Dreams of Darkness Rising (70 page)

The symphony of magic reverberated in her soul as she scooped a fallen sword up. The sword weaved and clattered, blood spraying as she fought like a woman possessed.

The wounded Godsarm retreated, blood flowing down their ringmail. A new figure came to face her. His armour glittered in the streetlights.

“Uthor—now it is time for justice,” she said to the knight.

She drove her anger into a ferocious surge of power and flung it at the knight. The warrior silently strode through the assault, staggered slightly. The dagger in his gauntleted hand glowed blue. Emelia parried the sword slash, sparks falling to the cobbles.

A gauntleted fist caught her with a back hand, striking the selfsame spot that she had injured in the fight with Utrok. She slipped and felt the breath explode from her as she once more hit the ground.

She had to get up and fight. She was a child of rage, a living spear of death.
Help me
, she thought,
Emebaka help me
.

But the little voice of her mind was absent.

A taste that was bitter and horribly familiar came into her mouth. She felt the magic fade from her like the waning of the dusk. As the sorcery within her ebbed, so did the curse on her mind, and she became instantly aware of her surroundings.

A Goldorian knight wrenched her to her feet and hauled her around to the grip of a Godsarm soldier. Behind him she could see another five Godsarm, two wounded and beyond them the crumpled and probably dead bodies of another six. A crowd of horrified citizens were gathering around the perimeter of the square, clinging to the edges like meek animals, wary of getting too close.

“By the power invested in me by the Lord Protector and by the Synod of Goldoria I do name thee witch,” the knight said. “Know that under the gaze of Mortis witchcraft is tantamount to death. There is no mercy for those who cavort with the demons of the Pale. What say you before your evil soul is purged with the heat of the Father?”

Emelia could hardly talk; her mouth was swollen.

“No words that will thaw your heart of ice,” she said, spitting blood down his breastplate. “By the ears of Torik, let my words be carried on the breeze to those I love. Hunor and Jem, I cherished every second you gave me after Coonor. Kervin, I crave those lost seconds that have passed like grains in the hourglass. Sandy, I come to embrace you for it is better to burn bright and fierce than sputter and fade.”

 “And burn you shall!” the knight said. “And all your collaborators rooted out like choking weeds in the gardens.”

In the centre of the square a broad post had been erected and two shaking men were rolling barrels of oil across the damp square. The rain was fading, leaving a moist cold mist. The knight dragged Emelia towards the stake.

***

The sick sense of fear in Hunor’s belly had expanded as he had hurried through the New Quarter. In the grand square where the Revered Library was located he heard a commotion and slipped into an alley as a small group of Godsarm ran past.

One look at the mutilated body of the library guard told him that black magic was afoot. It didn’t take much to deduce that Jem, Emelia and Kervin must have been targeted as he had been. A bloody trap and they walked into it like fools.

He had travelled swiftly from the grand square and onto the damp roads that ran through the city, tracking with ears more than eyes. This was not a city that was vibrant at night in the way that Thetorian cities were. Any disturbance was likely to be evident from a good distance away.

He found the first dead priest folded like a broken doll over a lamp post. He’d only been dead a short time and with a glance he saw four others in convoluted postures, bones jutting at odd angles. They had no other marks upon them—this was the work of Wild-magic.

He could only see the rear of the crowd as he moved into a square. The city folk huddled like a herd of dumb sheep as they stared at the scene before them. Hunor advanced and an ice cold grip squeezed his heart.

In the centre of the square two hefty Godsarm were binding a kicking Emelia to a wooden stake. A broad Goldorian knight was supervising and to his left four other Godsarm were directing three city men with barrels of oil and wooden planks.

Hunor’s mouth was dry with fear. Seven to slay or Emelia was going to die.

I know I’m good, he thought, but killing seven of the buggers is impossible. I’ll definitely die if I try. So Hunor, old matey, is she worth dying for? I mean what good will be served by both our deaths?

Jem’s serious face came to mind, sat on a log at Jaan’s farm.

I’ve got no bloody choice, have I? So this is how I’m going to meet my maker. Did my father think these same thoughts as he charged the king’s infantry, lance lowered? Did Hü-Jen think them as he fell?

Hunor slipped through the crowd.

Ah, it’s irrelevant, he considered. There aren’t many things I’ll kick the bucket for but a promise to a mate, sincerely made, is one of ‘em. If I can get Emelia loose somehow and a sword into her hands then we might have a chance.

Hunor attacked the first Godsarm from behind. Honourable fighting wasn’t an option when it was seven to one. His magnate blade opened a crimson rent in the soldier’s lower back, ring mail shattering in a jingle of falling links. The Godsarm screamed as he tumbled and his companion whirled. Hunor brought his weapon down in a deadly slice. The soldier screamed as his arm parted from his shoulder in a fountain of blood.

Emelia’s bonds were tight and on the opposite side of the stake to Hunor. He cursed his luck as he turned to face the knight and the four remaining Godsarm. With dismay, he saw the knight step back and the Godsarm raise crossbows. He was a sitting duck; Thetorian impulsiveness had cost him dearly.

“Hunor, get the Pale out of here,” Emelia said.

“What, and ruin this amazing rescue, love? I think not,” Hunor said with a grin. He might as well meet his death with a laugh.

The crack of the crossbows firing was drowned out by the screams of the crowd as an enormous black shape leapt in front of the hissing quarrels. It was an ebony wolf—the size of a small pony—and the four bolts thudded into its side. The creature did not even flinch and Hunor saw the missiles clatter like useless sticks to the cobbles.

The creature struck with a speed belying its size. The square erupted in pandemonium as the monster tore into the four Godsarm warriors. Their swords hacked futilely against its hide as its dagger like teeth ripped open armour and flesh as if it were paper.

Hunor ran to Emelia and severed the bonds. She slumped against him and he helped her down from the oily stake.

“What in Torik’s name is that thing, Hunor?”

“It could be one of Nekra’s lapdogs for all I care. It’s got us out of a tight spot. Let’s get out of here before it eats us for dessert,” Hunor said. Stooping low, he grabbed Emelia a sword from one of the dead Godsarm.

The Goldorian knight charged at the massive wolf, fighting with sword and dagger. Hunor saw the knight wielded a null-blade in his left gauntlet. The sword skimmed off the flank of the monster as it turned, flesh dangling from its crimson maw. The knight thrust the null-blade up into the side of the creature with a yell. Black blood splashed against his armour.

The monster roared in pain and fury and slammed its weight against the knight, overbalancing him, the null-blade jutting from its side. He fell with a screech of metal on stone. The monster was atop him in an instant and Emelia averted her eyes as it tore his head from his body.

“He had it coming, love,” Hunor said, grabbing her arm. “He’d have torched you without a second thought. Now come on we need to shift, before more Godsarm arrive.”

Hunor led Emelia running from the scene of slaughter in the square and into the warren of alleyways.

***

The creature lapped the blood from the cobbles, savouring its rich taste. Its flame-orange eyes glanced up at the crimson half-moon. It was nearly spent, the moon of blood. This feast should last him well, until the next waxing of the moon, when the thirst would take him over once more. Yes—he would slide back into dormancy until that time.

The huge wolf bound across the square, hearing the horns of approaching warriors. Its body rippled with magic and it transformed into its half-wolf, half-man form and effortlessly leaped onto a balcony and then again onto a bridge between houses. Its eyes faded into the gloom of the night, the null-blade still jutting from its side.

***

Utrok’s presence in the dining room was apparent before he was visible. Orla stood impassively, the dagger pressing unwaveringly into her neck. A sudden sense of trepidation came over her. It was as if the air in the room had become thin, somehow inadequate—similar to breathing on the peak of a mountain.

The dark wizard drifted like a spectre from the corner of the chamber. The sorcery warped the atmosphere of the room, creating a strange pressure behind the eyes.

Sir Krem had begun to stir but, feeling the point of a sword at his back, had wisely not erupted in anger. All four sat in silence as the mage prowled around the room. Krem’s null-blade and Orla’s sword had been placed at the far end of the table. Her uncle’s sword lay at its side, the product of a fruitless search through the rooms.

Sir Krem trembled with rage. “Vile sorcerer. You presume...you dare...to sully this house with your dark arts and your changeling lackey.”

Utrok paused to pour a measure of gin. Sipping it gingerly, as if it were scalding, he sneered at the knight.

“It was hardly a fitting challenge for Regor here. Your idiocy made the deception so easy. After all, you’ve enjoyed the company of all manner of magic this last week.”

“What rot is this you speak?”

 “Let us see—two Wild-mages and a druid—in possession of an ancient magic crystal. That’ll be one to tell at the next Synod meeting, eh?”

“Get to your point, fiend,” Marthir hissed. A shadow assassin pressed his blade tighter against her skin and she winced.

“Oh, you speak human tongues as well as animal,” Utrok said, pacing slowly around the table. He grasped her dress and ripped it open with his talons, exposing Marthir’s tattooed torso. Sir Krem flinched as if slapped and the changeling Regor cackled.

“My point is that one of you knows the whereabouts of the blue crystal,” he said. “It wasn’t on the corpses of your friends when I checked.”

Seeing the flare of anger in Marthir’s face he leered. Orla stared stoically forward. The situation was desperate; they had no leverage and no opportunity to escape.

“My guess is that our little elemental cousin here knows the most,” Utrok said.

Utrok grasped Master Ten’s shoulders and there was a flare of magic. The monk’s back arced with the agony of Ingor’s caress, yet no scream arose from his mouth. His body spasmed against the table as Utrok’s eyes shone with sadistic pleasure.

“Stop that, Torik curse you,” Orla said.

The Dark-mage stepped back; smoke spiralled from Master Ten’s shoulders. Orla had the sickening impression that he was dead. Then, with supreme effort, Master Ten pushed himself back up. The shadow assassin pressed his sword against the Galvorian’s back again in surprise.

“Pain is but a perception, a gift of the senses like any other,” Master Ten said. “For without sensation we are but stone.”

Utrok had turned his attentions to Orla. He sauntered around the table pausing to run a thoughtful claw along Orla’s sword, his hand twisted and withered. He picked it up and slid it from its scabbard. Orla’s heart was like thunder in her head and sweat was rising under her tunic.

The mage stepped slowly and deliberately behind the knight. She could feel his presence behind her but the blade of the shadow assassin who stood to the side allowed no movement away. His voice hissed in her ear, sending tingles down her back.

“Perhaps it is you who know, lady of Eeria—yet perhaps not. You covet the crystal, I warrant. Your narrow naïve little mind thinks that the stone should be back in Eeria, tucked away in Coonor.”

He let loose a hideous laugh with such volume that Orla jumped.

“There is nowhere that is safe from our grasp. There is nowhere it may be hidden. Not in the snow tipped peaks of Eeria nor the mossy glades of Artoria. We are everywhere! And all of you preoccupied with your own little nations and your own little causes stand divided and divided you fall—oh so easily.”

Orla flushed with shame. The Dark-mage was correct. She had sought to betray these companions. She had thought that the blue crystal was Eerian to claim. Her pride and her faith in her noble country had blinkered her.

“Your prattle is boring me, mage. Finish what you came for and have done with it,” Sir Krem said. The changeling struck him on the head with the mace and he reeled.

“It would seem that you do not take me seriously enough,” Utrok said. “Very well. Tell me where the crystal is or one of you shall die now.”

The room fell silent as Utrok walked around the table, Orla’s shimmering sword in his hand. His feet echoed on the floorboards. By Torik, Orla thought, this was what I did to Emelia, Jem and Hunor those weeks ago.

The mage meandered behind each of the four, tapping the metal of the sword with his yellowed nail.

Sweat ran in rivulets down Orla’s face. Torik, air father, bestow me bravery in the face of such evil. Give me strength to look the others in the eye as I die. Forgive me for a death outside of battle.

Utrok struck like a serpent. Orla’s sword slid with ease through Sir Krem’s back and erupted from his broad chest. A look of surprise and then disappointment flashed across his face before blood began to run from his lolling mouth. With a crash he collapsed on the table, scattering the platter of food.

Orla stifled a sob, tears of fury moistening her eyes.

Master Ten’s eyes glittered with anger. “Vengeance shall not recognise the constraints of the mortal flesh, for it lives on in the world like the echo of a bird’s final song.”

Orla glanced in confusion at Master Ten but his gaze had returned to Marthir.