Darkness Rising 1: Chained

by Ross Kitson

  ***

  Emelia kept knocking into her friends as they hiked upwards. An icy feeling gripped her gut as they neared the castle.

  “It’s just like the Keep,” she said.

  “The Eerians built it in the time of the First Empire,” Jem replied.

  “No, I mean that it has the same morose air about it. There’s a pall surrounding the place.”

  Jem did not reply. They arrived at the second gatehouse and then passed under an iron portcullis and into the courtyard of the castle. It had stables to the right and forges to the left. They traversed the yard to the wide steps at the far end.

  Jem isn’t taking me seriously, Emelia thought. But I can feel it from the stones, like they are crying to me. There’s an evil here.

  And we walk into it with hands bound tight, Emebaka replied.

  But with the Wild-magic pulsing again in my veins.

  The steps ascended to a set of open oaken doors, decorated with the silver and black crest of the baron’s house. The entrance hall was large and galleried with two stone staircases running up the left and right walls and a half dozen doors leading further into the castle’s interior. Once more Emelia felt the memory of the Keep tugging at her mind.

  A half-dozen guards were stationed on the first landing. They wore chainmail hauberks and round basinets with flat nose guards; their tunics were grey with a black castle emblem and Emelia could smell the scent of polish on their armour and swords.

  “Is there some occasion?” she asked as they walked down the hallway towards a large set of doors.

  Holbek jumped at her voice and paused. The knights, captives and hooded mage all halted. Orla looked with irritation at Emelia.

  “The baron entertains Lord Jerstis, one of his oldest banner men and master of the lands near Greenford and the Falls of Sork. They travelled a good hundred miles to get here,” Holbek said.

  “Which is one good reason for him not to be disturbed,” an accented voice said, from the shadows.

  The colour drained from Holbek’s ruddy face. A black robed figure stepped from the shade of a side passage, hunched as if the effort of addressing strangers in the castle was a weight upon his shoulders. His red hair was lank and greased back. Two dark featured guards stood behind him, their hands on their sword pommels.

  “Master Quigor, I thought perhaps the baron would relish the presence of further noble guests,” Holbek said.

  Quigor’s eyes slid over the group like grave mist. They lingered a touch longer on Emelia and she felt her skin crawl at his scrutiny.

  “You are not paid to think, Captain Holbek, you are paid to guard. Certainly you are not paid to presume to know the baron’s thoughts.”

  Orla did not bother to conceal her distaste. “Indeed, master Quigor, a servant may never truly presume to know a superior’s mind. Speaking as a Lady of Eeria I am certain the baron will be forthcoming with some legendary Thetorian hospitality.”

  Orla strode forward abruptly, with Sir Minrik a fraction of a second later, such that Quigor and his two guards were shouldered aside. The knights and their captives reached the doors and pushed them open.

  A cacophony greeted them as they advanced into the large hall. It was vast, with a vaulted ceiling from which three huge chandeliers were suspended. Rich tapestries and banners were hung from the curved columns that soared to the ceiling, conveying the feeling of walking into a gigantic tent.

  At the far end of the hall was a dais. Two richly dressed figures sat on a pair of ornate thrones. Scattered at the fringes of the polished wooden floor were perhaps two-dozen Thetorians. Their attire varied from chainmail hauberks to voluminous white shirts and leather trousers. Emelia noted that almost all were armed.

  In the centre of the hall two Thetorians were duelling with tournament blades. Both of the thrones’ occupants had looks of intense boredom. As the six entered the Great Hall one of the duellists tumbled to the floor, blood streaming from a gash in his head. The victor roared and held his sword aloft.

  However all attention in the room had focused on Orla, Sir Minrik and the four others. Holbek was pushed aside as Quigor stormed into the room. Emelia noted his two guards were no longer with him.

  “Baron, I must beg your forgiveness. They were brought hither without my knowledge,” Quigor said. He scuttled like a spider across the wide floor.

  The baron sat upright with a look of intense curiosity. He was a solid man, early into his fifth decade, but still vital and strong. His curly brown hair had thinned at the top, yet ran thick down the sides and his beard was tinged with silver.

  “Honourable knights, please forgive the churlish manners of my advisor. He is an Azaguntan after all and not versed in the art of courtesy,” Baron Enfarson said. His voice was rich and charismatic and his jibe raised laughter in the hall.

  “No apology is necessary, sir,” Lady Orla said. “The tactless demeanour of the Isle of Thieves is renowned even in the heights of Eeria. Indeed our journey began in the rain spattered warrens of that land.”

  The tall man at Baron Enfarson’s side smiled. “Then you are most welcome in the baron’s halls, as you shall be in mine. It must be past my grandfather’s day since our chambers have received Eerian knights. May we have the pleasure of your names?”

  “It would be my delight, Lord Jerstis. I am Lady Orla Farvous, third lance of the Silver Wing, and my companion Sir Iyri Minrik, fourth lance of the Eerian Knights of Air. My other colleague is Ekra-Hurr, a scholar. I shall not trouble you with the details of our three captives.”

  “It is truly a shame my errant son is not present to witness your arrival,” Baron Enfarson said. “I confess to some confusion as to why two Air Knights should be passing through my halls. I sense some purpose to your visit?”

  “You are correct. We have come to reclaim the blue crystal that you had stolen from my uncle’s residence in Coonor.”

  A gasp echoed around the hall at the statement. For the briefest of instants a flicker of recognition registered on the baron’s face. Orla smiled.

  “What slander is this, my lord? Eerian etiquette is a curious thing,” Quigor said.

  The baron laughed, perhaps a fraction too swiftly. “Ho, Jerstis, is this some jape you have arranged? Perhaps it is some comedy and drama hailing from the music halls of Kokis?”

  Orla stood as still as the statues of the crypts. “It is no jest, Baron.”

  Emelia caught a blur of motion from the corner of her vision. The victorious duellist leapt forwards, drawing his sword. Lord Jerstis cried for him to hold but the Thetorian impetuousness was upon him.

  “The honour of this house shall not be tarnished by your foreign lies! I shall deal with this as a Thetorian should,” he yelled.

  Yet Orla was no pampered fop clashing steel over the matter of some love quarrel. She moved like quicksilver as the youth thrust his sword towards her. Her longsword flashed from its scabbard and met the blow with a ringing parry. She stepped back and easily met two more slashes, then twisted her sword and sent the Thetorian’s blade clattering to the floorboards. He looked aghast as she placed the tip of her sword to his chest.

  Lady Orla lowered the blade and then, in a flash, punched the Thetorian in the face. His nose exploded as her mailed fist shattered it like a ripe tomato. He staggered back into the arms of his friends.

  Orla gestured at Baron Enfarson with her sword.

  “Surely Thetorian tradition is to duel only where there is dispute over some issue of honour. There is no dispute here, Baron Enfarson—you have my uncle’s crystal.”

  The baron stood, placing his hand on his sword pommel. The action was mirrored by the two-dozen men in the room.

  Hunor and Jem exchanged glances and even Sir Minrik was looking concerned; Emelia could see a sheen of sweat on his brow. Good, she thought, I hope he gets it first.

  “Your knowledge of the Thetorian way is admirable, m’lady,” Quigor said. “That is twice my baron stands accused. One would assume
you have some evidence to support you in this accusation?”

  “Speak swiftly, knight, for it is said only a fool stands before a Thetorian and a fight,” Baron Enfarson said. A ripple of tense laughter rang around the room, like the rumble of distant thunder before a storm.

  “A scroll bearing the baron’s seal was witnessed by the thief who stole the blue crystal some four years ago, in the den of iniquity that is Azagunta,” Orla said.

  “Azagunta! Always Azagunta,” Quigor said. “Was it a reputable thief then?”

  “I’ve always thought so,” Hunor piped up. “I mean obviously a lad’s got to make a living. A bit o’ this, bit o’ that. But I’ve never screwed over someone who didn’t deserve it, have I, Jem? Well, apart from that mad old fruit in Feldoni…”

  Jem was shaking his head at Hunor and Orla was glaring. Minrik mouthed that Hunor’s death was going to be very painful.

  Baron Enfarson looked in disbelief at Hunor.

  “You would come to stain my honour with the word of a cutpurse, knight? Has the wind god blown the sense from you? Believe me when I say that should you and your men survive the impending duel, then the ransom for your Order to pay will be more than your weight in Eerian magnate!”

  Emelia too was astonished that the knight would hinge a potential diplomatic nightmare on the word of Hunor. She would think twice about lending him twenty Azaguntan groats.

  “You stain your own honour, sir. The thief simply serves to point us in the direction of the quarry—we have more than one hound,” Orla said.

  Ekra-Hurr pulled back his hood to reveal his tattooed head. Quigor’s expression fell as the Air-mage swept an arm in the air and magic glittered.

  The base of the baron’s throne glowed blue and a small compartment popped open.

  Emelia got a sudden wrench in her gut.

  “Jem, Hunor, something terrible is going to happen. Please, we need to get away.”

  In her head Emebaka was screaming. Emelia you need to get free, get out of here, now, NOW!

  The moment seemed suspended in time, like the image captured on the darkness when one’s eyes first close in bright light. Then the scene changed with terrifying speed.

  Quigor moaned and his head and body curled, like paper thrown on a fire. His skin stretched as the bones of his face thrust forwards. His flesh became thinner and thinner until with a ripping noise it split, spattering a cloud of blood across the horrified Lord Jerstis.

  The demon that stood before the throne in Quigor’s stead had a shining metal head that dripped with blood and slime. Emelia felt a wrench of nausea as she realised it had the beaked design of a plague mask. From the black robes protruded two metallic hands: the left with long metal talons coated in rust, the right with a vicious metal hook. Shreds of Quigor’s macerated flesh spattered on the floor.

  The creature swept its glassy gaze over the hall and spoke with a shrill voice.

  “I am Black Bile, first of the humours. I claim the blue crystal and the soul of any who stand before me.”

  Emelia had been right. Escaping from the knights was the least of their worries now.