Marthir grabbed Kervin’s arm in panic and yelled for him to get hold of Ygris but the mage had entered the fray. Kervin flinched as quarrels hissed through the open door from the knights in the square.
Marthir’s world exploded as she began to turn to run. She staggered forwards, a crossbow bolt having ripped through her shoulder. A wave of intense pain flooded her mind, warm blood splashed across her tattooed breasts and she stumbled and fell through a rotten wood table.
The inn blurred for a second then came jolting back into focus as she scrambled to gain her feet. Shards of glass from the window had slid unnoticed into her bare feet. Her arm was numb and useless and the pain threatened to drag her into unconsciousness. Every part of her fought the urge to just lie down and surrender. She cursed her own frailty as she tried desperately to concentrate on a transformation but her thoughts were scattered like pollen in the wind.
The inn was a haze of noise and motion; she felt the warmth on her face as Ygris unleashed his fire magic, heard the yells of Kervin as he fired his bow at charging black knights. Was that Ograk, bleeding from a dozen cuts running towards her? Green flames met golden fire, darkness met light and the night met the day. She rolled in exhaustion amongst the splinters of the table, the wood of the shattered furniture now oddly on top of her, feeling the sharp spikes of the barbed quarrel in her flesh.
The flames hit the gallons of spirits flowing like blood from the wounded bar.
Marthir’s instinct was to curl in a ball as the explosion ripped apart the side of the inn. Through her pain-wracked brain she was dimly aware of an eruption of dust and a crushing weight that slammed down around her like a giant’s foot. In a burst of adrenaline she wrenched magical power from deep within her, drawing the energy from the ancient soil, calling on the sparse earth magic for one last spell.
Then all was dark and warm.
***
In the depths of the inky blackness it began: a single thud, like a drum. Then there came a pause, perhaps an instant, perhaps an eternity and then a second thump arose. The endless night was cold and vast but slowly warmth crept forth, invited in like a reluctant guest. The heat brought awareness, consciousness and a sense of being.
Her eyes flickered open, though only the irritation of the caked dust in them allowed her to discern between open and closed. The blackness around her was complete. She was overcome by an intense thirst and hunger, which ripped through her guts like a knife. Her mouth was as arid as the Pyrian dunes. She moved to explore her surrounds when in horror she realised she was trapped.
Weight pressed on her legs, a dull pain that mirrored the throb of her shoulder. The air was stale and dank and the smell of burnt wood was all around her.
She was buried under the inn.
The hibernate spell had worked its magic. An enchantment rarely used by even the oldest druids it slowed metabolism and functioning down to a semblance of death. Yet in this suspended state the body healed rapidly, repairing torn tissues and rent bone as industriously as ants would repair their colony.
Panic began to pulse through her as her senses returned. Marthir was entombed, probably in an air pocket, with no way out. She had no comprehension of the passage of time; she could have been here for hours or days or weeks. The panic seared one thought across her young mind: how in Nolir’s name could she get free?
The air felt abruptly thin and she began to sob in desperation. She did not want to die, not in this place. When she had been younger and visualised her end it had alternated between heroic and peaceful. In one dream she was a brave warrior, charging against insurmountable odds like a true Artorian. In the more tranquil alternate she would be lying on a bed of moss with the green haze of the woods around her. But choking on dust as the air gradually thinned? She could not imagine a more dismal end.
Tears mixed with the fine powder on her face and began to sting. Damn it, she could not die. Her life was far too bright. I burn with primordial energy, she thought, I flame like the brightest star. I am a furnace of passion and life, with too much yet to achieve, too much yet to say and with too many regrets in my short span of years.
She reached out her aura to the earth around her and with despair realised how scanty the earth force was. The place was barren; its deeper soil was leached and drained, like animals in a slaughterhouse with their flesh white and cold. Tiny tendrils wormed to the surface, enough to sustain the weeds and stunted trees that choked the city, but true nature was yet to return. If she died here would her soul permeate the ground the way it must? Or would she be trapped for eternity floating across the surface like dandelion clocks on the early spring breeze.
“It’s not fair,” she said and her throat felt as if it were cut. Goddess, she needed water or she would die of thirst before the air ran out. If I get out of this, she prayed, I will repair the torn tapestry of my past.
But how was she to manage that? She could not move and the transformation to a lion or a horse would crush her before it shifted any masonry. The answer came to her with a grip of cold dread. There was another transformation she could attempt—but it carried great danger. Was she ready for it? In the months before this mission she had practiced and honed the change but she had only undergone the preliminary rituals, not the final. She could still recall the agony of the venom as it coursed through her shaking body. She could still remember her insides on fire as she lay exposed before the high druids, their cold eyes as impassive as the great pines that loomed above them. The taste of the warm serpent flesh was even now a rubbery memory in her mouth; the blood had run hot down her chin as she completed the Rites of Eris Fe. But the final ritual, the sealing, the joining of human and beast, was not yet performed and to transform prior to that risked loosing oneself in the mind of the creature you became.
Yet what choice did she have? A guarantee of death in this dark tomb, leagues from the bosom of Nolir versus the possibility of becoming a serpent in mind as well as body. In the end it was no choice.
Marthir focused, blocking out the pains from her legs and shoulder. She recalled the sensations of scales on her flesh. She remembered the smoothness of slithering through the leaves of the forest with her tongue flicking to catch a taste of the world. She visualised the kaleidoscope of scents, as bright in her mind as the vibrant shades of a new summer’s day as the gold of the corn meets the emerald of the hills under an azure sky.
The pressure on her legs eased as her limbs shimmered and warped. She had become the snake. The feeling of the rough stone slipping under her as she slithered across it was exquisite—like silk robes drifting from her body as she stepped into a warm bath. Her senses were magnified immensely: sight was of little use yet her sense of smell and taste guided her through the warren of crevices and cracks, the tang of fresh air tantalisingly close.
She hungered still. She hungered for fresh meat, perhaps a rodent, one that she could kill with a poison bite. She would eat it whole and enjoy the richness of its flesh melting within her gut. She hungered for a mate to seed those eggs that lay within her belly so that she may find a nest and bring forth new life. In the rear of her mind she knew there was another drive, another purpose. It was something to do with men, with friends, who unlike her had legs and arms. They were in danger. Yet if it was dangerous she would need to flee, slithering away through the dark corners of this place to seek safety for her and for the young she must yet bear.
She slowed as a pungent smell assailed her. It was the scent of burnt and decayed flesh. Was it dangerous? It would seem not, for it had been dead for a long time. She approached with caution, her tongue and nostrils evaluating the corpse. It was crushed under this mountain of rubble. A name came into her serpentine mind: Iogar. Big and stupid, not slim and smart like her.
The flow of air caressed Marthir’s scales as she slid past Iogar and she squeezed through a tiny gap following its direction. It was fresh air, imbued with a rich aroma that was moist and welcoming. The stone dust powdered her green skin as she breached
the surface and emerged into the night air. Her eyes adjusted swiftly as she peered around, desperate for prey.
A dead man was next to her, half buried in the rubble. There was no flesh just dry bone. It had just rained. She drank from the puddles avidly. Now she must seek prey before making her nest.
No, Marthir thought, I must find my friends.
No, she replied, with her serpentine mind. This place is dangerous; I must find prey and then a mate.
With a supreme effort Marthir took control and battered down the instincts of the beast. In truth, a large part of her did want to flee this dead city, eat greedily and even seek the warmth of a man. But the strongest part of her consciousness knew that this saga had only just begun and with a wrench of pain she began her change back to human.
She lay in the rubble for ten minutes, staring at the speckled sky and savouring the sensation of the night air on her tattooed skin. A patter of rain on her face reminded her of her thirst and she opened her dry mouth wide and relished the moisture as it trickled down her throat.
She rose with a groan and strode to a shattered water fountain on the perimeter of the square. It had once resembled a stone serpent, the dried up water spout being inside the snake’s open mouth. Rainwater had collected in the corner of the basin and Marthir drank slowly, mindful that quick consumption would cramp her stomach. An ebony statue of an old woman was crouched over the fountain and Marthir found herself staring at the gnarled face frozen forever at the moment of its annihilation.
Next she crept through the dark brambles that spilled from several of the ruined shops, weaving amongst the small purple flowered bushes in the square. Her deft hands sought out berries and with delight she found some sourberry, one of the few plants to bear fruit this early in the year. She picked a dozen berries carefully and, steeling herself, slowly munched them. Their piquant taste made her shudder.
She returned to the ruins of the inn to contemplate her next move, easing past the toppled statues that littered the square. A dead knight lay partly crushed by the rubble. Marthir bent and pulled off his helmet, on a whim. His head was now a grinning skull, its yellow bone pock-marked from acid.
She held up the helmet, turning it in the light drizzle as the red and silver moonlight struggled to illuminate the square before her. The workmanship was excellent; subtle curves and seamless joins. The faceplate was carved into a demonic image, breached only by two eye holes and a mouth slit. She had heard the flesh of the knights was bound to the metal. It was impossible to know for certain. When the knights died the armour was rigged to release acid that seared off their flesh leaving nought but bones inside the metal suits.
“Who are you strange warriors?” Marthir asked, thinking aloud. “You come from the darkest reaches of these wastes, for years only ever seen in passing or skulking around the peaks of the mountains. And now you plan something—but what? You ally with the undead and with sorcerers. You keep slaves to drive your abomination of a machine. Your armour and weapons are rigged with devices unlike any I have ever seen.”
As if to prove her point Marthir pressed her toes into the vambrace of the corpse’s armour. At the sound of a subtle click she pulled back her foot as four curved blades sprang from the metal.
She returned to her discussion with the knight’s helm.
“So, my vacant enemy, share your eternal wisdom with me. Every instinct tells me to slip from this dead place and return to Artoria proper. I have to report back to the Druid council—for it was they who sent me on this insane mission. Surely that is my real priority, at least according to that rarely tapped sensible part of my Artorian brain!
“But as I slid past you from this devastated drinking den I caught some scents. Faint, nearly washed clean from the stones, but none the less they still linger. They have my friends: Ygris, Ograk and dear Kervin. Each to a man would scream to leave them be. Well, Ygris wouldn’t, he’d say rescue me you lazy trollop of the trees. But the others… well, you get my point.
“But they are here because of me and the rewards promised them from the druids in the south. Well Ebfir and Iogar got their reward and then some. It’s down to me. What will your comrades do to the lads? Slavery? Sacrifice? Or something worse at the grave-tainted hands of that ghast? If I go now to the south it’s under the pretence of duty, a justification that will prove hollow when I lay safe in my cot under the mighty eaves of the Great Forest.”
Marthir stood and let the helmet drop to the ground; its clatter rang sharply in the night air. Her hair was soaked with the rain, but retained its natural spikiness. It ran in cooling rivulets down her skin. Damn this place, it had weakened her resolve and allowed despair to dent her confidence. Her friends needed her in all her untamed prowess. If they still lived she would rescue them and then flee into the mountains, where tracking them would be a challenge and the knights far fewer than on the two roads that ran from Erturia.
The lion’s courage pumped through her with every heartbeat and she let out a low snarl into the drizzle. This mission was far from over.
Chapter 2 Trial by Fire
Blossomstide 1924
The three moons sent complicated shadows through the villa—perfect for Emelia’s needs. She paused at the foot of the stairs that lead to the second floor, waiting patiently for the guard above to pass. Once the coast was clear she ascended the tiled stairs crouched low, cat-like in her black garb.
On the upper landing Emelia slid behind a statue of the god Engin, whispering a quick prayer to her patron. She counted inside her head as the guard’s footsteps faded then reappeared as he completed his circuit of the villa’s west wing. A count of a hundred; that’s a nice round number, she thought.
The guard halted before the statue and yawned, looking down the stairwell. He was armoured in ring mail and carried a short spear, with a sword strapped to his side. Blue moonlight shone through a wide north-facing window in the hallway. It mingled with the muted light from four lanterns that spouted thick whale oil smoke into the air.
After ten minutes Emelia’s legs were beginning to cramp. Her patience was rewarded when the guard finally turned and resumed his stroll back down the west corridor, tapping his spear tip in a slow rhythm. Emelia counted ten then slipped out from the recess of the statue and padded down the corridor.
She was dressed in a black tunic and black leggings that in turn covered dark leather armour. Strapped to her slim back was a sword, its hilt and pommel gilded and shaped like the head of an eagle. Her face was covered with a black woollen balaclava, her blonde tresses braided tight and wrapped in a bun. She reached a door about halfway down the corridor as the guard disappeared from view around the corner.
Emelia eased against the door, noting instantly it was locked. In a flash she had a long pick in her hand, manipulating the brass mechanism. She calmly kept a steady count in her head as she worked. Sweat was starting to rise on her forehead under the itchy wool of the balaclava as she reached forty-five. With a click the lock released and quickly she slipped through the door and gently closed it behind her. She heard the returning step of the guard in the corridor outside as it shut; he was three seconds quicker this time. She listened as his footsteps passed.
Reassured of her continuing secrecy she moved into the room, her eyes evaluating its contents. She rolled up the balaclava to make a hat and wiped the sweat off her brow. The room was about twenty feet square with a window that allowed the light of the three moons to partly illuminate the interior. Its walls were decorated with paintings and small tapestries and two large maps of Azagunta. Three tall cabinets dominated the wall that the door occupied. A desk sat in the room’s centre with a high back red leather chair on its far side.
Emelia moved around the desk and to the window. It was barred, with the bolts and grill secured to the exterior of the wall. Through the gaps she could see the ornate gardens of Hegris Grach’s villa sprawling out towards the orchard and the perimeter wall.
The villa was in many ways a paradox. Th
e shell of the building was old Azaguntan: stones had stood in this spot fifteen miles from the city of Bulia for a millennium. From this traditional core Grach’s family had added layer upon layer of superficiality and its latest incarnation had adopted the style of a villa akin to the fashionable residences in the sunny climes of Feldor. Yet the wide arches, tiled roofs, courtyards and balconies that leant themselves to basking in the sun and sipping wine were somewhat misplaced in the rain-soaked and fog-saturated slopes of Azagunta.
Hegris Grach was a thoroughbred Azaguntan: a medley of selfishness, arrogance, cunning and cruelty. His debonair appearance masked a festering soul that clawed money from every vice of Azaguntan society, from slavery to prostitution. He courted the corrupt ruling classes of the Isle of Thieves as readily as he arranged the murder of those who stood in his way in the seedy recesses of the cities of Bulia and Bomor.
Nothing like starting with a challenge, Emelia considered, as she checked under his desk. Her nimble fingers found the floor safe she sought, just where Hunor had said it would be. She smiled warmly at the thought of her friend and his endless planning of this burglary. Jem had continually reassured him of Emelia’s abilities yet she could see Hunor’s apprehension.
Emelia slid the floor panel back and felt the metal casing of the safe. It was too gloomy to make much out of the lock and it was sure to be trapped. She paused for an instant; was it worth risking light? She had no real choice. If she tripped the trap she would alert guards and be killed anyway.
Emelia lifted an unlit lantern off of its hook. She drew a tinderbox out of her pouch and lit the lantern, quickly dropping the hood cover to minimise the glow. The top of the sunken safe illuminated and she began to work on the lock.
Her eyes narrowed in concentration as she manipulated the mechanism with two picks. All of Hunor’s teachings of the last four years were focused on this moment, this instant, on the next twist and the next tweak. She paused, feeling an unusual pressure, and then slid a small blade to the side of her pick, pressing laterally. She felt an almost imperceptible release of tension as she cut the wire connected to the spring of the trap.
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