by Paul Freeman
“What more would you expect from a race of barbarians.” Lorian glanced nervously at the door, seeking any sign of the giant Nortman; There was none.
“And Rosinnio is in the middle of all this. What is her role to be in this game of kings? The emperor has played his pieces well, but why? Why such an interest in the north? The Pirate Isles are so far removed from here that most of the empire’s citizens either don’t believe it exists, or that it is a mystical land shrouded in mist and populated with ogres and giants.”
Lorian sighed. “The emperor had a dream, many, many moons ago. He told no one but his most trusted mages and advisors. He told them his dream was so strong and powerful that it could only be a message from the gods, and it was they who should interpret it.”
“Dreams can be powerful,” Aknell agreed, “and one would imagine, the emperor being so closely related to the gods themselves that they would communicate through him.”
“Just so. He dreamt he was a small boy scampering up a rocky peak, on the scent of the great eagles and their nesting place. He wanted to steal their eggs and raise the chicks himself. Of course, the higher he got, the stronger the wind and the more nervous he became, especially when the powerful birds of prey, with their vicious talons and beaks saw him stealing into their nests and gathering the eggs. They attacked him until he was bloody and raw and chased him from the mountain.
“When he reached the ground his whole body was covered in deep wounds. His clothes were torn and hung from him in strips. On the way down, as he fended off the attacking birds, he had dropped all of the eggs, save for one. A dark, hard egg like none other he had ever seen. He could hear the eagles high overhead laughing at him. All that endeavour and all he had left was one malformed egg. His efforts wasted. He took the egg home, deciding it would at least make a decent supper, but when he hit it off the side of the pan he could not crack it open. So, he called out for a chisel and a hammer to go with it. As hard as he tried to smash the hammer off the chisel head, the egg would not break. He flung it against the wall in frustration. Still, it would not break. He bashed it directly with the hammer, over and over, but still he could not open the dark, ugly egg. He gave up and flung it with all his might into the fire.” Lorian paused to take a drink. He grunted in satisfaction, smacking his lips as he sat back into his couch and nest of cushions.
“So what happened to the egg?” Aknell asked.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“The emperor woke the next morning feeling ill-rested and frustrated. He spent the next day unable to accomplish anything as the dream played on his thoughts. That night he dreamt the same dream, with the same outcome. When morning came he resolved to climb the mountain, as he had recognised it as one he had often played on as a child, although never before had he tried to reach the summit to where the great eagles made their home. So he scaled the rocky peak, following the trail of the boy from his dream. The giant birds chased him from their lofty perch just as they had chased the boy in the dream.
“On the third night he dreamt the dream again, only this time the egg began to crack as the flames burned brightly around it. Bit by bit, lines appeared in the hard shell until a scaly head emerged from the top of the egg. With a squawk it breathed fire at the boy who jumped back in fear. A scaly body emerged slowly from the egg, unfurling a pair of leathery wings. When it hopped from the flames it began to grow, its scales turning golden as it did so. The boy remained trapped in shock and fear unable to move as the creature craned its neck towards the ceiling until it was so large the house could no longer contain it. The boy croaked in fear, drawing the attention of the monster. With one snap it devoured him whole.
“The boy did not die though. He grew inside the beast and recognised it for what it was – dragon! Their minds melded, becoming one, neither in control of the other, nor of themselves. The dragon leapt into the sky and returned to its nesting ground where all of the birds of prey gathered and bowed down before it.
“The emperor woke then with fire raging in his soul, with one thing certain in his mind; that blood and fire would come to the world of men.”
Duke Normand: Duchy of Lenstir
Duke Normand stretched back on the sumptuous bed his eyes fixed to the blonde curls slowly bobbing below him. The walls of his chamber were adorned with weapons and tapestries of battle scenes long since played out. The polished wooden floor was covered in rugs and made from animal furs. He could feel the urge for release build inside him. His eyes lingered on the creamy-white shoulders of the girl, allowing himself a moment of indulgence where he did not have to think about war, or dream-witches. His hips arched as he got closer. The girl sensed it too and pulled back. Normand grabbed a handful of curls holding her in place. She gasped and gurgled but stuck to her task. He gripped her head firmly as he climaxed with a grunt and a shudder, only releasing her from his iron grip when he relaxed with a sigh. His eyes lingered on her full breasts when she sat up and wiped her chin with the back of her hand.
“Leave me,” he growled and shoved her away. She quickly gathered up her dress and scampered from the room. Normand allowed himself a moment to admire the curve of her hips and fleshy buttocks as she hurried from his presence.
He dressed quickly and strapped his sword to his waist. A painting of a grey-haired man in chainmail armour and brandishing the same broadsword loomed over him. His great-grandfather, a famed warrior and king’s champion, or so Normand had been taught by a succession of tutors. It was he who had formed the Dragon Knights of Lenstir, and he who had gained most fame and glory leading them. We shall see who will be ranked the most famed Normand of them all, he thought to himself before spinning on his heel and following the girl from his chamber.
His boots echoed off the flagstones as he marched towards a roaring fire at the end of his hall. “Bring me wine,” he instructed a girl hovering nervously at the entrance. She curtsied and hurried to do his bidding.
“She’s a pretty little thing.” A hushed voice startled the duke. He swung around to confront whoever had spoken. A dark-cloaked figure emerged from the shadows. Normand’s hand dropped to his sword. “Beg your pardon, my lord. Did I startle you?” A humourless smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.
The duke watched as a small man moved cat-like towards him. His eyes darted about the hall as if they could not focus on any one thing for more than a heartbeat. An angry red scar ran from his temple to his cheekbone. He pushed back his hood to reveal shoulder length, brown hair. Aside from his constant fidgeting and ugly scar he was a handsome enough man with powerful arms and shoulders.
“Mortaga. One day you will crawl out of the shadows onto the point of my sword.”
“I earn my coin by being discreet, my lord. Have I yet to displease you?”
“No, you have not,” Normand agreed. The girl arrived back carrying a clay jug. He took it from her and filled two cups he snatched from a long feasting table. He handed one to the smaller man and drained one himself, while his eyes followed the girl as she hurried from the hall. He scratched his chin and indicated for Mortaga to sit.
“I prefer to stand, my lord.” His eyes continued to dart about the hall, searching, probing the unseen.
“I prefer you to sit.” Normand’s voice was level, his glare iron. The smaller man sat. “Have you found her?”
For the first time, the cool façade dropped, just for an instant before Mortaga replied. “I lost three men. All died in their sleep, all with looks of terror on their faces when they were found. This is no ordinary task you have set me, my lord. My men have no defence against this witch. Each time she kills one the trail goes cold once again.”
“Are you not being paid sufficiently?” Normand raised an eyebrow.
“It is not the coin, my lord.”
“Are you saying you are not up to the task?”
The smaller man frowned, pushing strands of greasy hair back from his face. “My men are spies, thieves and assassins. There are none
to rival them in the Duchies or beyond, but this witch has powers we do not understand.” His eyes dropped from the duke’s heavy glare.
“You displease me, Mortaga. This is not news I wish to hear.” Normand’s hand trembled for an instant as he raised his cup to his lips.
“I am sorry, my lord. I have failed you in this.”
“Yes, you have. It will not be forgotten, Mortaga. Now tell me, what other news has your unrivalled,” he spat the last word, “spy network to report.”
“This will interest you, my lord. The emperor is building an army, a large army.”
“The emperor is always building an army. He is fighting wars on two of his borders already, not to mention countless insurrections. He cannot even trust his own family. His half-brother claims the crown is rightfully his. His sons are waiting on the day he dies, to fight their own war of succession, and all the while, the desert nomads to his south constantly raid and harass his border, despite him marrying his eldest daughter to the chief of the largest tribe. And you tell me he is building an army?” The duke’s eyes narrowed. “My faith in you, Mortaga, Chief of Spies, is rapidly dwindling.”
“He has also married his youngest daughter to a jarl of Nortland?”
“Why would he do that? I did not know he had a love of the Pirate Isles, anymore than we do here in the Duchies. Thieves and cutthroats every one of them. The All Father damn them to The Hag’s Pits!”
“Aye it’s a mystery. The Empire is a long way from here, farther again to the Pirate Isles. It’s hard to understand why he would wish to have any influence there. Perhaps he wishes to keep his own ships free of their pirating, but a daughter seems a large price to pay for free passage for his trading vessels.”
“No, that makes no sense. I will think on it. Leave me now.”
The cloaked man skulked from the room, while Duke Normand rubbed his temples. The heat from a roaring log fire warmed the air around him as a blanket of tiredness weighed heavy upon him. His eyes drifted shut for an instant before he snapped them open again. “Curse you, witch!” he roared and flung his cup into the fire.
“You would be wise to listen to him.”
The duke swung around at the sound of the new voice. “Stay out of my affairs, Mage. All but the one you are here for.”
The grey-haired mage shrugged and took a seat. He poured a goblet of wine before sitting back into the heavy wooden chair. “Mortaga is an excellent spy-master. You are lucky to have access to his network.”
“What do you know of the weasel?” Normand snarled.
“Enough to know the thin threads of his web spread far. Listen to what he says.”
“And what would you have me do now?”
The mage selected a ripe peach from a wooden bowl on the table. Juice dribbled into his beard as he savoured the flavour. “Elandrial is no mere woman. Sending spies and assassins to kill the High Priestess of Eor is akin to setting a mouse to catch a cat.”
“What gibberish are you speaking now? Speak plainly, man. I am far beyond tiredness for riddles.”
“You need a witch.”
“You talk nonsense! Do I not already have a mage in my employ? And where would I find a witch, let alone one who would agree to work for me. The king banned witchcraft. He is burning them the length and breadth of the kingdom. Witch? You are as big a fool as that spy.”
“The King would ban all magic if he could. He does not trust those of us with the gift, but he is afraid to. Afraid of what would happen if every practitioner of magic were to turn against him. And with good cause. So, he has turned on the magic of the small folk, mainly women who heal the sick and concoct love drams that maybe work and maybe don’t. They are out there. The good ones will avoid detection. They know the sound of every creature, animal or insect in the countryside. They can tell you the name of a tree just by the sound of a leaf falling to the earth. And they can track a magic trail as if they were following footprints through the mud. Find a powerful witch and have her lead your assassins to the Priestess.”
“And in the meantime?” Normand asked, a gentler tone in his voice.
“In the meantime you are safe. Elandrial has fled far from your borders. She is being hunted and constantly on the move. What she does, entering the dreams of men, takes an enormous amount of energy and power. It is exceedingly dangerous for her to travel the dream-path. Although she can kill and manipulate the dreams of a man, it is when she is most vulnerable. The greater the distance the more the danger to her. She will not trouble you, my lord, unless she can get a lot closer.”
“That gives me little comfort, Mage.” Normand stood up and glared into the fire, hypnotised by the dancing flames. “So, how do I find a witch?”
“I will do that for you.”
Lady Rosinnio – Jarl Crawulf: Wind Isle
Rosinnio could feel the heat of the sun on her upturned face as she looked into the clear azure sky. The warmth made her skin tingle pleasantly bringing a smile to her full lips. A faint taste of cherries lingered in her mouth while the scent of cinnamon hung in the air. The thought of such treats made her smile wider. Closing her eyes, she turned towards the sun, allowing its rays to absorb beyond her flesh and warm the spirit at her core. When she opened them again she could see the fertile plains of Sunsai stretched out before her, a myriad of colours in a patchwork of fields fed by the river named for the goddess Neline, queen of the gods. It meandered a course, nourishing the soil for thousands of leagues, bearing a fleet of water-borne traffic throughout the empire and out to the Fiery Sea. Although she had never seen it, she had heard many stories told, of how its waters burn red at sunrise and sunset as Possodon the lord of the sea bleeds his own life force that every sea creature may have life. Silently, she thanked the sea god for providing them with the bounty of his realm.
Her pleasant thoughts were dispelled by a dark shadow creeping over her. Suddenly she felt a wave of pain ripple through her. She cried out, falling to her knees as she clutched her stomach. The sun and blue sky were gone now, replaced by eternal darkness and cold. So cold. The pain grew in intensity, pulsing through her, making her wretch. Harsh, bitter voices grated on her ears adding to her discomfort. She tried to shut them out, but they were relentless. The pain spread up to her head, throbbing at her temples.
Memories came to her then of other, similar dreams in her past, a dark shadowy figure always hovering just beyond her vision.
“Make it stop,” she whimpered. Or had she just thought it?
“Wake, girl!”
“My lady.” Voices spoke over each other. She tried to focus, but the pain was unbearable.
A vision appeared before her. She wanted to scream as she stared into cold, cruel eyes. The Lord of the Dark has come for me, she thought.
“My lady, what is wrong?” a softer, more familiar voice.
“Move aside, girl.” The pale eyes bored into her, chasing away the sun, snatching her from the ramparts of her father’s palace.
The Lord of the Dark has abducted me to his own realm. She wretched again, choking back tears. Bring back the sun, please. She choked as her throat burned raw.
“Poison,” someone spat the word.
“Aye, and there’s sorcery at work here,” another said.
Poison - sorcery, the thoughts reverberated around her mind. She coughed, expelling bile and dark viscous blood in equal quantities. Her head throbbed, her stomach burned like she’d been run through with a spear. Slowly the room came into focus. Her handmaiden was there, her face twisted in concern. The cruel eyes watched her too, and she recognised them. Those very same ones had watched her every night since she had been wed, filled with hunger and lust. How many times had she been unable to look into them as he rutted on top of her. The eyes that had taken her from her home, maybe not those of The Lord of the Dark, but not so far away as to make little difference to her. Crawulf, her husband, barked orders she did not understand, to men she did not recognise. She was confused. Had one dark figure controlling he
r life been chased back into the shadows by another?
Pain gripped her like a fist clenching and twisting in her gut. Sorcery. The word echoed in her mind.
“Seal the gates! No one leaves or enters the castle until I have the heart of whoever has done this in my hand!” She could hear Crawulf barking orders.
Rough hands pulled and prodded her. Her jaw was pulled open and a cool liquid slid down her throat, making her gag and cough. Yet, she still had not the strength to lift her head. It burns. She wanted to protest, but no words came out. Blackness beckoned her. Oblivion calls to me. She yearned to see her father’s lands again, to feel the heat of the sun on her face. Her head throbbed, making her wonder if the darkness would be such a bad place after all. To feel no more pain. A release from the captivity of her marriage and life in a harsh, new world.
“Drink this, child.” Words drifted over her, she could no longer place voices with faces.
I did all you ever bid me do, Father. I don’t want to die. A chasm yawned before her, cold and dark.
A sharp pain stung her cheek. “Come back to me, girl.” She felt another slap on her face. It was enough of a shock to snap her attention from the darkness. “The potion will soothe your pain.”
I don’t want to die.
***
Crawulf stood behind his counsellor, Brandlor, as the old man gently pulled down his new bride’s jaw and poured a vial of creamy liquid down her throat. Rage ignited inside him as he watched the stricken princess gag and choke on the elixir. The depth of feeling he bore her took him by surprise. He had not realised how he had grown fond of his exotic new wife, with her odd southern ways and delicate sensibilities. The sight of her unblemished, olive-coloured skin sent a fire raging through his loins every time she disrobed. Yet, there was more to it. He enjoyed her company, felt a ridiculous thrill when she smiled. Seeing her face contorted in agony set anger boiling through him.