Lady Orla approached and grasped him under the chin. Despite the tension her haughty beauty intrigued Hunor and he smiled as her grey eyes met his.
“You take me for a fool, Hunor. I would say a better idea is that you accompany us to the Baronies and to the noble patron that has procured my uncle’s property. And given that we will be flying there at a height of a thousand feet I would strongly advise against any escape attempts.”
“As you say, m’lady,” Hunor said. Tension hung in the air between them and then Orla let his chin go.
Lady Orla handed Thintor Lemon-bite a bag of coins. His face contorted with another tic before he spluttered his thanks. With a cheery nod at Hunor he began to stroll out, then halted before Emelia as if seeing her for the first time. Emelia looked up at the scruffy Wild-mage, her body still shuddering and the two silently observed each other. Lemon-bite abruptly walked away, his usually cocky demeanour not as apparent, and left the Black Lamb Inn.
Inkas-Tarr turned to Lady Orla, the tension in his pose diminishing.
“Captain, we should perhaps make haste to the common and to Sir Unhert and Sir Robert. Loath as I am to say this but the thieves are likely to be well connected locally and we would not wish a further unnecessary skirmish to delay us.”
Orla nodded and indicated to Sir Minrik. He hoisted Emelia to her feet and shoved her to join Hunor and Jem, who were now beginning to stir.
“Come, my trio of thieves, we have a long journey ahead of us this week. Plenty of time to contemplate the errors of your ways and make peace with whatever gods patronise you,” Orla said. She flung the door open with a swirl of her travelling cloak, the stormy air lashing against them all.
The six strode into the whistling Azaguntan storm, the shutters rattling behind them. Olthik Slanteye forced the door closed with a sigh, bolting it securely and peace once more settled in the Black Lamb Inn.
Chapter 4 The 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 whom 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 Emelia, 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 fulfil 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, tomorrows 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 mage but she felt so weary now.
***
As Emelia’s breathing changed Jem and Hunor sat looking at one another in silence. Sir Unhert had risen and was talking to a second knight, Sir Robert, as he ate his meal.
“So what are your musings on this blue crystal, mate?” Hunor asked, his voice a whisper. “I knew it was worth a bit of coin but nothing to warrant this business.”
Jem glanced at the two chatting knights then shuffled nearer Hunor, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. “I’ll concur—it’s a mystery. I could sense magical power within it back in Coonor but nothing that exceeded a minor enchantment. It would appear that its true value has only become apparent after we stole it.”
“Aye, it’s a meaty response alright, mate. Quoting treaties and proclamations at us—thought they were going to bore me into a confession.”
“Any word of more than three syllables is likely to do that, Hunor. Personally I think the response is disproportionately small.”
“Come again?”
“Well if this item is so valuable as to warrant the High Commander’s ‘anything goes’ approach that nearly cost Emelia her head, then why send such a small group of Eerians? And why the mixture of knights and mage? Three air mages would be a more subtle and effective force.”
Hunor stretched his arms against the ropes and shifted to get comfortable. The two knights were still chatting.
“Well perhaps when they set out they were uncertain where they would end up. Three baldy wizards are sod all use if the crystal was tucked away in an Archbishop’s cupboard in Goldoria.”
“Indeed,” Jem said. “With the talk of treaties and so forth I wonder whether this crystal is of such value that they do not want the rulers of whichever nation it has ended up in to be aware of its presence.”
“So this is a covert mission? Jem, you’ve got the eyesight of the much feared mole demon of darkest Foom, a creature so visually ignorant as to lose its way in its own infernal burrow. They’re Knights of the Air—they wear plate armour and ride griffons.”
“Pyrian witticisms aside, I do agree to a point,” Jem said tartly. “But the griffons allow them to travel at a rate that only magic can emulate. They can snatch the crystal and make good their escape without being long enough in a nation for an international incident.”
“Aye, I see that now. The diplomats can then spin some choice yarn and smooth over the snatch in keeping with whatever treaty is in place. And whoever had the crystal—assuming the knights don’t kill ‘em—would be most unlikely to make a fuss over something they’ve stolen in the first place.”
“Indeed. This mixture of mage and knight indicates some compromise in evidence at the higher levels of Eerian politics. I don’t sense they are content bedfellows either.”
“All good for us then, mate.”
Jem was silent for a minute. The distant flicker of the knights’ fire twinkled in his eyes. Unhert had finished his food and was returning to his duty.
“We can not underestimate them again, Hunor. They are extremely well equipped. Goldorian Pure Water comes at a significant price. We are clearly vital to their mission but let us not overplay that hand.”
“Well we are. Emelia doesn’t seem to enjoy the same privilege.”
“Her safety is essential to me,” Jem said, his voice rising. “That’s a given.”
Hunor looked past Jem’s shoulder, his gaze flitting like an excited moth.
“Emelia can’t replace her, Jem. You do realise that?”
Jem stiffened in surprise. “That is an outrageous thing to say. I am the girl’s tutor and her mentor. Dragging your mind away from the sort of women you entertain for just an instant would allow you a realisation that that is not how it works. Not for a teacher and pupil.”
“How would you know that though? Exactly?”
“I’m not sure I follow your odd line of thought,” Jem sighed.
“Well your mentor and tutor was a four foot Galvorian monk currently living in a cave in the Silver Mountains. That’s not quite the same as a six foot blonde protégé is it?”
Jem flushed a deep scarlet. “Damn it, Hunor, you are totally off the mark here. For a start he doesn’t live in a cave. And for another thing perhaps you should focus on one of your famed escape plans rather than idiotic speculation about what you think, erroneously I shall emphasise a last time, is going on in my patronage of Emelia.”
Hunor began to reply then hesitated, seeing the steely glint in Jem’s eyes.
“We will not have this talk again. Am I clear on that?” Jem said, glancing at both Sir Unhert and Emelia. Hunor nodded in acknowledgement and then turned to try get some rest, shading his eyes from the glare of the camp fire behind a moss-coated stone.
***
Emelia swam through a turbid sea of darkness, thick like oil, its black depths infinite. It engulfed her, its weight pushing against her eyes, her mouth and her nose: a cloying, stifling totality. She screamed, but no noise came forth, for the ebony sea greedily soaked up the sound. In her mind she sought for the cynical reassurances of Emebaka but she was not there. Emelia was alone and that feeling terrified her far more than the liquid night that she floated within.
She became aware of a tiny dot of light; her mind tried to assess whether it was a speck of red light inches before her eyes or a gigantic fireball a million miles away. The speck flickered and then a second appeared followed by a third. In an instant there were hundreds of them, all around her, twinkling bright in the void.
The night coalesced into cavorting shapes and figures. Sound struck her all of a sudden, like a punch to the face, a primordial clamour that seared her ears like the hottest sun.
She was being dragged through a mass of hideous creatures, chained with rusted links to a half-dozen warriors. They were armoured in scale mail, sown to worn leather armour. Their muscular arms were tattooed with spirals and circles and their hair was a rich brown colour, braided a
nd hanging down their broad backs. A glance at her own body indicated she wore the same armour and bore similar tattoos.
Emelia looked beyond the screaming hordes that surrounded her and she could see hills and mountains looming in the distance, snow adorning their hazy summits. The plane that she marched across was a filthy mire of mud and waste, its epic expanse trampled and torn by the clawed feet of the army that now occupied it.
It was a goblin army. Their dark green faces and burning red eyes were contorted with hatred. Crooked noses dripped with mucous and rotted mouths drooled stinking saliva. Their raggedy armour and spiked shields were decorated with arcane symbols, daubed in crimson paint. They teemed like cockroaches as the prisoners were led forth, flowing back and forth like the edge of the sea.
Their jailors were stranger creatures, the servants of chaos named cravens. Emelia was uncertain how she knew this or indeed how she had recognised goblins. She had the sense she had always known about the creatures. She could almost recall the first time she had felt goblin blood pouring down her sword, thick and green.
The cravens were seven foot tall monsters, boasting four powerful arms and the head of a black wolf. They bore two serrated long swords strapped to their backs. They tugged with irritation at the line of prisoners and Emelia stumbled, her knees spattering into the thick ooze. Panic surged in her as she desperately tried to regain her feet. She twisted on her chained hands as she was dragged through the foul mire. It ran into her mouth and she gagged and coughed, fighting for breath.
The dragging stopped and she looked up. The scene rippled and flowed like molten glass and she was stood in a wide tent, the filth cleaned off her.
The interior was opulent yet garish; the drapes that hung from the apex of the tent were scarlet cloth weaved with gold in macabre patterns. Six braziers lit the room with a hellish luminescence, belching forth thick smoke, making the already warm air of the tent stifling. A suit of armour stood in the corner beside a wide rack of weapons: an assortment of swords, maces and morning stars. The plate armour was huge, its enamelled breastplate fashioned in the likeness of a leering devil.
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