Dreams of Darkness Rising (69 page)

The room adjacent to the window lit with beams of silver and red moonlight. Steel and blood, the colours of my heart, she thought. An image from years past leapt into her mind: the red of the blood soaking the cracked flags of lower Coonor; silver moonlight on shimmering steel as a young lad lay dying at her feet; screams of pain and panic and confusion as griffons swooped, claws gouging. They echoed still; a chorus of guilt in the quiet hours of the night.

She strapped the long sword to her waist and wrenched her thoughts to the present. Why couldn’t the others see that the crystal, now its true origins were apparent, was far safer in the Citadel of Air than secreted in the satchel of a Galvorian monk?

What would the betrayal cost them? It was unfortunate but Marthir would likely be executed, for druidism was a form of sorcery not permitted in Goldoria. Mek-ik-Ten would be spared, though she feared he may not give the crystal without conflict. And that meant she had to be prepared to fight; she had to be prepared to do whatever it took. As for Hunor and Jem and Emelia out in the city with Kervin—she hoped that they would learn of the loss of the crystal and flee the port back to their old lives in Azagunta.

So she would not see Hunor again. She scowled at her concern. The man was a thief and a rogue who had used the opportunity presented in battle to gain a hold over her. What would he know of honour and oaths? What loyalty did he have but to himself? After all, back in Thetoria he had escaped and left the other two behind. But despite these thoughts she could not rid her mind of the image of his deep green eyes, dulled with sadness at her actions.

She steeled herself and marched from the guest room and towards the dining room.

***

The hallway outside the dining room and parlour felt more like a shrine than a residence. Numerous depictions of Mortis bestowing wisdom on a range of awestruck clerics adorned the walls. It was lit by lanterns, hooked on brass fittings, fussy yet tarnished. The low key lighting imbued the scene with a dream-like quality, as if one were walking through a memory of another era.

Sir Krem stood next to the doors of the dining room, berating his squire. He wore a green tunic with gold trim, secured with a leather belt and Orla noted he carried his null-blade at his side.

Gilert was flushed and apologetic.

“My lord, I can only offer apologies on their behalf. They clearly assumed that we would not be back until the morrow and have taken leave of the house for the night. I have sent Sertin with Klirger to the guild of healers with the wounds he had suffered at the hands of the monster you slew. The only help I have for the meal are three servants from Sir Jubbur’s house up the hill.”

“Jubbur’s lackeys? Well they’ll no doubt soak it with booze like the old blaggard prefers, but they’ll do,” he said and then saw Orla. “Many apologies, my Eerian cousin, it would seem the fare of my house may be lacking this eve.”

“I’m certain it will be more than adequate after our long journey, Sir Listerthwaite,” Orla said.

“You’re too kind. Gilert, get to the kitchen and slap them into shape. Quickly, you dolt.”

Gilert scurried off, a dark expression on his face. Krem sighed and offered Orla his arm to enter the room with.

“It is like I’ve said—you Eerians wouldn’t have this problem with your servants would you?” Krem said. “Any poppycock like this and you could give them a good birching. Here all the bloody servants are regarded as blessed under the eyes of the Father, with all these bloody liberal rights and nonsense. Mind you, your servant is still in the City with the merchants, so she is hardly much use either. Ah, for the good old days of Artorian slavery—you still use those dark chaps to dig your ditches and make your roads don’t you?”

Orla caught Marthir’s gaze as she entered and felt a surge of shame at such flippancy.

The druid was sat stiffly in a high back chair. To her credit she had attempted to look presentable: her tawny hair was greased up, exposing her tanned complexion and she wore a long dress with voluminous sleeves that extenuated her ample bosom. The elegance was diminished by the fact her dress came down only to mid-thigh.

Master Mek-ik-Ten sat opposite Marthir, barely visible over the table edge. He wore his usual robe, only a shade lighter than his soil-like skin.

“You must forgive us entering without you, Sir Listerthwaite,” Master Ten said. “We are strangers in a strange land, Marthir and I. Yet even those who wander without light may yet find the path they truly seek.”

Orla felt the grasp of panic in her heart at this statement. Master Ten could not know her plans, could he?

Krem looked slightly bemused by the monk and then caught sight of Marthir’s legs.

“By Mortis’s forgiving light! Does that pass for an acceptable level of dress in Artoria these days?”

“In some parts of South Artoria this is markedly over-dressed. I’ll try and hide them under the table,” Marthir said with a dazzling smile.

Orla sent her a withering look and took her seat at the wide table. A row of candles sputtered in the centre. She adjusted her sword belt uncomfortably.

“Expecting trouble, m’lady?” Marthir asked sweetly.

“Force of habit,” Orla said.

“The food will be a few minutes, I am afraid,” Krem said. He poured a glass of gin then offered to Orla and Marthir, who both declined. He hesitated before turning to Master Ten.

“Sorry old chap, no idea what you little fellas eat or drink,” he said.

“Water will more than suffice. As for sustenance, you are forgiven for your ignorance as few share the table with Galvorians. I eat minerals and stones.”

“Well then, when I refurbish my spread in the countryside I’ll think to call you to nibble me a few doorways.”

Orla cringed at the jest and saw Marthir hide her look of disgust.

Master Ten smiled thinly and slowly nodded. “As you wish. For this occasion do not trouble yourself.”

“So what are the chances of me convincing my Eerian and Artorian beauties here to accompany me to the Summer Games next week?” Sir Krem said.

“I am uncertain of my plans at present, Sir Krem,” Orla said.

“That’s a damned shame,” Krem said. “Fantastic spectacle. Best in all the lands. Through sporting glory we can truly be nearer the Father. The old arena is a wonder of the world too. Artorian but still in good shape. Bit like you, Marthir.”

“The Empire was always a northern entity, sir. In the south of the country we were more at one with the forest and the grassland and the teachings of Nolir.”

“Nolir? Bit tree loving and animal hugging if you ask me. No offence to you, Marthir, or indeed you, Master Ten, because I know you little chaps quite like the earth goddess too, but a culture that embraces such apathy and inertia can’t really achieve much can it? Your northern brethren follow Egos and Tindor, as they did in the day of the Empire. Now they are proud gods, mighty gods, imbued with the glory of Mortis Himself.”

Marthir’s jaw was twitching with anger and Orla eased her hand to her sword. If it erupted into violence with Marthir’s swift temper then she would have her excuse to incapacitate the druid.

“That’s one perspective, Sir Krem, I’ll grant you,” Marthir said. “Mind you, dedication to war and occupation and blind devotion to younger gods of courage and pride hardly served the Empire well. It tore itself in twain, engorged on greed and jealousy and murdered an entire city in the process. A city of ash and charred ghosts.”

“You speak as if you had been to Erturia,” Krem said in surprise. “Why would a wandering tradesman’s wife venture to a dead city?”

Master Ten glanced urgently at Marthir who paused and then smiled.

“Well clearly I haven’t. Forgive my passion, it is my undoing. I am not vested with the social skills of my northern kin.”

“Indeed. Nor the attire,” Krem said. “I understand it is still a nation of many traditions: pageantry, jousting, balls and regattas. I hope one day to journey there, though I fear the liberal presence of witches and sorcerers, spreading their evil amongst the good folk, may yet dissuade me.”

“That would be a shame,” Marthir said. “The court of the king is dense in tradition and memories of days long past. The knights are forever at their little tourneys.”

Orla saw the squire Gilert and the three male servants enter with platters of food. They scurried like mice to the table and laid the platters before all four guests and Sir Krem. Master Ten glanced at the glistening meat and shook his head politely. The servant looked uncomfortable and looked over to Gilert, who also appeared concerned. Krem held out his hands and muttered a swift prayer then indicated for all to start.

Orla took a deep breath. The food smelt appetising and her belly rumbled. She would have to make her move soon: Marthir was to her right and, with a swipe of a sword, the flat of the blade should render her insensate before she could change form. Then she would need to subdue Master Ten, which would be tricky even with Krem’s aid. In her mind she steadily counted, her hand creeping to her sword.

Sir Krem grasped the sticky leg of lamb on his platter.

Marthir leant over her food and sniffed the rich scents.

Master Ten was immobile. Were his beady eyes watching her, Orla thought, as she reached seven?

“Stop!” Marthir screamed. She lunged forward and knocked the meat from Krem’s hand, scattering it across the table.

“What in the Father’s name..?” Krem said with a splutter.

“It’s poisoned.”

Orla went to stand but out of the corner of her eye saw a blur of motion. The servants were transformed, instantly garbed in uniforms as dark as the night. She pushed back her chair, starting to draw her sword but a mace slammed into the back of her shoulder and the impact knocked her forwards onto the table, pain searing through her back.

A hand tugged her hair back and pulled her violently against the back of the chair. She felt the cold edge of a knife at her throat and froze.

Across the table one of the dark assassins stood with a long knife at Master Ten’s neck and to her side another had a small crossbow aimed at Marthir, who stood flushed, eyes bright.

At the head of the table the squire Gilert stood behind Sir Krem. His right hand was deformed into the semblance of a mace and was flecked with blood from Krem’s scalp. The knight was face down on the table moaning incoherently, spilt gin mixing with blood. The features of the squire warped and melted away like wax in a fire until all that was left was a smooth, membranous visage.

“And now…now we wait,” the creature said.

***

The buildings screamed at Emelia like furious children. Torment echoed from their walls as she staggered down the desolate street. In terror, she gravitated to the salvation of the amber pools generated by the street lamps, for outside of those islands of gold lay the shadows and certain death. Her hands—scraped and bloodied—clung to the lamp post like a sailor to the mast of a sinking ship.

Thoughts battered her mind like a hurricane. Images of hatred and fear seeped like blood from the stones of the city. The souls of a thousand murdered witches wailed like the wind down the streets. She could sense their eyes, mocking and sneering.

The lamp post began writhing like a serpent. She pulled away with a cry and became abruptly aware of a group of men, dressed in long robes, stood looking at her with pity. Beards died the colour of bile; were they humours in disguise?

“Are you well, child?” the nearest man said.

She could see the sound as if it were smoke, spiralling out of his mouth, its tentacles thick with hypocrisy. Beneath the words she could hear the truth.

“Are you a witch?”

His face ran like hot metal and under the liquid flesh she saw the masks: fixed in rictus—faces of death, grinning like skulls bleached pearl-white by a desert sun. Not masks, but masques—painted faces of deception.

“I will not attend your pyre so meekly,” Emelia said.

She could see the mocking visage of Uthor Ebon-Farr, frozen in the contours of the masques. He was smug about his crime, blood running from his mouth as he spoke, in dark red torrents.

“A taste, a taste is all I shall need and Vildor will embrace me,” Emelia said. “A taste so I may join the family of rage and fear and hatred. Then I may slaughter you vile witch-burners without a care. For the noble son has murder ingrained in his nails like the soil of the graveside.”

Magic surged like a tidal wave from her. The priests flew like leaves in a gale, lifted to the roofs of the houses. Their screams were reward enough, each second a retribution for the ashes she had let sift through her hands but an hour ago.

On she staggered, the claustrophobic street opening out into a square. The sky was a sheet of flame and metal. She could hear the voices of the moons, the songs of elemental power that channelled through the gems of the mages.

“I need no such aid,” Emelia said, her voice shrill. “My Wild-magic soars like an eagle. My soul burns like a furnace.”

All these imposters that claimed her friendship, all sought to restrict her, to stymie her potential. They taught restraint and discipline when she knew the path was unbridled release. She could feel the Web around her, pulsing with her excitement. Jem and Master Ten, they feared her and they despised her, for she was far greater than both could ever be.

Now more men came, in armour and tunics of gold and purple. Swords lit in the street lamps, evil faces under their helms. The blackness of their souls stained them like tar. Godsarm: they would meet their god soon enough.

She let the magic course from her without inhibition. The power blasted forth and struck them like a charging rhino. She could feel bone splinter and crack as they crashed into the purple stones. One flung a slender spear towards her heart. She could see the strands of the Web around it as it hurtled towards her. With a gesture she tightened the Web and twisted the shaft around in the air. The Godsarm screamed as the spear punched through his chest, blood blooming like a rose from his back.

More soldiers were in the square ahead. A rain of crossbow bolts flew towards her. A magic shield instantly formed and the bolts halted then clattered to the ground. Emelia pulled the shield close and strode towards the yelling Godsarm.