doors were in the wide corridor, three of which were open.

Boxes within boxes, Aldred thought. Is nothing in this castle as it seems?

They slipped though the gap and into the corridor. Aldred quietly eased his long sword from its scabbard, wincing at the scraping sound.

The pair moved forwards, Jirdin with the keys. They glanced into the empty cells, though the darkness obscured much of the interiors. Aldred moved in front of Jirdin and neared the only closed door.

The knight’s face pressed against the rusted bars of the door’s grill.

“Behind you!”

Aldred whirled just in time to see Jirdin stagger forward, a bloodied sword tip jutting from his chest. The old servant gasped, his mouth a bright crimson and then crumpled to the stone floor. An Azaguntan guard stood, sword dripping with blood.

Aldred’s head seemed to explode, pent up rage roaring in his ears. Images flashed like a night sky lit by lightning: Livor, blue lips accusing his father of demoncraft; the gloating arrogance of a man who he had loved for so long and now hated with a passion that terrified him; the mocking tones of Quigor, as he toyed with Aldred, like the cat does the mouse; Hela Markson saying, ‘the sins of the father are oft visited on their kin.’

He swung his sword at the soldier who parried with a gasp. The two circled, swords clattering harshly in the confined space. Aldred pushed forwards towards the guard and his opponent caught his back foot on Jirdin’s body. Aldred pressed his attack, hacking his blade into the guard’s shoulder. The guard collapsed, blood pouring from the twisted mail.

The Azaguntan looked pleadingly at Aldred, blood trickling from his mouth. He said in Azaguntan, “Wyris té mi.”

Aldred sliced the blade clean through the guard’s neck. His head span off into the darkness of the empty cell behind him.

The guard’s decapitated corpse slumped to the floor. Aldred felt a strange change rush through him. It was as if, at that moment, all he had ever been bled from him onto the dusty floor of the corridor. At that instant he had left the last vestiges of childhood behind; he had killed a man who was defenceless, driven by anger and vengeance. Now, more than ever, he could never come back here. He could never return as Aldred the son, Aldred the child.

Aldred moved to Jirdin, grabbed the keys and tossed them over to Unhert’s hand as it poked through the grill. He cradled the old servant’s head in his lap lovingly, much as he had done for Livor but a day before.

The old servant’s eyes were already clouding with the opacity of death.

“Do not shed those tears for me or any man, Aldred. Save your tears for the girl that shall one day claim your heart.

“I am old and I have lived a rich life in this place. I have endured the changes as loyally as any servant may, and I find no regret in departing this way. I go now to join your sweet mother, for I long to hear the tinkle of her laughter—like the first patter of rain on the roof.”

Jirdin tugged a silver pendant from his blood-soaked tunic.

“I loved your mother like she was my own daughter and I love you like a son. I burst with pride at the man you are becoming. When I speak of you to your mother, she smiles that knowing smile and nods her agreement. For we know the dangers you are to face.”

“You...you speak to her? My mother?”

“Aye, lad, for she never left this castle. She watches over you, protects you and guides you. When you face your darkest choices reach within yourself and seek her voice.”

Jirdin pressed the pendant into Aldred’s hand and then his head lolled to the side, peaceful in death.

Aldred was paralysed with sorrow. He had caused this, dragging Jirdin into freeing the knight. He was dully aware of a grasp on his shoulder.

He looked around into Sir Unhert’s sad eyes. Unhert, though dirty and unkempt, stood dignified in the lantern light.

“He gave his life for my freedom, for justice. I will strive to be worthy of his sacrifice,” Unhert said.

Aldred stood, choking back tears, and glared into the knight’s eyes. “You will have a long, long way to go to do that, Eerian.”

Unhert stooped to grasp the dead guard’s sword. With his wasted arms he almost struggled to lift it. Aldred made to move and the knight stumbled drunkenly.

Aldred gripped his shoulder in support but Unhert indignantly pushed his hand away.

“When you are strong enough to walk with a speed that means Jirdin’s sacrifice was not in vain, then you may be so arrogant as to refuse my help,” Aldred said.

Unhert wavered then with a grunt of thanks accepted Aldred’s support and the two left the blood-stained scene.

***

To Aldred’s relief they were trotting down the steep road that ran down Garan’s Motte within twenty minutes. Ekris had not commented on Jirdin’s absence, quietly slipping the chainmail onto Unhert’s cachexic frame.

Getting through the inner gatehouse had proven easy. The guards at the gate were Thetorian and recognised Aldred, barely giving his escorts a second look. Unhert’s grey hair was well hidden under a helmet.

Aldred paused as they passed the ruins of the chapel. With a tinge of sorrow, he looked back at the castle. It was a castle of secrets, the dark stones a mirror of its master, the baron.

He held the silver pendant to the moonlight. It glittered like a fallen star. He recalled an image from distant childhood, a fragment of a scene in his mind, shards of shattered memories, pushed deep by more necessary concerns. He could see the pendant on his mother’s chest, twinkling on her tanned bosom. I shall take this piece of you with me from this place, mother. This place that is no longer our home.

“Aldred, I fear time shall prove our undoing if we taunt it with our tardiness,” Ekris said.

Aldred sighed then urged his horse forwards towards the outer gatehouse in the curtain wall. He saw with dismay that there were four Azaguntan guards there.

The four guards seemed surprised to see three riders leaving the castle so late and barred the way with spears.

“What is this nonsense?” Aldred said. “In case your foolish Azaguntan brains struggle to recognise me, I am Lord Aldred, heir to this castle. Move aside.”

Three of them exchanged glances and moved away but one continued to bar the way. He looked suspiciously at Unhert in his loosely fitting armour.

“Apologies, my lord,” he said. “Baron’s orders were to let no-one in or out at the moment.”

Before Aldred could retort Ekris had bent down from his horse. The guard looked wary and grasped his spear firmly. A trickle of sweat ran down Aldred’s spine. His mouth was dry: if the guard raised the alarm they were lost.

Ekris hissed something in the guard’s ears. The colour drained from his face as if his throat had been slit. Looking with fear at Ekris he stepped aside and indicated for them to go past.

They trotted past the guard and Aldred heard him distinctly say, “Wyris té mi.”

The trio galloped from the gates and bore south, the dust from the road rising eerily in their wake.

Aldred turned as they rode away from Blackstone Castle. “What did that phrase mean?”

“It means ‘please spare me’ in Azaguntan,” Unhert said, to Aldred’s surprise.

Ekris said nothing as they rode into the moonlit night—secrets and more secrets, boxes within boxes. Who in Nurolia was this dark Azaguntan called Ekris?

Chapter 15  Blood on Steel

Sunstide 1924

The rain clouds were spent yet lingered on, obscuring the moons. A fresh breeze had arisen, bringing the tang of salty air from the nearby sea.

Orla stood naked in the darkness of the room, before the open window, savouring the air on her skin. She had never thought a bath could be so welcome or that she could have accumulated so much grime in such a short time.

The clouds drifted and a silver glow crept warily from the east. A shaft of moonlight lit her flesh and with sudden realisation she considered that anyone looking up at an opportune angle would see her exposed. She cared not.

That was the result of weeks of travelling with thieves, Wild-mages and druids, she thought. This untamed streak had Hunor’s name all over it. Hunor, she cursed inwardly, why will I find it so especially hard to betray you?

Orla stepped back from the window and pulled on a tunic. She turned and saw her reflection in the full length mirror, one of the few items of furniture in the sparse room.

The reflection that looked back at her was alien. By Torik, she was almost thirty yet had lines of age crisscrossing her face like strands of a spider’s web. She had a mouth that never smiled, eyes that never laughed and lips that had never kissed.

When they joined Krem for supper Marthir would be there, tanned and vibrant. The druid was the same age as her. Yet her warmth and humour, her tactile manner and her infectious laugh all took years away from her. And grey haired, stone-faced Orla would sit there, like a statue of marble in comparison.

She left the mirror, blinking back a tear of anger and fumbled for the lantern. Its mechanism was unfamiliar and unduly complicated and it took several minutes to light. Damn these Goldorians and their obsession with gadgets. The lantern light glinted off her armour, which was laid on a mat on the polished floor. Her two swords, one her own and the other her uncles, were at the side.

What was wrong with her? She was not some clothes horse, some vacant society girl. She had not endured years of gruelling training, struggling through intense pain and exhaustion, past the cynics who relished female knights failing, to wear pretty dresses and worry about how her hair compared. She was an Eerian Knight of the Air. She was a warrior and a soldier foremost and a woman second.

She leant down and picked up her sword—Ungrásst—feeling its balance and weight. Aye, she was a soldier first and that duty was tearing her apart this night. For her duty was one of betrayal, to herself and to her companions.

Wasn’t that always the way with soldiers: each order that grated, each sword slash driven with reluctance that eroded another facet of your soul? In the end you became a hollow shell, an empty tin suit obeying like a well honed weapon in the hands of some commander.

Yet now the spark that lit the emptiness of her spirit , the glue that bound her together, the one thing left that was truly hers—her honour—was to go the same way, in the name of duty. She could not return to Eeria to face her superiors and her uncle knowing she let this blue crystal slip through her grasp. The High Commander’s orders were clear: whatever means necessary.