A Rising Darkness

by Nikki Dorakis

  “I have no idea what we witnessed, Captain.” I answered my gaze following Dthor-Aid’n’s. Kylos was sitting next to Aenar with his cloak thrown open in such a way that the garment had fallen covering one of Aenar’s legs and the young archer seemed to be resting his tankard on the veteran’s thigh. To all intents and purposes it seemed an innocent casual occurrence and one that was happening in plain view of the soldier’s king and his commander, Prince Markos—a pre-requisite I supposed of validating a bond of friendship without making it liable to the suspicion of being otherwise improper—after all the Provost had just saved the young man from almost certain serious injury in front of the whole of the Zetan and part of the Morlan Court.

  “Almost certain?” Dthor-Aid’n asked turning his chair slightly so that we were facing each other.

  “Why almost?” Maegor asked

  “Oh please!” I growled. “A dancer of Kylos’ skill is not likely to overbalance and fall. No. I think he did it on purpose and I think that if Aenar had not caught him he would have saved himself.”

  “So was it some kind of courtship? I knew it!” Faedron said beaming all over his romantic countenance. “Aenar should have the love of a beautiful young man, what with his wife being so far away in Polis—I have always said so.”

  “Perhaps it was a preliminary to qum-shoq. Markos said he thought Aenar would make his archer a good war brother.”

  “You are much too young to be so cynical, lad,” Dthor-Aid’n told me as he topped up my drink. “You are but sixteen.”

  “Ah but suddenly, Captain, I feel so much older!”

  I have no idea how long I had been asleep before I was awakened by Aarin knocking on my bedchamber door and calling for me to waken, but it did not feel as if I had slept at all. Grabbing my dressing robe from the bedside chair I stumbled to the door.

  “Master, Captain Dthor-Aid’n is here.”

  Wiping the sleep from my eyes I followed the youth out into the main lounge.

  “Your pardon Ez’n,” the captain said saluting, “but there has been an incident. The king requires your presence immediately at “The Red Stag.”

  I turned away motioning the soldier to follow me. “What in the nine hells could be so important that the king needs to see me at this time of night?” I demanded shrugging off my night robe. “And at a tavern of all places!” Hearing no answer I turned to face Dthor-Aid’n finding him standing with his back to me. “Captain. Did you not hear me?”

  Dthor-Aid’n turned to face me, turning his eyes away quickly. “The king needs your counsel urgently, Ez’n. I cannot say more.” He moved quickly to the ottoman at the foot of the bed and picked up my thobe. “If you please, Ez’n, your clothing.”

  I took the robe noting with somewhat rather more amusement than was proper that the soldier was blushing. “Why Captain, I had no idea you were a prude.”

  “I am not, Ez’n. But your nakedness is not mine to look upon. It is not seemly.”

  “I apologise, Captain. I did not mean to offend your sensibilities.”

  “You did not offend them, Ez’n. You merely made me acutely aware of them.” The soldier gave me a small smile and offered me his shield arm.

  “You are a strange and interesting man, Captain Dthor-Aid’n.” I remarked as he settled my cloak about my shoulders as we left the apartments.

  “I am honoured that my lord should find me so.” Dthor-Aid’n responded as we left my apartments and repaired to the tavern where Janir was waiting with Keelan, Markos, the ubiquitous Korlaq and a mixed cohort of Morlan and Zetan soldiers.

  “There has been an incident, Ez’n,” King Janir told me.

  “Yes, Sire, I rather gathered that from the good Captain.” I replied. “Is there any danger that I will be acquainted with the nature of this incident any time soon?” I was aware that my irritation was showing, but I was sorely tired, annoyed at having been dragged from my bed in the middle of the night and thus I did not much care how I sounded to anyone.

  “There has been a death, Ez’n,” Keelan said stonily. “I asked King Janir to send for you since he values your opinion and judgement so highly. And since you are Anubis’ ward and his successor—so do I.”

  Without another word the two monarchs led the way to a small courtyard at the back of the tavern. The place stank of dog piss, stale beer and illicit sex. “Not the most salubrious location for a tryst,” I observed dryly and then turned my attention to the corpse that lay under one of the wall torches. “Oh Zoar!” I muttered.

  The fallen man was a Morlan hoplite. He was laying face down in the filth of the courtyard a Morlan blade protruding through his back. The man’s scabbard was empty and thus at first glance it would appear that he had been run through with his own sword. There were no signs of a struggle. I took a breath. This was indeed “an incident” and one that could well threaten the Alliance. What was worse is that it could lead to a battle and with the massive contingent of Morlans both within and outside the city, and the Zetan army still in the process of gathering the capital could be overrun in a matter of sectas.

  Moving slowly and carefully I positioned myself so as to obscure the view of the men behind me. Flexing my mind carefully I unlaced the man’s right boot and tangled the thong around his left foot.

  “Does anyone know what was he doing out here?” I asked.

  “Pissing,” Korlaq answered readily; a little too readily in my opinion.

  “Indeed?” I responded flatly, “Clearly he did not realise that the tavern has a garderobe—I noticed it as I came in,” I added quickly as Korlaq went to speak.

  “And so wizard?” Keelan demanded, “Is it accident or murder?”

  “Well, your highness, if it is a homicide then he is the first man in living history to be murdered by a bootlace.” I turned and pointed to the man’s feet.

  “Lie! Trickery!” Korlaq shouted. “Why was his sword drawn?”

  “I can only suppose that while he was out here “relieving himself” he heard something—a city fox, a wolf, a dog . . . .”

  “He was a soldier,” Korlaq hissed at me. “He knew those sounds.”

  “Ah yes, general, but tonight he was clearly a drunken soldier. Who can say what he heard—or thought he heard. Clearly it was something he perceived as a threat and this caused him to draw his blade. Even more clearly, he tripped and fell and being drunk was unable to save himself.”

  Korlaq glared at me. “You son of a . . .”

  “Silence!” Keelan snapped at the man. “The wizard has spoken. I accept his judgement and so will you. Take your man and put him in the earth. He did not fall in battle so he cannot be burned.”

  The tavern was deserted when we went back inside. Keelan ordered a pitcher of porter from the barkeep and placed it on a nearby table. He gestured to the chairs “Gentlemen—a toast to the fallen and to you Ez’n.”

  “Captain, this is not a time to stand on ceremony. Sit with us,” Janir said kicking out a chair for Dthor-Aid’n.

  Keelan passed me a goblet, watching as I transferred the contents to my quaich. He gave a brief warm smile of approbation, “A gift from your friends in the ranks I take it?”

  “Yes, highness.” I handed the king the goblet that he might see it. He turned it a couple of times in his large strong hands before making the unprecedented and shocking gesture of drinking from it before handing it back to me. The significance of such a gesture was wasted on none. A Morlan never drank from any cup other than his own unless he was making a blood pledge.

  The king smiled at me again and then was suddenly serious. “Men of my command took your family and stole your life from you, Kyr-sini. I am responsible for the actions of my men and thus my blood is now yours.”

  “You honour us all, King Keelan.” Janir said quickly before I could speak. “So, are you truly satisfied with Meriq’s counsel?”

  Keelan nodded. “I am, Janir, completely satisfied.”

  “That is heartening,” I said before I had thought, “
because I am not. I am not at all happy.”

  Keelan frowned. “What are you saying Ez’n?”

  “That I actually believe the man was murdered.”

  “But his laces . . .” Keelan began.

  “The notion of a highly trained soldier, and a Morlan after all, falling over his own feet in a reasonably well lit courtyard is as completely ridiculous to me as it should be to you, King Keelan.” I stated. “No. I believe that he was killed. I have no idea why, though. It could be any number of reasons. A gambling debt, an argument over a girl—or boy . . .”

  Keelan made an abrupt growling sound. “Morlans do not . . .”

  “Go with boys? Yes, so I have heard along with any other number of other interesting and largely fictional stories about soldiers. Your majesty men are men the world over. But of one thing I am completely certain and that is that whoever killed him was known to him.”

  “Why on earth would you think that, Ez’n?” Markos asked aghast.

  “Are you suggesting that another Morlan murdered him?” Keelan asked obviously outraged at the mere thought of it.

  “I am saying that his killer was known to him. I have no idea what nationality his assailant might have been though I do have my suspicions.”

  “Which are?” Keelan demanded.

  “My own, your majesty.” I answered, “It is not my way to make an accusation I cannot substantiate, King Keelan. But when and if I can prove my belief you have my word that you will be the first to know.”

  Keelan nodded, drained his cup and signalled for his son to follow him as he rose.

  As the tavern door clacked shut Janir placed his hand on my forearm. “Is there something I should know, Meriq?”

  I gave the king a cute smile. “There are doubtless many things you should know, my king.”

  “Are you playing me, Ez’n?”

  “No sire,” I answered seriously. “I think Korlaq killed that soldier or at the very least had a lackey do it. I get the feeling that neither his heart nor his loyalty is with his king on this venture and this was a very poor attempt at sabotage. But as I say, I have no proof, just a feeling.”

  “A wizard’s feelings are generally accurate,” Dthor-Aid’n observed stonily.

  “Indeed they are Dthor,” Janir answered. He drained his cup and rose bidding us to remain seated. “Finish your drinks gentlemen,” he placed a restraining hand on Dthor-Aid’n’s shoulder. “You need not accompany me, Dthor, I will have the Provost escort me back to the palace. Your task, as always, will be to see the Ez’n’s safety.”

  †

  CHAPTER 16

  RISING DARKNESS

  THE MORLANS had settled the barbican well over the lunation they had been in residence. The soldiers had busied themselves constructing shelters and some of the more enterprising amongst them had even set up makeshift taverns and eating houses. The smiths too had been hard at work using local stone to build forges so that they could cast swords. Those with the skills had carved small statues which they were selling in the markets and some of the artisans were even casting small bronze figures. To all intents and purposes the barbican had become an extension of the city, offering the citizens of Kalina a number of interesting diversions. The Morlans being skilled fighters had started putting on displays of sparring and unarmed prize fighting was becoming a growth industry.

  “Our guests seem to have a flair for trade as well as war,” Aenar observed as he and Faedron joined me in the enclosure.

  “Indeed,” Faedron agreed as he paused to inspect a small bronze cast of Kindra the six-armed Morlan god of luck. “This is beautiful work,” he said testing the points of the tiny swords the god was holding. “How much?”

  The artisan, a veteran solider of about forty cycles looked Faedron over, his quick eyes taking in every detail of the young soldier’s dress. “For a corporal of the Royal Guard? Oh, four silver pieces.”

  “And for a corporal of the Ez’n’s House?” Faedron asked indicating me.

  The soldier smiled. “Ah! For such a man the price would be six silver pieces. After all such a man would surely earn more than a mere royal guardsman.”

  I turned to Aenar. “It would appear that the corporal has just stabbed himself in the foot.”

  The Provost laughed and nodded. “And he has still managed to put his good foot in his mouth.”

  “Shall we take a jar?” Aenar asked as we passed a makeshift tavern.

  “I suppose it would be impolite not to,” I answered. “Is Maegor on duty?” I asked as a young infantryman doubling as waiter set down a jar of dark Morlan ale. “It seems I have not seen him for some time.”

  “Maegor is—indisposed, Ez’n.” Aenar said in a rather guarded tone

  “Maegor is sulking,” Faedron asserted as he joined us.

  “Sulking? What about?” I asked.

  “Oh who understands the ways of a hillsman?” Faedron answered testily, “or cares,” he added ignoring the stern look Aenar was giving him “They are oft times more obtuse than wizards. He’s scarcely grunted at me over the past three settans.” He set his statuette down heavily on the table and seized a tankard taking a hefty swig.

  “Four or six?” Aenar asked picking up the statue as Faedron set his tankard down.

  “Three.” The corporal answered. “I agreed to sit for him.”

  “Sit for him?” Aenar echoed. “What do you mean, “sit for him”?”

  “Apparently he wants to use me as a model for the knight in the pieces he is making for a game of Choctaw. I could have got it for nothing.”

  “Oh and how would you accomplish that?”

  Faedron grinned. “Oh I merely had to get the Ez’n here to agree to model for his Wizard.”

  Aenar laughed. “My friend, even you do not have charm enough for that!”

  Whatever Faedron might have been about to say was cut off by the alarm sounding from a nearby watch turret.

  “Rider! Rider approaching!” the guard shouted.

  Almost at once the barbican walkways were bristling with archers and javelineers. Aenar and I ran to the nearest vantage point and peered out over the plain.

  Sure enough, a lone horseman was approaching at full gallop across the plain. As he drew closer we could just make out that he was carrying a Zetan pennant. The order for the men to stand down went out almost at once and Aenar and I hurried down the rough stairs and out to the roadway calling for Faedron to run and alert the city guard. Whatever this rider’s business was he was riding as if the Lord of Evil himself was on his heels.

  The man was about a spear’s throw from the barbican when his horse suddenly dropped under him throwing him some ten cubits before sliding to a halt in a cloud of dust and gravel.

  Shouting for a stretcher I ran towards the stricken rider. Two Morlan hoplites, a healer and a horseman with his spike axe at the ready arrived in short order just as I reached the fallen horse. The beast was lathered beyond imagination and had had obviously reached the end of its endurance. The rider was in no better state. He was leaking blood and black slime from the numerous cuts on his arms and a more serious wound in his side. The man grabbed the front of my robe as I knelt beside him.

  “The king! I must speak to the king.”

  “Peace friend,” I told the man taking a cool moist cloth from the healer and wiping the man’s brow with it. “Peace. I am the Ez’n speak your piece.”

  “Kos is gone,” he said, “Black soldiers with blades of fire . . . Polis is next. They are coming. You must warn the king.” Then his eyes dulled and he fell to mumbling.

  The Morlan healer knelt beside me pulling the stopper from a stone jar. He dabbed a stinking green paste on the wounds. “It is all I can do,” he told me in a badly broken common tongue. “These wounds are beyond any healer’s skill. This will ease the pain and staunch the blood and slough but the wound will not heal my lord.”

  I nodded to the healer and rose. “Let us at least get him to the camp and make him comfortable.”
/>
  By the time we reached the barbican infirmary the soldiers had already butchered the horse and were hanging the meat to cure in smoking kilns. Clearly they did not intend that good meat should waste.

  We had scarcely settled the man in a cot when Janir and Keelan arrived followed almost at once by the three princes, Korlaq and Deputy Idril. I gave the monarchs what information I could. It seemed that the man had ridden from Kos five days previously pausing only to alert Polisians to their danger before riding on. The river had been frozen enabling him to cross unhindered and this had taken two days off his journey. How his horse had not died long before this day was a mystery. The man must have been a skilled cavalier, so Aenar said, to have paced the horse so well—that or he had managed a change somewhere en route, possibly Delos.

  Throughout all the talk I noticed that Keelan had hardly uttered a word and was merely staring at the man in the bunk. At length he turned to me. “These are the wounds made by the Devil Blade,” he said grimly and turned to his healer. “Be certain he does not suffer.”

  The healer nodded and reached for a small jar of bright green leaves.

  “Bitter Sage!” I said, “You cannot mean to poison this man.”

  Keelan put a hand restraining hand on my shoulder as I moved towards his healer. “Geddin is a skilled healer, Ez’n, but this man is doomed. Unless we act now he will die in unimaginable agony. These wounds cannot be healed. They never heal.” So saying his lifted the hem of his chainmail showing me a bandage. Unwinding it carefully he exposed a black ulcer two fingers wide and almost a handspan in length. “I have carried this wound for ten cycles, Ez’n, only Geddin’s skill prevents it from eating me alive.”

  I turned to Geddin. “You are a healer and so am I, Geddin. I will find a way. Do what you can for him.”

  Geddin looked at Keelan who merely shrugged. “Do as the wizard says,” he said gruffly, and turning to me, “I hope you do not come to find that your compassion has become cruelty.”