A Rising Darkness

by Nikki Dorakis

  “Please, my friends,” I said addressing the company, “Nothing has changed except the acquisition of a title.” The tension in the air lessened slightly, but an edge remained. I looked expectantly at Faedron who indicated Dthor with a slight twitch of his head.

  “It is not you they are disaffected with,” Faedron said in quiet, confidential tones. “They all know how he got the bruises on his jaw and why.”

  “And how, exactly, did that become common knowledge?” I handed my grail to Faedron who flushed slightly as he filled it with porter. “I see,” I said, and did, “I have told you before about the looseness of your tongue, corporal.” I took the quaich with a short nod and made my way to Dthor where he sat alone in the relative quiet of the ingle.

  “Captain.”

  The blond soldier rose to attention and saluted. I eyed him carefully. The bruising to his jaw was almost gone, but there was a small red line where the buckle on my sandal had cut the flesh. There would be a scar later.

  “My lord?”

  “I have mistreated you, and behaved dishonourably towards you.” I reached into the folds of my robe and drew out a Cassandrian gladius. The chased leaf-shaped blade glittered red-gold in the torchlight. “This was Anubis’ blade and I should like to present it to you as a token of esteem and goodwill.”

  The captain scanned the gold-dipped blade cradling it carefully. “My lord, you honour me, this is a truly beautiful weapon,” he handed the sword back. “but I have no need of another sword.”

  A dark muttering began in the barracks. To refuse an offering so obviously made as restitution was a deadly insult that could only result in a challenge to duel, and judging from the expression on his face the Captain was acutely aware of the fact. Dthor regarded me stonily as I returned the sword to its scabbard and replaced it under my cloak. “I do have need of a drink, however,” he said extending his hand and smiling. I handed him my chalice. Dthor held it up to the company. “I drink from my brother, and into myself I take his courage and honour.” He drank deeply and handed the cup back to me then handed me his own tankard.

  I gave a short bow. “I drink from my brother,” I replied, “and into myself I take his understanding and generosity of spirit.”

  There was a momentary silence and then the whole barracks erupted in cheering.

  “Well, I am relieved that has been settled,” Faedron said as I settled once again between him and Maegor.

  “Aye,” Aenar agreed, “That had the makings of a Grudge. And that is not something we need in the barracks.”

  As we ate and drank the atmosphere in the barracks lifted and soon the men were singing songs of old battles and warriors long dead. I broke a small loaf and handed half to Maegor.

  “I have a favour to ask of you, Maegor.”

  “Name it, my lord.”

  “I am in need of a horse,” I told the sergeant. “You have probably forgotten more about horses than most men know and so I am seeking your counsel.”

  Faedron leaned over close to Maegor’s ear. “That’s called flattery,” he told Maegor. To me, “And it will probably get you exactly what you want.”

  “That is strange, Kyr-Meriq,” the sergeant replied. “Only this morning I said to Faedron that you should consider buying a mount. And, as luck would have it, the horse traders will be in Morkopia the settan after next. Can you wait for fourteen days, my lord?”

  Given my lack of horsemanship I could have waited quite happily for fourteen cycles, but two settans was reasonable and I was in no immediate need of transport. So it was agreed that Faedron and Maegor would accompany me to the horse fayre in Morkopia.

  †

  CHAPTER 3

  A DEBT REPAID

  THE MARKET in Morkopia was heaving when we arrived despite the early hour. Maegor eyed the crush grimly; he disliked crowds and growled his discontent constantly until Faedron told him to shut up. The young corporal consulted a nearby sundial. The Horse Market would not open for at least another four sectas. The young man scanned the surrounding stalls and began to browse making the point that since there was plenty of time before we could engage the horse traders we might as well make the best of it.

  Maegor grunted. If there was a ‘best’ to be made of being trampled by a herd of mindless trolls he failed to detect it. Faedron turned to me with a pained look.

  “You know, Kyr-Meriq, some say that the youths of the barracks are attracted to yon Sergeant’s rugged good looks. I have always maintained that it is Maegor’s sunny disposition that attracts them.”

  Maegor muttered something obscene in retort and announced that he was going to find a tavern cautioning us not to wander too far from the main square. “He will pine if he cannot see us,” Faedron told me.

  “I need to be able to find you,” Maegor clipped laconically.

  Faedron stuck his tongue out as Maegor walked away.

  “Is Maegor actually well?” I asked as the sergeant disappeared into the throng. “He seems unusually preoccupied.”

  “It’s the crowds. It really is. He hates them.” Faedron responded.

  I was not so sure. There was something in Maegor’s demeanour that was odd, out of character. It was as if he was wrestling with some moral dilemma. It put this to Faedron.

  “Perhaps he is suffering from unrequited love,” he answered, staring at where the soldier had vanished from view. He turned back to me “Come let us see what delights the market holds.

  We had only been browsing for half a secta when Maegor reappeared accompanied by the tallest and blackest Kendirith I had ever seen. Maegor introduced the man as Abrith, a horse trader from the deep southern land of Kendir. “And the Kendirith are not just renowned for their immense fighting prowess,” Maegor told us; the horses of the Kendirith were second to none. Not only were the beasts courageous, intelligent and extremely loyal to their masters, they were also robust, fleet-footed and very beautiful.

  “Much like their breeders then,” Faedron observed, clearly smitten by the ebony colossus at Maegor’s side.

  “The little lord should come and see my children,” Abrith said, his rich baritone voice alive with welcome. “I have the perfect mount for him.”

  “It’s probably some Illithian cob about ten spans tall,” I mumbled to Faedron. “Little lord, indeed,” I added huffing.

  I do not know why I suddenly took umbrage at a comment concerning my height, it was true that I was quite short and would remain so for the rest of my life. At twelve cycles I contracted the Red Ague, and though the disease had not injured my heart, thanks largely to Anubis’ skill as a healer, it had left me stunted. Through a rigorous exercise routine in gymnastics and dance I had built a strong, well-defined physique and my skill in these disciplines had won me any number of trophies at competition. Aenar had been secretly coaching me in the use of the boq, a short hardwood stave and, despite the fact that Anubis probably would have cursed him to the Realm of Mists and beyond for it, he had also been teaching me swordsmanship.

  “You will be a deadly opponent, Meriq,” Aenar told me. “You will always have the element of surprise. Men will always look at you and see a boy, your size and speed will always work well for you.”

  I smiled to myself at the thought of how surprised Faedron or Maegor would be if we were ever to spar; Aenar was the best swordsman in the Royal Guard.

  We were at the equine marshalling area almost before I realised it. Abrith pulled the large, slatted door open and called to his comrades within. More Kendirith appeared, greeting Maegor as if he was a long-lost brother.

  Abrith gestured to a shorter, stockier man. “This is Givril, our Dthamrid—our Headman,” he translated noting my bewilderment. “And this,” Abrith continued ushering me forward, “is the little lord of whom Barith speaks so highly.”

  Givril regarded me with a directness I found quite discomfiting. “So, little lord, do you think you have skill enough to master one of our children?”

  “I confess, I do not know, sir. I tru
st that Maegor would not put me at risk by suggesting it.

  The chieftain turned to Maegor. “So, Barith, you think he is worthy of an Ibid-djinn.”

  “Maegor made a low bow. “I believe as I have said, my brother. But it is what you know of his heart that will decide.”

  The chieftain smiled. “Ever the diplomat, Barith.” He turned to Abrith, “Bring the three,” he said.

  When Abrith returned he was leading three horses—white as snow they were, with manes grey as sword steel. They stood taller than even Abrith and I could scarcely see over their backs. Even Maegor looked stunned at the stature of them. “These are truly the children of the god,” the Sergeant said shaking his head.

  I let out a heavy breath. Zetan horses were elegant, but these creatures were exquisite. I stood, awed by the majesty of them. I became aware of Givril standing behind me. “Choose wisely,” he said in his dark tones, “for the horse has already chosen you. Take the wrong one and you will not live to tell of it.”

  “Why is nothing ever simple with you, Meriq?” Faedron asked

  “I suppose life would then be unspeakably tedious,” I answered moving closer to the horses.

  “You are not going to gamble with those things are you?” Faedron went to restrain me but found himself looking squarely into Abrith’s chest as the man blocked his path. “Maegor . . .”

  The sergeant merely nodded for me to go ahead. Before me the trio began to stamp and snort. The tallest of the three was different from the others for he was not pure white. His hooves were black as were his mane and tail, and he had a black wedge-shaped star in his forehead. As I approached he lifted his head high as if preparing to rear. “You,” I thought, I said, “It is you.” I moved toward the creature with slow, deliberate steps, acutely aware now that any one of these animals could drive me into the ground like a tent peg if it reared on me. I reached out and touched the horse’s chest. It let out a snort, and reared up as if I had burned it, flailing its forelegs. Then it plummeted towards me. I closed my eyes, waiting for the impact. When it came down I felt the earth shake, and when I opened my eyes the beast’s head was level with mine. It made a soft whiffling sound and placed its great head against me and nudged me against its shoulder.

  Givril smiled. “You chose—wisely, little lord.” He turned to Maegor, “As did you, Barith.”

  Abrith appeared from the shadows carrying a black leather saddle and bridle. The tack was richly tooled with tribal markings and Kendirith magical sigils, and just as I began wondering how in Zoar’s name I was actually going to pay for this creature, I noticed, as the Kendirith threw the blanket and saddle over the horse’s back, that my crest and Anubis’ had been entwined to form one sigil, cast in gold and fixed as a badge in the centre of the bridle. I turned to Givril and Maegor, my eyebrows raised expectantly.

  Givril remarked my unspoken question and smiled. “I think I should explain, no?” Givril said to Maegor.

  “I think you should explain, yes.” I told him.

  Givril signalled to a youth behind him. The boy brought a low table and several cushions and when the table had been set and the wine poured Givril motioned us to sit with him. And while the youth served refreshments the chieftain began his tale.

  “War makes unlikely friends,” Givril said, smiling at Maegor. “This man you call Maegor, we know as Barith—more accurately pronounced Ba’rith. It means “Saving Hand”. Your father, Anubis, we knew as Ba’Thuriel—the hand of God’s Vengeance.”

  Anubis and Maegor were travelling through Kendir during the Pentageonate war. They happened on Givril’s town as a band of marauders were attacking. The coalition of magician and militia in Maegor and Anubis was more than the band could withstand and within moments the pair had completely destroyed the band of twenty.

  Maegor took a deep draught from his goblet, holding it out once more for the youth to fill. “Until that day,” he said, “I never put much credence in magic. I would never have thought that men could burn so suddenly or completely.” Maegor looked at me, the pain of the memory etched in every line on his face. “He reduced them to ash, Meriq. Ash.”

  “Anubis did that?” I pondered Maegor’s words for a while. It was true that Anubis had been extremely skilled in the manipulation and generation of fire, a skill he had spent a great deal of time teaching me, but it was entirely too much to think that the old man could or would kill with magic.

  Givril refilled my cup himself. “What you must understand little lord, is that they were not just looting or raping, they were killing—they were killing the children; youths your age, boys, girls, infants. They impaled the babies on fence posts or spears—anything that was sharp and to hand . . .” Givril’s voice trailed off briefly. “We are a peaceful people, we do not carry weapons our horses and dogs are trained to protect us; we have no other means to defend ourselves save our staves.”

  “Your father saved my entire town, my family—and me.” Givril signalled the youth to bring more food. “The Ibid-djinn you chose today is my gift to you, the tack is a gift from Abrith as thanks for his life. It is a small thing and can never repay the debt we owe Ba’Thuriel.”

  “I am honoured, Givril,” I said taking the hand he offered.

  “And one more thing,” Givril said. “Aarin,” he called. The dark-skinned youth came forward and genuflected. “You are to go with Kyr-Meriq and deliver whatever service he shall require of you. Your life is his.” The youth bowed low to me and moved to stand behind me. Givril turned to me. “Young lord, I give you the life of my son, and in so doing, I repay the life I owe your father.”

  “I cannot . . .” I began, intending to refuse the ‘gift’ of the man’s son, but Maegor placed a warning hand on mine. Clearly, a refusal would be a vast insult, and Givril, sensing my intent began to rise. “I cannot begin to find words to thank you, Givril. I am overwhelmed.”

  The chieftain continue to rise, “And every bit as tactful as your father.” The man smiled at me. Turning to his men he signalled them away. “Come. Our business is finished here.” Givril turned to his son and spoke quickly in his own tongue. Aarin glanced at me and then bowed to his father.

  When we were alone Maegor rose, offering his hand to help me up. Aarin picked up my satchel and then led the horse over to where we stood. “And now, Kyr-Meriq?” Maegor asked, smiling at what I could only imagine my expression to be.

  “And now we find a tavern,” I answered.

  “Ah, a jar of good porter ale!” Faedron exclaimed, then, giving Maegor and me a dark scowl, he added, “To celebrate the fact that you were not smeared across the stables by that horse of yours. Maegor how could you have put Meriq at such risk?”

  “The risk was mine to take, Faedron.” I told the corporal, “And we will not be drinking porter. I need something considerably stronger if I am even to think of riding that beast back to Kalina.”

  I awoke to the sound of crackling fire and the aroma of roasting hare. Faedron and Maegor still slept by the hearth, stirring only when Aarin lifted the small cauldron from the flames and accidentally knocked it against the hearth-stones.

  The morning was crisp and cold. A light frost dusted the grass and the shrubs glittered brightly in the early morning sun. I sat up slowly, stretching the stiffness out of my muscles. I would not be sorry to be back in Kalina and my own bed. But that was at least another day’s ride. I grimaced at the prospect, kicking the bearskin off and pulling on my boots.

  “Your pardon, my lord,” Aarin said as he hurried to my side. “I did not realise you were awake.” He threw his own cloak over mine to ward off the chill of the dawn before fetching a cup of hot tea from the hearth.

  The brew was a strong, herbal infusion fortified with grains and aromatic spices. It was, apparently, much prized by Aarin’s people for its regenerative properties being as it could be both medical elixir used in poultices to speed the healing of wounds, and used as a potent stimulant when ingested.

  “And you expect me to drink this
?” Faedron asked, sniffing the brew suspiciously.

  “No, saddiq,” Aarin responded with careful, clipped formality. “It is not for me to expect anything from you. Drink or do not—become warm and nourished or remain cold and hunger.” The youth’s tone, though carefully polite, made it quite clear to all of us that he did not much care which Faedron chose to be. I smiled into my drink as Aarin turned his attention back to the roasting hares; Aarin was going to be an interesting addition to my household.

  The stable yard was buzzing with activity when we arrived. Grooms and cavaliers alike jostled for position against the rails as we rode through the archway and into the enclosure. News of Vyrnath, as I had named my horse, had clearly travelled before us on wings.

  “Is it really an ibid-djinn?” One of the younger grooms stood wide-eyed by the trough

  “Of course it is,” one of the horse guards snapped, “You only have to look at it.”

  Such comment and question persisted until we came to a halt and I prepared to dismount. Vyrnath lowered his head allowing me to swing my leg over his shoulder and then sank into a low bow extending his right foreleg and dropping down onto this left knee. Silence fell like a dropped rock as the horse regained his stance.

  “Now that was impressive,” Faedron said as he took my belongings from me and hitched the pack over one shoulder. “Most horses won’t do that.”