A sneering laughter interrupted the conversation as Ekra-Hurr strode to the side of Unhert.
“You’re surprisingly coy with the prisoners this evening, Sir Unhert. The answer, little witch, is that you will be returned to the Ebon-Farrs, hopefully with their other lost property. What they choose to do, well, that is Lord Ebon-Farr’s business but I expect he’ll have to make some example of you. Head on a pike sort of thing.”
“Mage, there is no need…” Unhert said.
“There is every need. Don’t be drawn in by her pretty face and twinkling eyes. She’s a common thief like the others. No, far worse, she’s a thief, a Wild-mage and a servant who has repudiated on her contract.”
“You go too far, sir. My honour…”
“Is best left to challenge angry giants, not to make condemned prisoners feel better about their fate.”
Sir Unhert flushed a deep scarlet and for a moment Emelia thought he would strike Ekra-Hurr.
“Your male accomplices will undergo trial by the Eerian council,” Ekra-Hurr said. “If Engin is with them then they may escape with life deep in the rocky prison of Iyrit Crag. If not, then I shall take my front seat at their execution; perhaps sell souvenirs to little Coonorians eager to see some rogue’s head parted from its shoulders.”
“I’ll make sure to bleed on your best robes,” Hunor said.
Ekra-Hurr bent forth over Emelia and grasping her cheeks began to pour Pure Water in her mouth. A surge of anger bubbled to the surface and Emebaka hissed, let us see how the mage likes the taste of his own medicine. She spat the potion full in Ekra-Hurr’s face and he reeled back, spluttering.
Ekra-Hurr snarled and backhanded Emelia. The slap span her around and she felt the cool grass press on her burning cheek as she struck the ground. Ekra-Hurr frantically pulled out a second bottle from his side bag and washed his face.
Feeling her split lip beginning to swell, Emelia rolled back over and grinned at Ekra-Hurr. She could feel her head pumping with adrenaline.
“It’s clear that Sir Unhert is the honourable one here. Does it make you feel brave having such rough fun with a bound housemaid?”
Sir Unhert wavered, eyes flitting between the pair. Hunor began to rise to rush towards the Air-mage. Unhert drew his sword and pointed its tip at Jem and Hunor, shaking his head.
Ekra-Hurr leered, wiping the water from his face. “So are we playing this game then? Such a jest. I trust you will repeat your infantile actions when I try the next dose?”
Emelia, the defiance of Emebaka rising to the fore, glanced at Hunor and Jem, who watched the scene tensely. She laughed and nodded.
Quick as a flash Ekra-Hurr had seized Jem. Before she could conceal it a flicker of concern came across Emelia’s face.
The Air-mage gripped Jem and then dug his long fingers into the healing burn on his shoulder. Jem gasped in pain as Ekra-Hurr’s thumb tore open the blistered flesh.
“Torik curse you, mage. Stop that!” Emelia cried.
“Another’s pain can often be as exquisite as our own. Any more resistance in taking the Pure Water and I shall drive my rather grubby fingers deep in this burn and as sure as night follows day it will begin to fester.”
Emelia glared at Ekra-Hurr; she could feel the rage burning within her. Hunor’s eyes darted from Ekra-Hurr to the sword of Sir Unhert.
“That’s enough, mage,” Orla said.
The three other knights had approached to investigate the ruckus. Minrik smirked whereas Sir Robert had his hand ready on his sword. Orla strode forth and pulled Jem away from Ekra-Hurr and slid the dressing back over the burn.
Orla turned to Ekra-Hurr, her voice clipped. “We are an ancient order that prides itself on our honour and our decorum. I will not advocate you torturing or assailing prisoners in my charge, is that clear?”
“As I recall your honour does not extend to rebellious miners.”
Emelia could hear a sharp intake of breath from the knights. Orla’s face paled to such a degree that Emelia thought the blood had been magically drained from her body by an unseen demon.
Orla’s voice was laced with controlled fury. “Your recall does not interest me, mage. If ever you insult me again then I shall have no recourse but to restore my honour with cold steel. Take this as your warning; there shall be only one.”
Ekra-Hurr dropped his gaze.
“Stop your childish behaviour, girl,” Orla said. “For one who brushed with death but days ago you act with a foolhardiness in keeping with a village idiot. Any more displays of resistance and mark my words I shall seek the nearest Goldorian Godsarm and hand you over as a witch. I am sure your companions will regale you with the quality of treatment you may expect off them. Is that clear?”
Emelia met Orla’s eyes, her jaw clenching and unclenching. The two women locked their stares for several tense seconds.
“It’s perfectly clear,” Jem said. “You won’t get anymore difficulty from us.”
Emelia looked aghast at Jem. “Damn it, Jem. Damn you all.”
Ekra-Hurr smugly leant over her and fed her the drops of potion.
Orla turned now to Unhert, indicating for him to re-sheath his sword. She addressed Hunor. “Thief, I have need of an audience with you. I wish to clarify the details of our journey in greater detail on my maps.”
“Captain, you can’t be serious,” Minrik said. “The dog should simply tell us all he knows, now. Any more foolery and we shall surely deliver Eerian justice sharply and without mercy.”
Orla rounded on the impudent knight.
“Enough! Enough and thrice, enough! There seems to be some misunderstanding here in whom is in command. I am a third lance of the Silver Wing lest you forget and am not in the practice of discussing my orders with those of an inferior rank. If I have one more hint of subordination from any of you then I’ll have you on charges. Torik fly me far to save me from prattling wizards, eager to taste my sword’s edge and moronic corporals who feel themselves worthy of my position, hard earned on the field of battle.
“Hunor, over here, and one quip from you—in the tainted version of Imperial that pours from your Thetorian mouth—and I’ll forget the whole mission and head straight back to Coonor, where I guarantee you’ll part company with your pony-tailed cranium!”
The knights busied themselves with any task that did not involve eye contact with Orla. Ekra-Hurr gave the Pure Water to Jem then melted back into the shadows.
Hunor walked over to Orla who then led him, his hands still bound, to her griffin. Her saddlebags were full, at least partly with the weapons that she had procured from them when they were captured. Her knights had done a good job of finding all his concealed arms and picks, tucked away in a dozen secret pockets on his person.
Orla pulled out a bundle of maps and then indicated for Hunor to be seated. She knelt next to him and unfurled a large map of Goldoria and Thetoria.
“I estimate we are here, about ten leagues past Valikshall. With the wind behind us we shall make the Vale of Ukôr south of the river Parok by nightfall tomorrow. We shall then fly over the Silver Mountains that run between Goldoria and Thetoria.”
“That’s the best place to cross to avoid any attention,” Hunor said. “The passes through the Mountains have had garrisons stationed ever since the Summer War. But that route is pretty dense mountains with only a few goblins and bandits.”
“I do not regard goblins as a concern,” Orla said. “Nonetheless your advice is accepted. That takes us then into northern Thetoria, over the Silver hills and near the town of Silverton. What is our route from there? Cooperation will weigh heavily in your favour when we return to Coonor.”
Hunor smiled and looked at the knight. The yelling at the other knights had put a flush on her marble cheeks and a strand of hair had fallen across her face, like a sliver of the moon.
“I understand, m’lady, and as Jem said you won’t get any more difficulty from us. Silverton is in the lands of Baron Exiki, a fat boorish man whose gustatory excess is matched only b
y his disturbing love of androgynous young Feldorian singers. The next barony west is that of Latimer—he in contrast is as thin as a pole and has no interest save that of hunting in the deer lands north of Balki. He and Exiki seem to get together every decade and kill a few dozen of each others men over some long running feud involving a great, great aunt they share.”
Orla raised her eyebrows at the thief’s prattle.
“Anyway, there’s always a fight to be had in Thetoria as they say. The barony we seek is the in the north-west corner, that of Baron Enfarson. The baron was a fair warrior in his day—he soldered his reputation by culls of the goblins that nibble at his borders like starving mice. His lands are surrounded on the west, north and east by hills and run as far south as Greenford and the Falls of Sork. The bleaker lands have bred a sterner people than most Thetorians. He won’t be a simple man to deal with. Just flashing the shield of a far away nation won’t have much effect.”
“I pride myself on greater diplomacy than that, thief. Are you certain this is the noble we seek?”
“It was definitely his coat of arms on the seal in Kir. I know it all too well. How on earth are you going to find your crystal if it’s there? I mean, I suppose me and Jem…”
“You and your roguish friends will do nothing save direct us there. Do not think me so naïve as to leave the finding of my uncle’s crystal to pure chance. We will find it if it is there and we shall bring this baron to task! Recall the reach of the Eerian Empire, in days long past, was to the Emerald Mountains. King Dulkar values our trade and treaties far too much to support a thieving nobleman against our demands, should it come to that.”
Hunor shrugged and a silence fell upon them, interrupted only by the crackles of the fire. The thief got an insane impulse to lean over and give those serious lips a nice warm kiss but he wisely suppressed the urge.
“Do you regret almost executing Emelia, Lady Orla? You don’t strike me as the murderous type?”
Orla blinked at the question and for an instant Hunor saw past her mask. A flash of guilt, a flicker of uncertainty and a spark of anger danced across her face. Then the façade returned as she looked the thief up and down.
“Not that I need to explain myself to a prisoner any more than to my subordinates, but, no, of course not. It was necessary and a totally appropriate course of action. Make no mistake; she is bound by the Statute of Servitude and Eerian law and I would not hesitate to carry out my threat if it became vital to this mission.”
“That’s what I thought, of course, m’lady. A soldier first and all’s fair in love and war, as they say. I’ll make certain you have no recourse to behead my friend at any juncture. Is that all?”
“Indeed.”
Hunor smiled as he returned to sit next to the other two. Emelia nursed her fat lip and Jem his throbbing shoulder. Perhaps the knight’s armour wasn’t as robust as it first seemed.
Chapter 6 The Crypt
Blossomstide 1924
“Master Aldred? Master Aldred? Begging your pardon, sir, it’s almost midday.”
Whilst he lay completely immobile Aldred’s headache was controllable, but the mere contemplation of lifting his head from his pillow sent lancinating pain through his brain. He was aware of a rank smell in his nostrils, which he rapidly realised was his breath, condensed into a little pool of dribble.
His awareness spread out from him, rolling out like the early morning mists he had seen on his return to the castle. He was face down, on his bed, fully clothed and his left arm was trapped under him, numb and useless. With his one functioning arm he strained and rolled over with a gasp and then a moan as the nausea struck. The room swam and he sank deeper into what must be the ocean of all hangovers.
Aldred scrabbled for some vessel to vomit in; his hands clasped around the wash bowl that his manservant, Jirdin, had just brought. He had just enough time to gesture Jirdin back before heaving into the water.
Jirdin waited for the retching to cease.
“Would the master want a fresh bowl for his ablutions this morn?”
Aldred nodded sheepishly, an acidic trail trickling down from his nose. He glanced with dismay at his bedchamber: mud streaked bed clothes, his knee length leather boots still on his feet, two shattered chamber pots, his best Feldorian cloak torn and tossed across his mirror and the remnants of some bread and cheese he’d scrounged from the kitchens on the way back in.
He cringed as he considered what Jirdin would be thinking. Jirdin had been Aldred’s manservant for so long that he couldn’t imagine him ever having being young. No, in all honesty, he speculated Jirdin had been born wrinkled, that he’d emerged into this world with skin looking like a dried apple.
The sun was streaming through the curtains. Flecks of dust danced as if at a ball. He had a similar recollection of spinning and weaving the night before, a blur of velvet ball gowns and towering wigs.
Jirdin re-entered and approached the table in the corner of the room. He placed a fresh porcelain bowl and towels atop it. The steaming water had been flavoured with rose, its odour as warm and fresh as a summer’s day.
“May I assume the Spring Ball a success, master?”
“From what I remember. The blisters in my boots attest to my exuberance on the dance floor and my head to the hospitality of Lord Ordon. Half of father’s barony was there and a good proportion of Baron Benrich and Latimer’s lords.”
“And the ladies I am sure,” Jirdin said, carrying a crisp white shirt, leather trousers and wool jacket to the table.
“Latimer’s niece was there, for certain, and her friend, Lady Gizele Harken. My word, what a pair. They can scent a plump purse from eighty paces.”
Aldred hobbled over to the table, slipping his dress shirt off.
“Did Livor return with me in the carriage?”
“I’m uncertain, Master Aldred,” Jirdin said, bending to help Aldred remove his mud-caked boots. “One could quite appreciate he might feel reluctant to return to the castle. I imagine the carriage took him back to the estate near Oldston.”
Aldred sighed and nodded. Livor’s father, Lord Korianson, had been dismissed from his residence at the castle whilst Livor and Aldred were studying in Thetoria city. The circumstances seemed mysterious but Aldred was under no doubt that Quigor was somehow involved.
The young lord finished his wash, scrubbing the dried sweat of the prior night from his skin. He dressed in a fresh outfit, choosing a favourite pair of brown leather boots to compliment his dark leather trousers.
“There’s precious few of you old guard left, isn’t there, Jirdin?” Aldred asked, as he selected an apple to eat for his breakfast.
“As you say, master, the baron has seen fit to entrust the care of his castle to a fresh pair of hands. Those of us that remain are, of course, honoured to continue in his service. Will there be anything else, master?”
Aldred shook his head and watched the servant hobble out into the corridor. Jirdin’s answer no doubt concealed bitterness at the systematic deconstruction of a staff that had taken generations to form. Aldred had been back from the city for only two weeks and this castle full of strangers still disconcerted him. It was as if the gods had taken the skeleton of the fortress, stripped it of its flesh and blood and then filled it with some facsimile, some imitation of the place he once called home.
None within the echoing corridors talked of the changes. Yet ten minutes ride from the walls of Blackstone Castle the tongues of the peasants flapped like thirsty dogs. It was the dark Azaguntan at the root of it all, they said, bringing in his ebony-hearted cronies.
Aldred was inclined to agree. He had been sat with Livor on the college common, reading poetry with gusto to an audience of society girls when the missive from Lord Korianson had arrived. He had seen the flicker of hurt on his best friend’s face despite Aldred swearing there must be some mistake or misunderstanding. But the letter was very clear; the master of arms was no longer in service.
With that letter something altered be
tween Livor and Aldred too. The letter had tainted their friendship and Aldred’s dislike of the Azaguntan Quigor had gained far greater momentum.
The midday sun seared his eyes as he pulled back the curtains. He looked out from his mullioned window, with all the relish of the undead. His room commanded a view over the courtyard and its walls and down the steep hill of Garan’s Motte. From the base of the motte the bailey spread outwards, a green carpet stretching from the dry moat to the dark stone of the curtain wall. The grass was smattered with buttercups and bluebells and Aldred’s mind drifted to the riverbanks of the college he had just left.
Aldred wandered out of his chamber into the corridors of the castle, smiling in reminiscence. He drank in the view as he passed each window, tasting the air, feeling the tranquil scents corrode his hangover like brine on an ancient anchor.
Oh, to be back on the college greens in the air of anticipation that spring created. Thetoria city was spectacular at this time of the year. Across Nurolia it was known as the City of a Hundred Bridges and Aldred fancied that he had punted under every one and jumped naked off a fair few as well. The bifurcation of the Whiteforce River created the River Birin and divided the city into three sections. Alcansford College sat within the south-eastern segment, its expansive estate enjoying the warm winds that drifted from the Bay of Thetoria some two hundred miles to the east.
Aldred had thrived in the college, ricocheting from lessons on literature, art, economics, history and philosophy to tutorials on swords craft and war. He soaked up the teaching with the eagerness of the young, as if he had been starved of life’s entire colour in his monochrome home.
Many were the lessons learned in those three years and many the lips he had kissed and laughter he had heard, catching the giggles of the maidens like butterflies in a net. He could still smell the aroma of spring flowers, still hear the bubble of the river, still sense the last kiss planted on his lips almost absent mindedly, like a post-script on a letter. An aching for those vibrant times arose in him and he paused to gain his bearings in the gloom of the castle.
Dreams of Darkness Rising Page 25