Dreams of Darkness Rising (71 page)

“Aye,” Marthir said. “Vengeance is the snake that bites the thieving hand that blindly explores the sack.”

Utrok moved around to stand behind the druid. He lifted the blood soaked sword and pressed it into Marthir’s back.

“Now tell me where the crystal is or I shall run the druid through. This will be down to you, knight, and to you, monk. Tell me now!”

Orla felt sick as she saw Utrok draw back her sword to kill Marthir. Torik help me, I know not what to do.

“Get your hands of my wife,” Jem said, phase-shifting through the wall.

Magical force slammed into Utrok and carried him like a hurricane back against the stone wall with a crunch of bone. The sword span from his clutches.

The dining room erupted in chaos. Orla slammed her head backwards into the startled shadow assassin, feeling the crack of his splintering nose. She dropped and twisted as he slashed with his long knife and kicked him hard in the knee.

Orla rose and saw Marthir melt away into thin air as the assassin behind her slashed an instant too late. A slithering shape was just visible darting from her seat. Master Ten thrust back and brought his elbow up to deflect the flashing dagger of his former captor.

Orla dove to the floor as the assassin came for her. Magical forces thundered in the chamber as Jem’s Wild-magic clashed with the dark energy of Utrok. The Eerian saw her sword on the floor where it had fallen, still wet with the blood of Sir Krem.

Conscious of the shadow assassin closing, she rolled across the floor and then came up sword ready. The assassin jabbed his blade towards her but she parried and drove her attack forward. Back-footed, he sought to slip into the shadows of the room but Orla attacked with vigour.

The assassin feinted to the side then delivered a swift thrust at the knight. Yet Orla was no simple target. Years of experience served her well as she parried, twisted and then slashed her magnate sword across his chest. He staggered back, blood spraying from his opened heart.

Orla turned to assess the melee. Across the table Marthir’s assassin took aim with a small crossbow at the knight. Regor was running towards Master Ten, who was delivering a blur of punches and kicks to his opponent. The changeling’s arms were transforming into long vicious talons.

The crossbow hissed as the assassin fired at Orla; with a sense of horrid fascination she could see the quarrel blur through the air towards her chest. It was like moving through thick mud as she tried to evade its deadly tip.

The quarrel never got to her. It stopped in mid-flight and with a flash of recognition she realised Jem had shielded her. It had cost him dearly. Utrok seized the opportunity and black energy flowed like a torrent of oil from his arms and into Jem’s weakened shield. He gasped in pain as the tar like substance flowed over his arm.

Orla could see the shimmer of the Dark-mage’s shield. She vaulted onto the table and ran towards the assassin, who was pulling out his mace. Orla dove to the side as his crushing blow splintered the table and sliced down her sword into his shoulder. The edge of the blade parted his neck and collar bone in a spray of gore. He toppled back and Orla drove the sword through his heart.

A looming shape was at her side. The talons of the changeling ripped open the flesh of her back with a sear of pain. She slashed her sword wildly but the roaring changeling evaded the attack and tore at her again. The razor sharp talons shredded the cloth of her tunic front, exposing her, though she was far beyond embarrassment.

Orla’s vision swam as the vicious back wound weakened her. The pain was excruciating yet her fierce will kept her fighting, jabbing and slashing to keep the creature at bay. Through the haze of pain she could see Jem flagging against the dark wizard.

“You shall be joining the hapless knight soon enough, woman. Best you leave the fighting to the men eh?” the changeling said.

The expression of arrogance dissolved in an instant as the powerful form of a mountain lion crashed into him. In a flurry of claws and a fine cloud of blood the two rolled across the dining room.

Orla clutched for the stability of the table. Her legs were shaking and her head span. She had to help Jem—she owed him her life. Her hand pressed against the cool metal of Sir Krem’s null-blade.

“Jem!” she said, her throat parched.

She grasped the dagger feebly and with a grunt threw it towards him. It span in the air and began to drop towards the floor and Orla realised her throw was far too weak.

Jem caught her eye and with a grimace of concentration he reached out with his magic and sent a platter spinning under the tumbling dagger. In a flash of silver the platter hurtled towards him and in one motion Jem grasped the null-blade and lunged. Utrok’s shield shimmered as Jem effortlessly passed through it and thrust the blade into the Dark-mage’s neck.

His shaking hands probing the dagger handle in disbelief, Utrok’s legs buckled and he crumpled dead on the floor. The room pitched around Orla as she stumbled forward, the floor pivoting as she grabbed for stability and found Jem’s arms. The flesh of one arm was blistered and red. He held her as she slumped to the floor, his face slick with sweat.

“Daring rescues with no plan—I think perhaps Hunor is rubbing off on me after all,” Jem said.

“Not a bad thing, Jem,” she said and then darkness enveloped her like a warm blanket.

***

Sunlight crept from behind the docked ships, like a nervous child. Pastel shades of red and orange tinged the slender silhouettes of the masts then drifted warily over the copper domes of the city behind them.

Hunor and Emelia sat atop a timber pile whilst the wharf-side came alive before them. A dozen Pyrian sailors stretched as they emerged from the deck of a merchant galley.

Emelia had nodded off against Hunor’s shoulder about two hours ago and was beginning to stir. He had remained awake: there would be slumber-a-plenty when they had set sail but for now a city full of zealots and shadow assassins was enough to demand his wakefulness.

Emelia looked about slightly bewildered. What had dwelt in her dreams those last few hours? Hunor wondered. Torn back from the grip of madness to nearly die on an oil soaked pyre, only to be rescued by a gigantic demon dog. What in Engin’s name had they become embroiled in?

“Where are the others? Shouldn’t we chance going up to Sir Krem’s house?” she said, sipping water from a gourd.

“Not yet, love,” Hunor said, munching an apple. “The city will be crawling with Godsarm and with Goldorian knights. Pale knows where Kervin is or Jem or that dark wizard you tackled. If Marthir and Ten think straight they’ll head down here with the blasted crystal.”

“What if they’re captured?” Emelia said.

“I don’t know, love. If it’s Jem then—then I’ll go back. The others? I…”

Emelia nodded and a silence crept between them, as intangible as mist yet as solid as stone. The cries and yells of the sailors intermingled with the calls of the gulls.

Hunor ultimately broke the silence. “Jem was going to tell you, you know, Emelia.”

“What? About his secret wife?”

“His wife? No. Well, yes, I’m certain he would have mentioned that but I meant about the—er—madness thing.”

“That was a spell, a curse from Utrok.”

Hunor fixed her with his vibrant green eyes and shook his head. “The sorcerer only unlocked what lurks inside your head. It’s the price you pay for the Wild-magic.”

Emelia shook her head in disbelief.

“I’m sorry, love, but you need to know and Jem might be holed up somewhere so he can’t tell you. It affects you all, you Wild-mages. For Jem it’s the obsession with neatness and cleanliness; when we first met he was really gripped by it. It took years and a lot of Master Ten’s training to rein it in.”

Emelia slid off the piling, her face flushed. She stumbled off along the quay, dodging past the sailors. Hunor moved after her, then slowed his pace as he saw her stop at the edge of the quay.

I’m no good at this stuff, he sighed. Let’s just give her a minute.

***

Emelia watched the dark waters lap at the purple stones of the pier. She felt mauled, her insides twisted and warped. The clues had always been there—she had just chosen not to see them.

All of the parts came together in her mind now: the time in Coonor when she heard the masque’s whispered threat; the sense of paranoia that would always be lingering in the back of her mind; how it had surged forward this last week as she suspected all her friends and companions; and of course Emebaka—the imp in me—a voice in her mind, as real as a person.

Yet hearing it said aloud, that her mind was fragile, unsound, was in some odd way what she wanted. How could you seek to conquer such a problem if you did not know its nature? Hunor had said as much of Jem—he had learnt to tame his madness.

Hunor approached her, chewing his lip, eyebrows raised.

“Damn it, Hunor, you’re my friend. Why didn’t you say?”

“Come on, love, say what? Who am I to tell you? I took charge of your swords craft and your thievery, Emelia. It was down to Jem.”

“To do what?” a voice asked.

The two turned, hands on pommels, to see Kervin limping through the bustle on the quayside. He looked dishevelled and exhausted; he clutched his side.

“Now you’re here!” Hunor said angrily. “Where in the name of the Pale have you been? You were supposed to be looking after Emelia.”

Kervin held up his hands. “I know, I know. I lost her after the mage attacked us. I’ve been looking all night.”

“Well some bloody tracker you are, mate. I found her on my way back through the New Quarter about to be roasted on a spit.”

“It’s not the wilderness,” Kervin said. “I can hardly follow snapped twigs down the high street. Besides the city is crawling with Godsarm and knights.”

“Back off, Hunor, he’s wounded. What happened?” Emelia asked.

“Got into a skirmish with some Goldorians,” Kervin said with a wry smile. “They were looking for any non-Goldorian to light up.”

Emelia nodded and helped Kervin to a seat, pressing on the wound with a cloth. With a sigh and a glare, Hunor joined them.

“Sorry, mate, I’m sure you tried,” Hunor said. “In retrospect I should have come with you three. Where did Jem go?”

“I went to Sir Krem’s residence, Hunor. Now give us a hand.”

Hunor looked up to see a horse and cart rattle onto the quayside. Jem sat atop the seat alone. Seeing Hunor’s quizzical look, he indicated with his head towards the tarpaulin that covered the rear of the cart. Hunor moved around and glanced under the cover. With a jolt of surprise he saw Master Ten crouched with an unconscious Lady Orla.

“Is she…?” he asked, his voice oddly thick.

“Almost,” Jem said. “She fought like a lioness against the dark wizard. Her wounds are most grievous and Master Ten needs both time and space. Have we a vessel to board?”

Hunor nodded dumbly. “And Marthir?”

Before Jem could respond the horse nudged the thief and in an instant he understood. The thief patted the dappled mare.

“If you come with us you can have the rest of my apple.”

With a snort the horse turned away and Jem smiled, for what seemed like the first time in weeks. He descended from the cart and looked back at the glittering domes of Goldoria City.

“I swear I shall never set foot in this place again, Hunor. The evil we slew last night pales before the malignancy of my people. Let us begin this quest for earnest. If we don’t take this battle to Vildor he will certainly bring it us.”

Hunor rubbed his tired eyes and for once was at a loss for words.

Epilogue     The Realisation of Dreams

Sunstide 1924

The warm waters cascaded around Emelia’s shoulders as she broke the surface. The taste of the brine was like the finest Feldorian vintage. With a laugh, she waved at Hunor and Jem as they peered over the rail of the galley.

This is like the first dream I ever gave you, Emelia
, Emebaka observed.
Now you’re doing it for real, what are we going to dream about now?

How about islands of golden sand or cloud cities in the sky?
Emelia replied.
Perhaps I shall dream some more about being a mermaid or a princess, like all girls should. But for now I shall dream of the freedom I have achieved: the freedom to swim when I choose, to love who I choose and to live my life accepting who I am.

Voices and all?
Emebaka asked.

Absolutely. Acceptance is the first step towards the freedom of my mind.

Hunor would say stow the cryptic analogies. Maybe you should invite Master Ten in for a dip
, Emebaka said with a giggle.

Emelia chuckled and slid under the azure water once more.

On the deck of the merchant’s galley Hunor relaxed against the rail enjoying the heat of the spring sun. They had dropped anchor off the coast of North Ssinthor—Hunor gazed in trepidation at the coastline.

“We’ll be in there soon enough, mate,” he said. “Once we’re all recovered. That was some scrap, eh? How’s the arm?”

“It’s better for Master Ten’s welcome touch. Orla improves by the day also—I expect we shall have to send her onward to Port Helien once we drop anchor in Kâlastan.”

“Aye. Maybe we could forge some servitude documents and get her to do some graft for a change.”

“Indeed. To be fair to her, she rallied to our cause in the end. I owe her for her assistance against that Dark-mage. Perhaps she’ll elect to accompany us?”

“Don’t hold your breath, mate,” Hunor said, scratching his fresh stubble. He had begun reverting to his former standard of attire as soon as they had left Goldoria.

“Emelia seems curiously infused with energy,” Jem said, nodding at the girl as she splashed with giddiness in the sea.

Hunor was grinning at Emelia’s obvious joy. “I’m glad I told her. It wasn’t right to keep secrets from her.”

“It pains me to say that you are right, Hunor. The knowledge of her—condition—appears to have paradoxically galvanised her into concentrating on her magical studies.”