Dreams of Darkness Rising

by Kitson, Ross M.

Blossomstide 1924

  Emelia watched transfixed as the humour moved towards the baron and Lord Jerstis. She stood with Jem and Hunor, all their hands still bound. Sir Minrik was positioned to the right of the group. Lady Orla had stepped several paces to the left leaving Ekra-Hurr in the centre, the thrones forty feet before him and the door perhaps another forty behind.

  “The crystal, mortal, or your flesh will adorn my shoulders like a widow’s shawl,” the humour said.

  “You shall have no shoulders to bear it, Pale-spawn,” Lord Jerstis said.

  In a blur he had drawn his long sword and struck a mighty blow atop the demon’s helmet-like head.

  Green sparks erupted as the blade scraped off the creature’s skull. The humour swung its hook with ferocious speed into Jerstis’s armoured chest. The wicked barb plunged deep and erupted from his back in a cloud of blood. The demon flicked its arm and Lord Jerstis slumped dead on the throne.

  A symphony of drawing steel rang around the hall. Baron Enfarson leapt to his feet, arms raised. “No! Hold your blades. We can not battle this demon.”

  Hunor tugged on the bonds to get Emelia and Jem’s attention. He nodded to the sword that had fallen on the floor two minutes earlier. They began to edge towards it, capitalising upon Sir Minrik’s distraction.

  Baron Enfarson was pleading to the creature whose glass eyes were like a window onto the Pale.

  “Quigor, please. Recall our deal. Our plan. It was to make us magnificent. We would have lived for an age. Quigor, I know you are inside there.”

  “Stall me not, mortal. The crystal shall earn you your wish.”

  Enfarson reached into the drawer and pulled the crystal out. He held aloft the glowing blue crystal that Emelia had seen four years ago at the Keep.

  “Blessed Torik, it’s beautiful,” she said. “Can you hear its sound? It’s so pure.”

  “Come on, love,” Hunor said. “This is no time for your daydreams. All I can hear is my bowels loosening.”

  Baron Enfarson, his hands shaking, held the crystal forth and the humour grasped it with its metallic claw. Little fragments of rust fell like pollen. The whole chamber held its collective breath.

  “The crystal has been given freely, as is the way.”

  With a sudden swing the Humour embedded the hook into the baron’s belly. Baron Enfarson gasped and scrabbled feebly at the black robes of the demon as it twisted the hook upwards and into his thorax.

  “Your wish. Your reward,” it said.

  The baron clung to the humour as his lifeblood ran in a torrent onto its robes. A halo of green fire seemed to dance around his head as he died, in contrast to the light of the blue crystal in the creature’s claw. The humour held it aloft in delight.

  The room erupted into chaos as the assembled Thetorians roared in shock and anger.

  “Vile monster of the Pale,” Ekra-Hurr said. “Four years of my life have been dedicated to that crystal and you shall not rob me of my goal. Its power will be mine!”

  Ekra-Hurr’s robes lifted around him as he summoned a hurricane. The air blasted forwards in a funnel towards the humour and sent it staggering against the steps of the dais. The baron’s corpse flew over the throne, a trail of dark blood in its wake.

  “Jem, it dropped the crystal,” Emelia said. The humour was struggling against the gale.

  Sir Minrik had released their rope and was running towards the demon. Lady Orla was on the far side of Ekra-Hurr, perhaps twenty feet away. Jem grabbed Emelia and pulled her down.

  Hunor had grasped the sword. Jem was furiously rubbing the rope against the edge of the blade.

  “Let’s get your rope off first then you can spring these bloody manacles of mine,” Hunor said.

  “What in Torik’s darkest storm is that thing, Jem?” Emelia yelled above the din of the winds. Either side of them courtiers ran past, heading towards the closed double doors.

  “I am uncertain. In all likelihood it is a demon of the Pale, though how it comes to be here is anyone’s conjecture. If it is a true demon then only magic may defeat it; normal steel will be as sticks to a rock.”

  Hunor pulled them further to the side of the hall into the cover of a billowing red drape. Jem’s hands were almost loose.

  “Whatever it is it’s not our problem. Let’s chalk this one down to experience and get out of here,” Hunor said.

  Lightning coursed from Ekra-Hurr, creating rivulets of blue electricity around the demon. Behind Ekra-Hurr a dozen courtiers scrambled for the door, crouching low and hoping that his magical powers would provide them with the necessary cover.

  It was not to be so. The humour flung its metallic claw against the wind. From the depths of the black robes erupted a cascade of shrapnel. The edges shone golden as they blasted in a cone of death at Ekra-Hurr and the hapless Thetorians behind him.

  Ekra-Hurr’s sneer dissolved as the blades cut him to shreds and rained metallic death on all those behind him. Emelia averted her eyes, a splash of bile in her mouth as Ekra-Hurr’s minced corpse hurtled backwards into the dozen screaming courtiers. Within seconds none were capable of any sound, as a mound of corpses piled at the doors.

  Jem’s hands were free and he rose and began to cast a spell.

  Twenty feet before them Sir Minrik and six Thetorians were charging the creature as it turned its glassy eyes towards them. Once more it thrust its metal claw forth, in the direction of Minrik. The knight’s reflexes saved him as he curled into a ball, turning his armoured back to protect the exposed areas. The Thetorians were not so lucky and the shards tore them apart.

  Hunor pulled Emelia reflexively to him, his arm going over her head as the blades hissed towards the three. They abruptly stopped in mid-air. A curtain of blood ran down the magical shield that Jem had cast.

  Through the bloody screen Emelia could see the humour was upon Sir Minrik. The knight rose and struck his sword uselessly into the demon’s neck. Lady Orla was too far away to aid him.

  A sharp pain distracted her as Hunor freed her hands. The warmth of magic tingled in her hands. In her mind’s eye she saw the energy strands of the Web around Hunor’s hands and with a tug and twist felt the manacles split and groan then fall to the floor.

  “Cheers, love. Now let’s find a wall to jump through,” Hunor said, rubbing his wrists.

  “But the crystal, Hunor, we can’t let that thing take it,” Emelia replied.

  Hunor shook his head, his eyebrows arched. Jem was stood above them, maintaining his shield.

  “Are you insane? That creature’s making pies out of every living thing in this room and I for one don’t plan on being the main course at the next party in the depths of the Pale.”

  Emelia looked back at Minrik fighting the demon. Every instinct and Emebaka’s constant screaming urged her to flee with Hunor. This wasn’t their problem; they were thieves and freebooters. Yet another voice spoke differently and as she glanced up at Jem, his long serious face furrowed in concentration, she realised that it was like his. Was this the purpose he had spoken of those nights ago? Was it time to stop running and to stand her ground?

  The humour grabbed Sir Minrik with its metal claw, the talons screeching on his plate armour. Its hook punched into the warrior’s hip and he gasped in pain as bone and blood burst forth. Lady Orla was yelling as she ran, yet she was too far away to help her comrade.

  The humour’s face warped and a huge slavering mouth appeared, plumes of thick smoke spiralling from its corners. Sir Minrik stared in horror as a fountain of black liquid sprayed forth into his face. The tarry substance hissed as it dissolved his head in an instant.

  Lady Orla was finally upon it, her blade flashing and fury in her eyes.

  “Base demon! Minrik’s soul will have cost you dear. The sword of my grandfather is not so easily put aside. Bite true, Ungrásst, bite true.”

  Ungrásst swung into the humour’s side. The creature reeled as foul black blood spattered across the floor and Minrik’s headless corpse. The humour spun and
slashed its hook towards Orla; it clattered off her sword in a shower of sparks.

  Emelia turned to her friends.

  “We can’t leave her. On her own she’ll fall to the creature and it will get the blue crystal.”

  “Emelia, it’s a demon,” Hunor said. “We’ll end up the same way. Little Miss Tin-knickers took her chances the day she clapped us in irons for her bosses. We owe her nothing. We need to go now.”

  Emelia looked to Jem with her heart sinking. Despite his intellect and wisdom he almost always deferred to Hunor’s survival instinct in these situations.

  Emelia touched his arm softly.

  “Jem…please.”

  Jem looked at her, his hazel eyes a window of turmoil. Emelia heard a clatter as Orla was knocked backwards by the impact of the hook on her sword. The humour’s face warped once more and the dreadful mouth reappeared.

  “Your soul will be especially sweet this eve, Lady Farvous,” it said.

  “It’s time to make a stand, Hunor. Time to find our higher purpose,” Jem said to his friend.

  Jem collapsed the magical shield with a gesture, the suspended metal shards tumbling to the floor. The air shimmered before him as a ripple of magical force blasted into the humour.

  The impact sent it reeling ten feet backwards; the spurt of bile from its maw flew upwards and hissed against the drapes. Lady Orla regained her footing and looked in astonishment at Jem.

  Hunor scowled at Jem and Emelia then ran across the hall towards Lady Orla. He tackled her and the two rolled across the floor as a rain of metal shards thudded into the area where she had stood moments before. The humour began to move towards Jem, an aura of magic around its dark form. Sweat poured down Jem’s pale brow as he pushed with all his magical might against the oncoming demon.

  Orla stared into Hunor’s face as he lay atop her.

  “My thanks,” she muttered. “Can you get off me now?”

  “Apologies, m’lady. Old habits die hard,” Hunor said with a grin.

  He rolled off the knight and stood, with her second sword in his hand. It shone a pale blue as he pulled Orla to her feet.

  “It’s magnate alloy. I assume your sword Ungrásst is too?”

  “You are correct, it was forged in the days of the Empire. Let us restore some glory to these halls for I fear your friend is weakening.”

  Emelia had moved a short distance from Jem and prepared her own magic. Jem was weakening as the humour stomped inexorably towards him, its hook dripping blood.

  The glow of the blue crystal caught her eye. It lay at the far side of the dais where the demon had dropped it.

  “Well, Hunor, you said to be impulsive...to go with my gut,” she said.

  Emelia gestured and the crystal flew across the room to her hand. She sensed a beautiful sound in her mind as it touched her hands, like the perfect ring of a bell. For an instant she was unaware of the devastation around her and images flickered in her brain; a black mountain smouldering with fire, a vast green forest alive with the sounds of nature, an overgrown temple with a purple sky above it.

  Emebaka jolted her consciousness back from her daydream. Emelia, focus your mind. The demon...

  The humour had seen her procure the crystal and it changed direction abruptly. Jem, focused so intensely on repelling the demon, stumbled forward off-balance. The humour sprang towards Emelia whilst spraying a stream of blades at Jem.

  Jem’s reactions saved him as he dove. His slim body hit the floor and continued through it as if it were water. Despite his speed the fragments tore across his back as he descended.

  Emelia tried to focus her mind on casting a shield spell but fear overwhelmed her. The humour was upon her and she recoiled in horror at the smooth metal plague mask, flecked with the blood and tissue of the slain. She felt a hard blow on her shoulder; a warm feeling flowed down her chest.

  The demon’s claw had passed through her leather armour as if it were paper and impaled her shoulder and chest. A wave of sickness rushed through her as she saw her blood running in little streams down its wrist. The creature lifted her off the ground.

  Through the haze of pain she could see the demon’s slavering mouth grow once more.

  Oh Torik, she thought, guide my soul to your arms. Let Sandila be waiting with her wide smile and warm laugh.

  Then Hunor was next to her, the sword that she had wielded for the last four years in his hands. He twisted as he struck, the sword slicing through the talons penetrating Emelia’s shoulder. With his free hand he jammed a small bottle into the humour’s mouth.

  Emelia was aware of a jolt as she struck the floor. She could see the demon screaming and clutching its mouth as plumes of smoke billowed forth. Hunor was besides her, pulling her away.

  “Goldorian Pure Water,” Hunor said as he pulled her away. “Not the best for demon stomachs. I thought it a waste to pour it in the river so I slipped it in my sneakiest pocket.”

  The humour flailed backwards as Lady Orla charged forth.

  “For Eeria! For the fallen!”

  Her blow was mighty, driven by anger and pride. The sword sliced through the monster’s head and it exploded in a shower of black blood, bile and brain. A monstrous scream echoed around the chamber as a spiral of evil energy surged from the spurting stump and then blasted to the ceiling. The humour’s body convulsed twice then crumpled to the floor.

  Emelia fought to stay conscious as Hunor pressed on her wound. Her mouth was so dry that the words croaked from her throat.

  “Jem? Is Jem alive?” she gasped.

  Hunor smiled and nodded. “Looks like he’s had a roll in the hay with the tiger lady of Arax but he’ll be fine. You rest, love, we’ve still got to get out of here.”

  Emelia nuzzled into Hunor’s chest feeling the comforting smell of leather and sweat as she slipped into darkness.

  ***

  Aldred’s fears had ebbed as the sands slid through the hourglass. It is said of a condemned man that there comes a point when he realises his demise is inevitable and with that epiphany comes a sense of tranquillity. Aldred had turned his remaining hours towards reflecting on his life.

  The gloom was near total and he strained to observe the sand as it slid towards his time of doom. The chamber was so silent that he found himself whistling an old melody: The High King’s Cry. He would die with pride like a true Thetorian, without tears and without fear. He would look Quigor unwaveringly in the eye and curse the necromancer with his last breath.

  Aldred was completely unprepared for the scream. It struck him like a punch in the face, blaring in the confines of the dank chamber. He was faintly aware that he too had begun to yell, as if his own noise may dull the searing discomfort in his head.

  With a crash bottles around the room exploded, showering their grisly contents onto the wooden tables and shelves. Viscera spattered as green and purple liquor rained around him and his yell was replaced by gagging as the stench of putrid tissue assailed his nostrils.

  Aldred fell forward off the chair and scrabbled for a table edge to grasp as he heaved and coughed in the acidic clouds. With a tingle of excitement he realised he was free: the bonds had dissolved into tiny clouds of smoke.

  An abrupt flash of heat seared against his face as a pool of fizzing liquid ignited. Within seconds the blaze was spreading across the wooden shelves. Oily smoke rolled forth like an avalanche.

  Aldred ripped the arm from his jacket, ran to the sink and soaked the material. He wrapped the damp cloth around his mouth and squinted through the smoke to locate the exit.

  He crawled along the floor, the smoke filling the chamber above him. Smaller fires had caught and now spread to a dissected goblin corpse. It combusted with ease and was soon a blazing funeral pyre.

  Aldred reached the small corridor that lead to the concealed exit. He could see nothing as he scrambled along the cold stone until he felt the end of the passage. His fingers probed for the hidden catch that must spring the door. His head was swimming and the world
around him seemed strangely distant and unreal. He was so very, very tired and weak. It would be easy to curl up and sleep.

  Aldred, wake up.

  The voice was angelic and pure. It sang out like a finger circling the rim of a crystal goblet.

  Aldred, let me guide your hands.

  With supreme effort he rose and pushed his hands against the unrelenting stone. Damn Quigor! Aldred was a Thetorian and they did not die meekly. They did not go into the night drooling in their dotage. They kicked and screamed and fought to the last breath, proud and foolish to the end.

  That’s my son; now push your hand to the left.

  He felt the click.

  The door slid open and cold air washed over his face like the waters of baptism. He stumbled forwards gasping, dragging the air into his aching lungs.

  For five minutes he could do little other than cough yet they were the best five minutes of his life. He savoured every breath as if it were his last. Through the blotchiness of his vision he caught sight of his mother’s statue. Just for an instant he fancied he saw a white luminescence around its head.

  “Mortis be praised,” he said. His voice echoed in the gloomy crypt. “How in the Pale did I get out of that one?”

  A fit of giggles overcame him and then a few tears before he stood and wiped the soot from his face.

  “Now, master Quigor, let us hear your declarations of innocence as I shove a sword through your black heart.”

  He took the stairs two at a time. Vengeance powered his limbs as he ascended to the main castle.

  Aldred emerged onto the ground floor close to the barracks. He paused by a grand archway that was flanked by two suits of vintage Artorian armour. Aldred pulled loose the shield and sword.

  It wasn’t until he reached a set of stairs that lead to the first floor and his father’s hall that the red mist began to dissipate. He paused halfway up the stairs.

  Certainly I must face Quigor; after all the mage has vowed my death, he thought. The Azaguntan is evil—a necromancer—and all will surely see that, though most of the proof is now ash. But what of my father? Quigor said my father knew of his dark secrets. Surely that was all lies? And even if there were some truth to it, and I accept dark magic is terrible, my father would never condone my murder.