Darkness Rising 1: Chained

by Ross Kitson

Chapter 4The Half-Ogre

  Blossomstide 1924

  On the first night out of Bulia they struck camp amongst the rocks that loomed high above the mouth of the river Dun, ninety miles south of the city. The rocks were the site of the ruins of an ancient lighthouse, now but a shell of its former magnificence. Ivy had weaved its tendrils around the worn stonework, which still glistened with the rain that had dogged their journey south.

  The remnants of the tower provided shelter from the incessant wind that whipped from the sea to the south of them. The Sea of Mists ran from its western shores on the coast of Goldoria, bordering the north coasts of Mirioth and Midlund until it crashed against the western coast of Eeria. Its name was apt: for much of the year thick sea mists would roll in without warning, precipitated by the strange currents that ran its warmer waters up into the icy Northern Ocean.

  On this night the mists hung low, far below the heights at which they had camped. Amber light shone from a new lighthouse on the rocky island out in the bay. Its derelict predecessor now glowed to a different lustre: a campfire lit by the knights and their companion, the Air-mage Ekra-Hurr. The griffons rested a short distance away, weary from their laborious day in the air. They tore at the flesh of a deer seized towards the end of their journey.

  The three prisoners were jammed in the rear corner of the shattered building, their backs against the damp stone. Emelia could not recall having ached so much from a day’s travel before. Her legs were constantly cramping and the limitations to the positions she could adopt, due to the thick rope that bound her wrists, did not help matters.

  The nearest guard was Sir Unhert, a young knight who had carried Emelia on his griffon that day. He sat idly sharpening his sword with a blade stone, the golden firelight reflecting from his armour. His helmet was at his feet and his chainmail coif was rolled back around his neck. Emelia had already evaluated that he was perhaps the kindest of the knights, in obvious discomfort about the manner in which the patronising Sir Minrik addressed the prisoners.

  “I’d say at this pace, once we’re through the rains of this crappy island, we’ll be looking at a week or so to get to North Thetoria,” Hunor said to the other two in a subdued voice. “Might be that I can stretch that a little with my directions, I don’t think they are too familiar with my old homeland. Might give us more opportunity to jump ship, if you know what I mean?”

  Jem regarded him coolly. He was dishevelled and obviously irritated. “I’m not so sure how much credence we should place with your plans at the present time, Hunor.”

  “Eh? Oh… look, I’ve said I’m sorry. Seriously, Emelia, I didn’t think that she… she’d take it that far.”

  “They almost beheaded me, Hunor,” Emelia said, eyes as damp as the stones. “What in the Pale’s name were you playing at?”

  “I… I… look I’m really, really sorry. Really! I underestimated these knights. I promise you I’ll never put you in that situation again.”

  Emelia jutted out her chin, a tear appearing at the corner of her eye. Damn it, she thought, she wanted so much to put on a braver face for her mentors.

  Jem interjected, his voice low but hard.

  “This isn’t a game of Kirit’s eye, Hunor. We can’t afford to gamble with these characters. The Air-mage won’t need much of an excuse to accidentally kill us all, stolen treasures aside.”

  Hunor looked forlorn at Emelia and her anger diminished at his expression of pain. “It’s just... that I’m, I’m concerned. I’m concerned that I’m a liability to you.”

  Emelia could feel a wave of emotion bubbling like a hot spring to the surface. Get control of this, Emelia, Emebaka hissed, they will not respect you if you show such frailty.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Jem replied, a touch too swiftly. “We are a team. You’ve proved your worth time and again and will no doubt continue to do so. No, the problem is our lifestyle.”

  The silence that followed weighed as heavy as their aching limbs. Emelia looked with puzzlement at Jem, his normally neat hair matted to his forehead by the rain. He had a fervent look about him.

  “How do you mean?” Emelia asked.

  Jem shuffled with discomfort against the stones. Green moss coated the relic of a large fireplace. Emelia was reminded of that night they had first met in the Keep, at Jem’s disgust of being covered in ashes and dirt.

  “This existence,” Jem said. “This limping from one job to another, enduring times of boom and bust. We live the life of vagabonds, content with a scam well run and a bloated purse of gold. Yet we know ultimately our mark on the world is as instantly forgettable as footprints in the sand erased by the incoming tide. We need some purpose, some task, something to aspire towards. We need something worth dying for.”

  “This again? No one forced us into the way we live, Jem,” Hunor said. “No one put a crossbow at our heads and made us thieves. We decided eight years ago when… all that madness happened, that digging around ruined temples and wading knee deep in goblin gore wasn’t for us anymore. You decided that too. You seem to forget that during the tricky times.”

  “What would you fight and die for then, Jem?” Emelia asked.

  “What would I die for?” Jem said, taken aback. “I’m not certain, but I know we have a greater direction than this. The gods gave us our gifts, you and me, for a higher reason than lightening the treasure chests of Azagunta.”

  Jem and Emelia’s eyes locked for an instant and she saw in his thin pale face a fervour that she had not witnessed before; perhaps it had always been there, she had just being looking in the wrong light.

  “Well in the interim,” Hunor said. “While you’re waiting for a glowing tablet of stone to descend from the clouds and proclaim our quest to end all quests you’ll forgive me if I work out how we’re going to live long enough to fulfill our greater purpose.”

  “How? That elixir the mage has given us has somehow taken our magic away.”

  “Indeed, it’s Goldorian Pure Water, taken direct from the Spring of Goldoria,” Jem said. “It costs a fortune—they must really want to take us back alive. Perhaps that will weigh in our favour.”

  “Is it permanent?” Emelia asked.

  “No, no. I think a sip will last a day,” Jem said. “Mind you whilst we’re tied up we can’t use our spells even if they hadn’t dosed us up with the potion.”

  The three suddenly became aware that the knight had stopped sharpening his sword and had turned to face them. Emelia noted his chiselled features and well-groomed moustache that he now smoothed with discomfort.

  “I think that’s enough chatter from you three. Get some sleep, tomorrow’s journey will be more wearying than today’s. And don’t let the captain hear such talk—she’ll separate you at night and dangle you from the griffons by the day.”

  Even Hunor was silent at the prospect of a day’s flight suspended by rope from the underside of a griffon. The knight returned his attention to some wood he was whittling. Noise drifted like smoke on the breeze from the four others who sat around the fire fifteen feet away. Emelia rested her head on a damp sod that had grown between the scattered stones. The fire made a flickering show on the walls and soon her eyes were heavy.

  She drifted uneasily into a slumber, vaguely aware of Hunor and Jem muttering. Loose thoughts weaved through her mind, like the amber ghosts on the towering walls. Hunor had meant his apology with earnest, she was certain of that. He had made a mistake and in truth she accepted that it happened. The harsh realisation was that she was angry with herself. She was angry at being used by the knights in such a manner; angry about being the weak link in the team. She was frustrated at not facing imminent death with more valour, ashamed at her fear and her tears. This whole situation was so unfair, she thought drowsily. To have tasted freedom, like the finest nectar of summer’s bloom, then to have it wrenched away so cruelly. Was this some curse, laid upon her for challenging that Dark-mage? His white face flashed in her mind’s eye again and her palm throbbed in recall at
the vile sensation of the black opal. The darkness of sleep seemed that shade blacker this night. She still hadn’t got around to telling the others about the Dark-mage but she felt so weary now.