Dreams of Darkness Rising

by Kitson, Ross M.

  Marthir and Kervin were silent as they looked once more up the hill to the green of the forest. Kervin considered that Ygris might have a good point, although perhaps motivated by desire for a scalding sun rather than the rashness of this chase. The Artorian Knights were now an impotent order, concerned more with tournaments and show than true valour. Marthir had the courage of the lion and the focus of the predator stalking its prey but that could make her impulsive and dangerously blinkered at times.

  Four days ago they had ridden down from the foothills and into Sandar’s Beck, returning from a trip into the hills raiding an old tower-house occupied by a band of goblins. The goblin raiders had proven a good source of gold for the winter ahead, which they aimed to spend in Belgo with Sir Tinkek and Ograk, the absent pair from the group.

  They could sense that something was amiss as their steeds had taken them down the slopes towards the small shrine and mill of the Beck. A dark cloud of crows had greeted their arrival, feasting on the corpses of the kind priests and retainers that resided in this outpost of North Artoria.

  They had searched through the desolation, weapons at the ready. The clerics, worshippers of the god Umar, had long faced threats from the goblins that populated the hills. To this end they had hosted a small force of men-at-arms whom provided both reassurance and protection. It had been such a long time since any danger had threatened that the soldiers had taken to assisting the priests in attending the Beck’s water mill.

  As a consequence they had clearly been caught unawares and the slaughter was complete. Bodies lay strewn about and several had been cut down as they had fled; their backs were split open like the pages of the books they had so cared for. Rain had merged their blood in with the mud of the settlement. Some had been charred by an intense heat. Kervin, a tracker, could discern hoof prints interspersed between the corpses. Marthir investigated the interior of the shrine, tears shining in her eyes, whilst Kervin and Ygris examined the bodies. The bolts that jutted from the spattered robes were unusual in design and Kervin confessed he had not seen their like before.

  Marthir had emerged shaken from the priests’ library. Mysteriously, only a few books had been taken. Their curiosity had deepened as Kervin was forced to conclude that the tracks indicated that there was but two riders whom had wreaked such devastation.

  Ygris had used his magic to burn the bodies lest goblins descend and take parts of the corpses to wear as jewellery. Marthir’s dismay was apparent, for she believed that bodies should be returned to the womb of Nolir, the Earth mother. They watched the fatty smoke of the burning bodies irritate the circling crows. Marthir, anger burning as hot as the pyre, declared that this evil must be punished and thus their current stalking had begun.

  Now as they moved up the slope, Marthir walking slightly ahead, Kervin was beset by apprehension that whatever warriors could slaughter two dozen men would be no easy prey for the huntress.

  ***

  The woods were gloomy yet the air carried the welcome scent of wet pine. The floor of the forest was damp and boggy and soon the horses were fatigued. Marthir whispered to them and then indicated to the others that the time to make camp had come. They tied the horses to a branch and Kervin gathered some logs to make a small fire with. Ygris waved his hand and fire sprang in an instant, the wet wood sizzling.

  They had set camp at the edge of a small clearing, a natural dip in the forest floor that brought to Kervin’s mind the appearance of a wood temple. He watched Marthir kneel and begin praying to her goddess in Old Artorian. The words were rich and warm, like the sweetest honey of summer and he thought wistfully of the gentle heat of his boyhood naps in the green hills near Keresh. It was a delight to hear the old tongue again: he spent most days conversing in Imperial, the common language of trade and diplomacy, characterised by the harsh vowels of its Eerian origins.

  He unbuckled his sword, rested his back against a tall pine and spread his aching legs towards the fire. Ygris was scratching his chest in annoyance; the rain had irritated the skin that bordered the glowing ruby embedded in his sternum. Kervin felt a gnawing from his belly and concluded that he’d best hunt for supper before the light faded.

  Three magpies took to the air with a cry as the foliage at the far side of the clearing burst apart. Two riders erupted into sight, hooves thundering on the forest floor. Kervin yelled a warning and leapt to his feet, his sword in his hand.

  The two attackers were armoured in black plate armour unlike any that Kervin had seen before. It seemed fitted to the contours of their powerful bodies, like the black shell of a huge insect. Their helms were devilish: gargoyle-like faces merged back into black metal skullcaps. Dark cloaks billowed from their backs as they charged with alarming speed.

  Marthir was on her feet and her body warped and changed into the bronze form of a mountain lion. The green robe split down its side, the special thickened thread unravelling in an instant. The feline reactions saved her as she lunged from the path of the charging knights, the hooves trampling the emerald cloth. Ygris raised both hands and began casting a flame bolt but the first rider was upon him as a magical inferno erupted from his hands. The black knight swung his long sword in a deadly arc, striking Ygris in his side as the heat exploded into his horse.

  The animal’s scream echoed amongst the trees as its flesh charred and Kervin saw the knight’s leg armour glow. Ygiris span back, blood splattering from his side and he fell under the stomping hooves of the steed.

  Kervin ran forward to meet the second knight, his sword raised and steadied against the charge. The black warrior aimed a crossbow and fired and the impact threw Kervin back into the pine tree as the bolt impaled his left shoulder. Intense pain flashed into his arm and he felt the wetness of blood flowing down his side. With dismay he realised he was stuck to the trunk of the tree behind him. Fighting through the pain, he lifted his sword in defence as the knight thundered towards him.

  A bronze shape blurred in front of Kervin as Marthir leapt at the mounted knight. The impact unsaddled the warrior sending him crashing to the floor of the clearing. Marthir bit into the knight’s neck, her razor sharp teeth ripping the gap between breastplate and helm. The powerful jaws clamped hard and tore the flesh loose. Again and again she shredded the fallen knight, as his attempts to fight her off got progressively feebler.

  Kervin tugged furiously at the bolt. He knew that Marthir was loosing control, driven more bestial by the blood of her prey. Kervin could see the second knight, turning his horse, leaving the trampled and bloodied Ygris in his wake and aiming a crossbow at the lion. Marthir arched her back, evidently preparing to leap. Kervin strained with all his might, Marthir was a sitting duck; even with the agility of the lion she could not clear sixty feet to the mounted knight.

  The knight’s finger tightened on the trigger of the crossbow.

  A sword swung into the knight’s back as Kervin lunged forwards. His bloodied arm hung limply by his side, the broken shaft of the bolt protruding from his shoulder. Kervin’s blade dug deep, finding the join between breastplate and waist. Blood sprayed in a fan as the sword emerged from the knight’s flank and the crossbow fired. Marthir was already moving as the bolt hissed harmlessly past and within a few heartbeats she was upon the knight and Kervin.

  The knight turned and slashed his sword at Kervin’s head but he easily parried. The wounded horse reared at the sight of an advancing mountain lion and the dark knight fell back abruptly. Kervin marvelled at how swiftly the fallen warrior was on his feet, despite the apparent weight of his armour. Kervin pushed forwards, his sword deftly jabbing and slashing at the wounded knight. Dark blood ran freely down the knight’s armoured thigh as he parried Kervin’s blows, trying to keep both opponents in front of him. He stumbled on a wet log as he stepped back and Marthir was upon him. Her red tinted teeth tore at his arm, the metal yielding as she ripped into the underlying flesh. Bone crushed as she bit hard and her claws gouged at the knight’s helm.

  Kervin stepped forward and
thrust his sword into the chest of the recumbent knight. The warrior twitched once, gasped and then fell limp. Smoke began billowing with a hiss from the eye slits in his helmet. Marthir continued her attack, claws scratching a hideous sound as they furrowed the dead knight’s armour.

  Kervin kicked the lion in the rump making her jump forward in shock. She rounded with a snarl and readied to leap at him. He held his sword out to the side in a gesture of supplication.

  “Marthir…Marthir! Listen to me, girl, get control now. You are a woman, a human…a druid. Come on.”

  Kervin could feel sweat trickling down his neck as the lion’s green eyes locked with his own. Its haunches tensed and then Marthir pounced, the bronze fur a blur before him. He gritted his teeth for the impact, keeping his sword to the side for he had no wish to harm his friend.

  In mid-leap the leonine form of Marthir shimmered and it was the human shape of the druid that bowled into him, sending them both sprawling. Kervin looked up into the panting face of the Artorian girl. Her green eyes were wild and her pupils dilated. She hungrily kissed his mouth. He could taste the iron tang of blood and then she rolled off him, sweat pasting her short hair to her face despite the chill of the dusk.

  The tracker groaned and avoided looking at the naked form next to him; his wounded shoulder was still wet with blood. Damn these druids, he cursed, it was so much simpler in battle before she joined them. Avoiding her more passionate urges was as dangerous as evading the ones full of blood lust.

  Kervin glanced at the part of the broken crossbow bolt that jutted from the tree and yanked out the shaft from his shoulder, pressing on the wound to stem the bleeding. He limped over to Ygris. The mage moaned as Kervin approached.

  “By the ten thousand concubines of the rutting Sheik of El-Tuhor I think my days are at an end. Take my saddle bag of gold my friend and spend it on endless nights of jiggling ecstasy with women that would make your mother sell her hovel in shame!”

  Kervin laughed as the mage pressed on the wound in his side that had already stained his dark robes a worrying red. If he was talking then he would live, at least long enough for Marthir’s ministrations and healing salves.

  Marthir had regained her composure and was calming one of the horses. She ran her hand along its neck and then pulled loose a black leather saddlebag. She knelt and opened the bag, bringing out a large book.

  “Why have these knights gone to all this trouble for a book about the dead city of Erturia?” Marthir asked.

  The druid’s question drifted in the forest air like an early morning mist.

  ***

  Emelia.

  The familiar voice seemed to be calling from a vast distance, sounding faint and immaterial.

  Emelia!

  A blissful heaviness enshrouded her, comforted her. It was like a mother’s womb, secure and removed from the terrors outside. Her instincts implored her to stay within this tranquil haze, to keep as far away from the acuteness of reality that awaited her should she strive to emerge.

  Emelia. You cannot stay here.

  All of her senses jerked back into action at the same instant and she jolted awake slumped in a filthy alley.

  She looked around in disbelief and then at her own arms and legs as if she was a soul who had drifted in error into some giant marionette. What in Blessed Torik’s four winds had happened to her? Her skin was dirty, with cuts and scratches criss-crossing her hands and knees. Her hair was matted with grime, curly ringlets having escaped the bun; her yarkel wool cloak was ragged and snagged.

  Come on you idiot girl, focus your mind, you are in danger here, Emebaka said. Emelia concentrated, ignoring the sting of the scrapes on her body. Her memory was fragmented. It was as if the last few hours had been painted on one of the Keep’s stained glass windows then shattered with a stone. Shards of recall came back: images of pushing through crowds, running down jostling streets and stumbling past droves of merchants.

  The panic that had so driven her was gone now and in its wake she found herself shaking like a leaf in the breeze. Tears welled to her eyes then flowed down her cheeks. Was she loosing her mind? She recalled those vivid dreams of being chased by some wild dog and falling towards the shining cobbles of the square, each night the ground getting closer and closer. If you died in your dreams did you die in the world or did some part of you just disappear forever?

  Sandila had once said the Azaguntans believed dreams were your spirit leaving your body at night searching for messages from the Gods. What messages were the gods trying to convey to her? Nothing made sense any more, everything was changing and it terrified her.

  What had got into her at the carnival when she had heard the masque’s voice? How ridiculous that anyone should even care about a housemaid or what she had ever done or ever heard. She had surely misheard it, misinterpreted some comment to some other person of importance in the crowd? A pang of unease still sat in her stomach: was she so certain it wasn’t true?

  Emelia wiped her tears on her muddy sleeve and rose to her feet, wincing at the ache in her thighs. The Moon’s malady they called it in the kitchen: the sickness of the mind. Captain Ris had talked about it one evening with Mother. A young soldier had gone insane after some terrible incident in the lower city involving the miners. They had found him stood naked outside the gatehouse wailing like a new widow. Sandila had made some lewd comment about his lack of clothes and the effects of the cold and Gresham had struck her squarely with a spoon.

  Moon’s malady or not we need to get from this place, Emelia, Emebaka urged.

  You’re the one always nagging me to run away, to escape this little rock pool of a city, she retorted.

  This isn’t the right time for you to do this, we must return to the Keep and accept the punishments, Emebaka replied.

  The punishments were likely to be painful, she thought, as she emerged from the alley. Runaway servants were made examples of to the others and as far as Gresham was concerned that would mean the birch. Tears sprang to her eyes again. How was this fair? Why was it happening to her?

  Emelia had emerged into a winding street, its surface covered by cobbles and patches of browned straw. The houses leaned nosily over the road, producing a gloom that was deepening as dusk approached. Several city folk went about their business, pushing past without a second glance. In a nearby doorway a girl nursed a baby. A pair of old men sat smoking long pipes on a doorstep, their voices croaking like two skinny toads. From twenty yards away she could hear the noise and jubilation of a tavern, its golden light pouring like spilt ale onto the street.

  Emelia shuffled down the road, keeping her head low and her cloak tight around her. The state of the buildings spoke to her of Cheapside, the furthermost district of the lower city before the road that descended to the plateau of Minerstown. This was not an area for a young girl to be at night alone, especially a naïve housemaid like her.

  A gang of lads emerged from the tavern laughing and hooting. They were well dressed for such a neighbourhood. A flurry of hope arose in her as she saw them. Perhaps she could implore them for assistance and an escort to the upper city. Emelia advanced, fixing her gaze on the tallest boy and trying not to catch the eye of any of the street’s other denizens.

  “Uthor, my old mate, this is a splendid jape. Where are we to drink next? There’ll be no taverns left that’ll serve us after your trick with that serving wench!” one of the smaller men said, sloshing ale from a tankard.

  Emelia froze at the sight of Uthor Ebon-Farr. Uthor snorted then began to urinate against the wall of the tavern.

  “Plenty of places down here, boys. This is how the Thetorians celebrate—they have the right idea—not like our stuffy countrymen. Got to enjoy yourself while you can. Father sends me to the Knights soon enough, then there’ll be no rounds on good old Uthor.”

  Emelia retreated and walked straight into a drunken man staggering towards the tavern. He groped at her, chortling loudly, his scabby hands trying to get hold of her shoulders. Emeli
a moved with surprising speed, side-stepping his fumbling. The oaf fell onto the muddy road and roared in anger, his hand darting back and grasping her ankle.

  Uthor and his companions turned to stare at the commotion. One of the lads, a short nobleman with a petulant face, pointed with a swaying arm.

  “Look boys, a harlot in distress. Who’s for saving the day?”

  The group erupted into laughter and Uthor looked with recognition at Emelia as she tried to liberate her ankle.

  “No rescue needed, chums. She’s a floor scrubber at home. Father can always buy another.”

  Fury roared through Emelia’s ears and she kicked out at the drunk who clutched her foot. The kick struck the bridge of his nose and it split like a ripe tomato flecking blood over the cobbles. He screamed and released her; she whirled and ran.

  Streets flashed past as her shoes echoed on the stones of Cheapside. Emelia was in many ways a natural athlete, with strong muscular legs and a nimble frame, and the distance she put between her and Uthor’s gang was admirable. After ten minutes, she began to tire. She chanced a glance over her shoulder, then slowed to a more civil pace and walked down a deserted back street.

  The buildings were changing in character, the patchwork nature of Cheapside giving way to older structures. It was dark now and the moonlight provided limited visibility as she entered a small square that lay before a large pair of iron gates. The sound of flowing water was near and with relief she realised it must be one of the two rivers in the lower city, the Garnet or the River of Stars. That would give her a chance to get her bearings.

  A figure caught her eye as she entered the square and she instinctively stepped back into the shadows of a large house. It was a slender man, with a dark cloak and jet black hair and he was stood at the iron gates. He eased through a narrow gap in the gates and disappeared from view.