Dreams of Darkness Rising

by Kitson, Ross M.

  Emelia felt a mixture of terror and excitement as she observed the figure sat on the chair before them. She sensed three others with her and their fear was palpable. Sweat ran in rivers down their rippling torsos.

  Although sat it was evident that when stood he would be perhaps seven foot tall. The ogre blood that flowed within his veins had conferred him a dark blue skin tone though not nearly as dark as the four ogres that stood guard at his side. The human blood had served to tame the harsher ogre features. His eyes were less slanted and wider; his mouth narrower and his teeth less sharp; he had a nose, unlike the two reptilian slits that adorned the faces of his guards. Despite being a foot shorter than his guards he radiated the menace and power of a coiled cobra. Magic oozed from his pores like sweat.

  He stood and approached the captives. With an odd jolt Emelia realised she watched the scene now from above, as if she was part of the drapes.

  “You are warriors of Gondland I see,” he said, his voice rich and seductive. “You are brave fighters, no doubt, and have bathed in the blood of goblin and ogre for many a year. Perhaps you are the bravest of the seven nation army that strives to halt the advance of my brethren. Yet Mortis is a fickle deity and he cannot help you now. Tell me why Gilibrion trusts the other kings to lead his people and why he does not ride the fields against me?”

  The warrior furthest from Emelia spat in the face of the half-ogre. “Gilibrion will return to dance on your bones, half-breed.”

  The huge half-ogre laughed. He grasped the Gondlander with his huge hands and whispered arcane words. Emelia looked in horror as the warrior erupted into green flames. His screams echoed in the confines of the pavilion as he shuddered and died.

  He turned and spread his arms out in a wide shrug as if performing at the theatre and laughed to the four impassive ogres. “My brothers! To you I am half-human, to them half-ogre. It is evident why my upbringing was so traumatic.”

  He gestured at another captive and the warrior jerked as if he had received an electric shock. Wisps of a grey mist began flowing like water from his nose, mouth and eyes through the air towards the half-ogre. Emelia had a strange feeling of watching the events simultaneously from the ceiling of the tent and through the eyes of the female warrior standing at the side of the jerking prisoner.

  The smoke thickened and pooled in the half-ogre’s hand. Emelia could see within its swirling depths the face of her comrade. There was a look of terror on the ethereal features. The half-ogre brought the cloud of smoke to his face and seemed to lap it up like a cat would with milk. Then he wrinkled his nose and shook his head before clapping his hands; the ball of mist dissipated and the warrior to Emelia’s right gurgled and collapsed on the floor of the tent.

  “He knows nothing. Well obviously he knows nothing now, as his brain is as desolate as the deserts of Pyrios. To be precise he knows nothing about King Gilibrion. Take them for target practice or supper or for whatever the goblins fancy. Don’t let the cravens wear their bits as jewellery though; I’m not a monster after all.”

  A black armoured ogre began to pull them out of the tent. The half-ogre raised his hand and pointed at Emelia. “Wait. Leave the girl. There’s something curious about her.”

  With a sudden wrench Emelia was within the female warrior’s body again. She now felt acutely aware of every sensation, whereas before all the occurrences seemed almost abstract and unreal to her. Get a hold of yourself Emelia, this is just a dream, she thought with a tingle of uncertainty.

  She was sat on an expanse of cushions. Her armour was gone and she was dressed in a black satin gown. Her hair was pinned up with three golden pins. The half-ogre was sat next to her and it was apparent that something about the dream had changed; he was looking at her in a very curious manner.

  “Do I repulse you, girl?”

  Up close his dark blue skin had a velvety quality to it and Emelia had a strange urge to stroke it, to feel the smoothness. His features were bulky and crude, as if he had been carved from marble by an inexpert sculptor. Yet his eyes crackled with intellect and with menace, burning with a pale blue fire. Emelia felt a perverse pang of attraction to the demonic countenance.

  “No. Not exactly,” Emelia said. “Rather the things you and your troops have done to this land repulse me.” The words seemed a mixture of her volition and a script that she was reading.

  “You are different to the other Kisarti that your king places so much faith in. There is some aberrant quality to you that I am unable to ascertain. Would you care for a drink?”

  Emelia shook her head and observed silently as the half-ogre rose, poured some wine and then returned to the cushions. His body radiated heat like a furnace and she was conscious that his body was now closer to hers.

  “The gods have given me a destiny, a role in this world. It began when my mother, a feisty woman from the lands on the far side of the Khullian Mountains was taken in a raid and given as a gift to my father, Nggin-Ak-Tor. As you surmise he was an ogre and also a shaman yet he surprised all by keeping my mother as a slave rather than utilising her as a sacrifice to Ingor.

  “That was nothing compared to the surprise when my mother gave birth to me. I entered the world in a torrent of blood and pain, a half-breed to both my kin. Nggin-Ak-Tor refused all demands to drown me in the bubbling streams of the Khullian Mountains and raised me as a shaman, as a mystic.

  “It is said man may not wield magic, for that is the privilege of those born of the elements, those fashioned from the Great Crystal by the Elder Gods. Yet the mix of ogre and human blood within me has allowed me to do what no man in this day can do; to use the flow of magic to my own ends. The Trimenal lands shall yield to me and I shall rule as a black king for all time.”

  In his passion he had spilt some wine and it ran in dark red rivulets down the cushions, like blood from a wound. Emelia was transfixed by this creature; what was she dreaming of? Man could wield magic, both with the aid of the gems of power like the Air-mages or without, such as she. He had said Trimenal lands; the phrase rang some distant bell that she could not place.

  “I see you think of me insane,” the half-ogre said. “How may a creature of flesh rule forever? How may one such as I laugh at the rot of time, the decay of the decades? The whole truth is too terrible for your ears but suffice it to say the answer flows warm and salty within your veins.”

  A creeping sense of dread began rising within Emelia. The dream was so vivid; she could feel the texture of the cushions beneath her and the wispy brush of the black satin.

  The blue skinned half-ogre leant forward and held on to her arms. She was helpless, her body paralysed with fear and with excitement. She could feel his breath burning the skin on her neck as his teeth brushed tantalisingly against her.

  His whisper in her ear was as loud as the roar of a lion.

  “Who are you? Who are you to come into my dreams?”

  Terror surged within her and suddenly the tent disappeared into a black chasm. She felt a surge of motion, as if the world was being pulled away from her at the speed of thought.

  She awoke covered in sweat beneath a rough blanket. Her face was pressed against a damp sod of grass. The shattered walls of the lighthouse loomed above her and she could see the glow of the campfire and the glint of the knight’s armour nearby.

  Emelia shivered but not from the cold. Her bound wrists were cramped and chaffed and she felt tearful.

  It had been many years since she had had a dream that vivid and the last time she’d had one, a friend had died.

  ***

  The wind had turned by morning to favour flight in a westerly direction and soon after dawn the camp was packed and strapped to the huge flanks of the griffons. Emelia was seated behind Sir Unhert, the knight who had watched them the prior evening. Her wrists were secured to a small mount on the saddle such that she had little ability to move. In addition, any abrupt attempts to disturb the knight were likely to result in her tumbling off the saddle and being suspended from the flan
k of the griffon. That prospect did not seem appealing. They soared hundreds of feet above the craggy south coast of Azagunta and Emelia gripped the saddle with her thighs almost continually.

  The knights flew in a wedge with Lady Orla at the apex, her manoeuvrability improved by the absence of any captive on her saddle. Despite her dislike for the uppity knight Emelia could not help but be impressed by the magnificent sight of the glittering armour and the golden wings of the griffon. As a girl she had stood each morning peering through the tiny window in the dormitory, at first on tip toes as she had pushed her little face to the cold windowsill. Perhaps she had seen Lady Orla and these other knights embarking on dawn patrol; the irony of returning with them as a prisoner was not lost on her.

  At Orla’s side flew the Air-mage, his robes fluttering in the wind like the wings of a misshapen bird.

  Jem was secured to the saddle of Sir Robert, an ox of a man with bristling sideburns and a slim scar that ran across his cheek. He wore a helmet with a lowered visor whilst flying, to shield him from the incessant impact of small insects. Robert gave an air of intense boredom with this assignment and appeared to spend his days dreaming about more glorious missions than the current one. To his credit he had dressed Jem’s lightning burn with a clean cloth and salve, muttering that if they were going to fly half way around Nurolia he wanted a live prisoner at the end to show for it.

  Of the three of them Hunor had drawn the shortest straw. He was secured, perhaps more restrictively and uncomfortably than was necessary, to the saddle of Sir Minrik. The saturnine knight’s dislike of the thief was evident in his every action. When the griffons put down for lunch atop some cliffs he deliberately twisted Hunor’s arms as he untied the securing knot from the saddle causing the thief to grimace.

  By dusk they had flown a good distance and Hunor commented to Emelia that they must be near Bomor. They made camp on a hill overlooking a tiny cove and Hunor was untied, to be allowed to feed the other two with a thick porridge. Minrik loomed over him with his hand on his sword, looking for an excuse to draw his weapon at the thief. Ekra-Hurr sat consulting a spell book, slightly apart from the knights. Sir Unhert tended to the griffons and then cooked a delicious smelling rabbit stew for the knights that set Emelia’s stomach roaring.

  The opportunity to talk was curtailed that evening by the presence of Sir Minrik standing watch. He took great delight in cuffing Hunor at every attempt he made to speak such that after an hour even the thief’s usual stubbornness had diminished and he accepted that he must sit in silence. Emelia was still conscious that there was more to be said between the three of them, but clearly these unresolved issues would have to wait. Hunor often tried to catch her eye and smile, like a small child trying to gain approval. Despite his efforts she still felt angry and avoided his gaze.

  Emelia slept better that night, dreaming once more of running through a purple stone city. Jem slept fitfully, the pain from his burn precluding a good night’s sleep and his restlessness disturbed Hunor also.

  At perhaps an hour past high moon Hunor awoke, his blanket having worked off him and his bound wrists numb from being trapped under his chest. The waning green Orion moon to the west provided poor light but the northern Aquatonian blue moon was full and the hillside was lit by a cold glow.

  Lady Orla sat on a small boulder staring at Emelia. The blue light made her appear cool and distant. Hunor tried to read her expression but one may as well have tried to guess the boulder’s emotions.

  Orla sensed Hunor’s gaze and turned her head to look at him. Her humourless stare met his twinkling eyes and for a whole minute they looked at each other, neither willing to break away. Finally Hunor winked and rolled over onto his side.

  ***

  On the third day of flying they left the coast of Azagunta and flew over the sea. A gentle wind was trailing them and Emelia began to actually enjoy the journey, despite the jolts that sent her face bashing off Sir Unhert’s metal clad back. They soared over the frothing waters of the Whitewater Strait. Emelia saw a group of dolphins break the waves and play with chattering excitement in the surf. Unhert turned and pointed and Emelia wondered whether he smiled beneath his full-face visor.

  “The girls in the Keep thought I was part mermaid,” she said over the wail of the wind.

  Unhert laughed and yelled back, “Would you like me to drop you in with them then? For a quick swim?”

  Emelia pulled a face and he chuckled again. A curt glance from Sir Minrik curtailed any more pleasantries and the pair slid into silence again.

  For most of its course between the horse lands of Kanshar and the isle of Azagunta the Strait was approximately a hundred miles across. It widened naturally at its southern end as the southwest coast of Azagunta curved away and in this area the waters were particularly treacherous. Jem had taught Emelia only a tiny amount about seafaring but she recalled that many of the seas around Nurolia required a member of the Guild of Navigators to safely guide the ship. A few even required the magic of the Water-mages to avoid a short trip to the ocean floor. Jem had explained it was something to do with the drag of the four moons and Emelia had lost interest at that point; she couldn’t think of the moons without thinking of the times when she feared she had the moon’s malady.

  The griffons had begun to tire by late afternoon with the additional weight of the captives. As they flew lower and lower, the choppy waters below seemed more and more menacing. If any of them fell they would not swim for long with their hands bound and the knights would undoubtedly sink like a stone.

  The knights had become serious in the final hours of the journey, pulling hard on the reins and bridle to encourage the griffons to rise. At mid-afternoon Inkas-Tarr rallied the winds with his magic and the additional boost of the gale he created elevated them another two hundred feet above the ominous waters.

  Dusk approached and they finally came within sight of land—a strip of golden sand edged by green. Emelia could see early spring flowers flecked like paint across the grass. A delta of shining blue rivers weaved like a spider’s web across the landscape below them as they dropped lower to land.

  The grasslands were damp and boggy and moisture impregnated the air. Thin columns of smoke weaved skyward to the south of them and when Emelia nodded inquisitively to Jem he said, “Anor’s Delta, it’s a town at the southern edge of the Goldorian Delta.”

  Jem did not volunteer any further information and Emelia could sense a tension within him so did not enquire.

  The campfire was welcome that night as the chill of the journey had worked down to the bone. Once more Hunor fed the other two, whistling as he did so. Emelia’s wound was stinging much less and Jem seemed comfortable with his shoulder too. Sir Robert stood watch as Ekra-Hurr approached to dose Jem and Emelia with the Pure Water. One arm was tucked close and clawed.

  The potion was still bitter and daily dosing had not eased the astringent taste.

  “Does this vile draught come from the waters near us?” Emelia asked with a scowl.

  Ekra-Hurr sneered at the query. “Does your little pet know naught about magical lore, Wild-mage?”

  “She knows a great degree more than you could fathom, Air-mage, as indeed do I. It’s my misfortune to hail from these pious lands and you would do well to rein in your sharp tongue whilst we travel across them.”

  Ekra-Hurr looked furious but then surprisingly turned to Emelia. “The Pure Water comes from the Holy Spring in Goldoria City, little maid. It is the source of the unique power that has made the Goldorians the bane of the magical world over the ages and indeed gives them the arrogance to feel they can stipulate that none of a magical bent may cross their lands.”

  “Or they will toss them on a large fire whilst singing praise to the sun god,” Hunor said.

  Emelia’s eyes evaluated Ekra-Hurr. “Air-mage—exactly why do you hate us so? Inkas-Tarr the Arch mage appeared quite civil the time I saw him at the Keep?”

  “Inkas-Tarr no longer holds the position of Arch-ma
ge,” Ekra-Hurr said with a smirk. “The scandal that erupted after your theft of the crystal with my own covert presence in the Keep forced his standing down and his position was taken by master Bardit-Urr who it must be acknowledged is far more forward thinking. Certainly he would give no mercy to the likes of the Wild-mages.”

  “Or probably to your Codex, I’d imagine,” Jem said. “The reason that the four schools of magic dislike us so passionately is one of simple prejudice, Emelia. The schools sit atop piles of gold and silver gleaned from all the profit their magic can bring them, whether it is Air-mages altering the weather or Water-mages the tides. There is a good reason the majority of their Orders are simple bureaucrats. They are populated by the privileged but not always the knowledgeable, the riches of their pompous mothers and fathers securing them a place. If they have a spark of aptitude then they are embraced and relieved of more gold. Why do they hate us? Because I am a clockmaker’s son and you are a servant. Our magic comes from within us—something that was never thought possible when the god Umar the Wise gave the first Gems of Power to those four pilgrims in the Monastery of Helix. Ekra-Hurr can not wield his spells without that diamond seared into his flesh and that makes him bitterly jealous of us.”

  Ekra-Hurr was flushed and angry, his bald head covered in bulging veins.

  “You go too far, Wild-mage,” he said. “How can one who has dedicated his life to the furthering of knowledge such as I do so with just a bag of gold and societal connections? The magic burns within me; the gem is simply the gods given focus. Your kind knows no rules, knows no boundaries. You were turned over to us by a Wild-mage, with less loyalty than a rat on a floundering ship. How can I respect a mage who knows no discipline?”

  “Not being dictated to by those with naught but pecuniary interest is not lack of discipline, Ekra-Hurr,” Jem said. “I was taught meditation by a Galvorian monk and it is that calmness and focus that guides my magic. You would do well to seek tranquillity yourself for your anger consumes you like a pestilence.”