With a jolt he spotted him. Sir Unhert’s proximity to the fire and the armoured men had obscured him from Hunor’s view until the last moment. The knight was bloodied but alive, his arms tied behind him.
Rotting craven breath, Hunor thought. What am I going to do now?
The sound of hooves echoed on the road from the castle to the bridge. Twenty armoured riders approached, carrying spears and shields. The game was up; the alarm from the castle had obviously been sounded.
What in the name of the Pale? Hunor thought as his blood ran cold.
Atop a black stallion, his face pale and sinister, was the bearded figure of Baron Enfarson.
Oh, Jem mate! There’s some serious black magic going on this side of the river.
“Captain Thrisk, have you sighted the intruders? I assume you have posted guards all around this area lest they return to seek their steeds?” Baron Enfarson asked.
“My lord, my apologies. I had only been instructed by master Quigor to secure the griffons and capture the knights. We have one here,” Thirsk said.
Enfarson shook his head in dismay. “So clearly it is too much to ask for some initiative from your thick Azaguntan skull? One of Quigor’s many mistakes—depleting my stock of good Thetorians.”
“My lord,” Thirsk said, “Is master Quigor to join the search for these escapees?”
“Quigor is dead, captain, along with a dozen others slain by the treachery of the Eerian assassins and their compatriots. I alone survived the massacre.”
Thirsk looked stunned, then quickly said, “Then the gods are still wise to have spared you, my lord. Perhaps the prisoner may assist in our search?”
He gestured towards Sir Unhert who glared venomously at the baron.
“Were I even to entertain your ludicrous fantasy,” Unhert said, his moustache bristling. “I would of course rather die a thousand deaths before I betrayed my fellow knights.”
“It is no dream, you insolent dog,” Baron Enfarson said. “Your fellow knights, a wizard and those supposed captives slaughtered Lord Jerstis and many good men before stealing from me.”
Unhert, to his credit, showed no acknowledgement of the story.
“You are insane, Thetorian! The knights bathe in the honour and glory of a thousand years standing. My capture and the death of Sir Robert and our steeds will cost you dearly when your king has to answer to the Eerian council’s incredulity.”
“You assume that the king will hear of this, knight. Yet even should his Majesty be troubled by the knowledge, the evidence is clear—your colleagues were murderers and thieves.”
Unhert flushed a dark red. “You shall pay for that slander and dishonour! By my ancestors, you shall pay.”
Enfarson leant forwards in his saddle and smirked.
“And you shall cool off in the very same dungeons that your ancestors were good enough to build in my castle.”
Hunor was torn with indecision. There was no feasible way he could rescue Unhert: there were thirty armed soldiers here. The knight was doomed and there was no sense going down with him. Hunor’s main concern was what to tell Orla when she asked about the two knights? From what he knew of the haughty Orla her main concern would be to free Unhert, either with some fool rescue now or some attempt to get back into the blasted castle they’d spent an hour getting out of. Worse, she could think about going to King Dulkar’s court to plead their case. Hunor was certain that they’d end up floating face down under one of the hundred bridges before they set foot in the marbled halls; Enfarson would not let them get that far.
The thief slipped around the horses to the foot of the bridge. The cloud treacherously slid away from the moon and a cool blue light bathed the river bank. A glint of metal in Hunor’s pack caught the baron’s eye and he stared straight at him.
Hunor moved first, his sword flashing from his back. The razor sharp edge slit a dozen reins in one swoop and the ends flicked from the tree stump to the spongy grass. The thief vaulted forwards, his foot finding a stirrup and he mounted the nearest horse in a blur.
Enfarson roared and the foot soldiers scrabbled for their crossbows. The mounted troop with him began to surge forwards, cursing the disorganised warriors who blocked their path.
Hunor galloped onto the bridge, digging his heels into the horse’s flanks. The freed horses cantered aimlessly in every direction, several following his lead. Hunor cast one last look back at Sir Unhert and with a pang of regret left him to his fate.
The hooves of his horse clattered on the bridge as he charged across.
“Jem! Emelia! Get moving, we’ve got company,” he shouted.
Hunor thundered over the bridge, his head low as crossbow bolts hissed like angry wasps past him. He saw Jem and Emelia in the moonlight stood casting spells and Lady Orla running towards the bridge. A rider was ten feet behind him, his spear glittering in the blue moonlight. Behind him by about thirty feet were a dozen more.
Orla sidestepped as he galloped past and with a battle cry swung her long sword at the pursuing rider. His spear grated off her shield with a crash whilst her sword sliced through his waist. In a spray of blood he tumbled from his horse and before he had chance to rise Orla plunged her sword through his mailed chest.
Hunor slowed and turned, ready to face the wave of soldiers pouring across the bridge. For a moment he considered scooping up Jem and Emelia and getting out of here, leaving the knight to cover their escape. After all, this was all her doing.
Emelia was shaking as she cast a spell and Hunor swore. She did not have the reserve for sorcery at the moment; her wound was deep and she had lost a fair amount of blood. He saw the ripple of the air around her slim body and then a duplicate shimmer on the bridge in front of the riders.
The first three riders crashed full tilt into the invisible wall of magic with such force that their horses necks splintered like dried twigs. The riders screamed as they were trapped under their tumbling steeds. Six further riders smashed into the thrashing bodies of the fallen horses, crushing all beneath. Emelia wobbled with the effort of maintaining the magical barrier; sweat matted her brow.
Jem was as immobile as a statue in the blue moonlight, his pinched face focused in complete concentration. His mouth spoke harsh mystical incantations as the magic swirled around him like the waters of a whirlpool. The energy became denser and denser as it accumulated; building like the pressure in a kettle until with a yell he unleashed a surge of arcane power at the bridge. It struck the stones with the violence of a raging mountain giant. The nearest abutment cracked with an explosion of dust then collapsed into the frothy waters below.
With a chorus of human and animal screams the near end of Blackstone Bridge crashed into the River Ekis.
“By Beeros’s drool cup, Jem,” Hunor said. “I used to trot over that bridge when I was a nipper.”
Jem caught Emelia as she fainted. She was deathly pale and her wound was damp with blood. Her lathered face looked dopily at his and he was overcome by a sudden awareness of her beauty.
Orla had caught and reined the loose horse and ran to Jem’s side. “I’ll carry her on this horse with me. We shall need to tend that wound urgently, lest it festers.”
Jem held on to her tightly, his mind numbed by both exhaustion and his own confused feelings. Orla prised the unconscious girl from his grip. Hunor cantered up and she glanced hopefully at him.
“I’m sorry, Orla, the griffons and your knights are dead, slain by the baron’s men. There’s nothing more we can do here.”
“Thank you for the brave risk you took in checking,” Orla said. “Their deaths will not go unavenged if it takes me to my final breath in this world. Where are we to seek sanctuary to recover and attend our wounded? ”
Hunor, guilt gnawing at his belly, glanced at Jem as the weary mage mounted behind him. The mage nodded.
“We shall ride due north towards Evik’s Pass. A score of miles from there resides an old friend whose skills we sorely require,” Hunor said.
&nbs
p; Lady Orla, a slumped Emelia behind her, turned her horse and galloped away from the river along the trail bound for the hills. Hunor followed with Jem, his nimble mind already pondering what in Mortis’s name they were going to do with this blue crystal that had cost them so dearly.
Prism Book 3
Quest
Chapter 1 The Farm
Blossomstide 1924
Hunor felt as if he sat atop the world. Behind him the foothills rolled westwards towards the white-capped south Khullian Mountains that separated Thetoria from Artoria. To the north were the Silver Mountains, the range that ran between the pious Goldorians and their neighbours of Thetoria. Three nations with incongruous natures, fenced in by walls of rock with lofty passes and endless trails.
He watched his friend amble up the hillside toward the rocks. Hunor sat two hundred yards above a ramshackle stone farmhouse. A tendril of peat smoke wormed into the clear sky.
“Thought you’d be hungry,” his friend said. He tossed Hunor a cloth bag full of seed.
“Do I look like a squirrel?” Hunor asked. He poured the seeds into his hand.
“Only one that’s been mangled by a hound. Your posh lass is keeping the boy enthralled down there.”
“Oh aye? She’s full of surprises warn him.”
“I’ll confess I was a bit worried when I saw a woman with a sword but she seems to know her business.”
Hunor laughed then tossed a seed into his mouth.
“Onor’s spit! They’re hot!” he said, coughing. “Been away from home too long when I wolf down arynx seed like that. You’d be right about her knowing her business, Jaan. Eerian lasses are a different breed. Same with Emelia.”
“The Islander?”
“Aye. It’s difficult to explain but she’s got this aptitude at whatever she attempts. In four years she’s picked up Wild-magic and can wield a blade like a veteran. It’s strange. Physically she’s amazing.”
“You’ve got that right,” Jaan said.
“Not like that, mate! Anyway you’ve got your own ball and chain now, what with the wife and the kids.”
Jaan nodded, munching on a mouthful of seeds. The pair drifted into silence for a minute, soaking in the view.
“I’ve never regretted coming up here from the Barrowlands,” Jaan said. “The times when I get a hankering for a scrap with the baron’s lads from the fort, I just come up to this rock and stare. Humbles me, this view does. On a fine spring day, the light of Mortis illuminates the grassland all the way to Eviks Pass. Nolir, Torik, Shurk and Asha have done a grand job with the lands. Like a bunch of master craftsmen.”
Hunor shrugged. “Fair enough. Never been one for religion myself. I see what it has done north of the border, especially to my mate Jem. I reckon you make your own fortune in this world. The gods aren’t bothered about a rough little cutpurse like me.”
“Your old man was religious though.”
“Aye, you remember right, Jaan. All it got him was a sharp ending on the end of a royalist lance. He tried to instil some faith in my wayward mind. It’s fair to say that the Nine Sacred Scrolls of the Trimena were far less appealing than stories of adventurers and pirates.”
“And knights?”
“Don’t get me started. It’s like been lumbered with a whining bloody child. Every step we took from Blackstone she’d harp on about how we should go to the king and tell him ‘what really happened.’ She’s no idea how duplicitous Dulkar is.”
“What really happened?”
The thief looked at his friend. He knew he could trust him.
“Its best if I don’t tell you, Jaan. I think the knowledge would put you in danger. Something really dark went on with the baron and I don’t expect he’d hesitate to kill you.”
Jaan stared away from Hunor.
“No offence then, mate, but I need you to get going. I appreciate the visit and I appreciate the money even more. But, well, I’ve moved on from all that trouble. Maybe you need to too.”
“Chance would be a fine thing.”
“No, I mean move on from Hü-Jen. You can’t let it keep driving you into more and more recklessness.”
Hunor flushed, his jaw clenching. “With respect Jaan, you weren’t even there that night. Don’t you worry—we’ll be gone by dusk.”
The thief slid off the rock and began striding down the hill. Jaan sighed and followed.
“Hunor, don’t leave in a rage. We’ve known each other too long for that.”
Hunor turned and glared. His red face was calming.
“You’re right, mate. Sorry. Just worried about Emelia and what we’ve got ourselves into. Anyhow we’re supposed to be reckless. We’re Thetorians!”
The pair laughed and slapped each others back. Hunor descended the slope towards the farmhouse.
***
Lady Orla Farvous sat on a slab of stone adjacent to a half collapsed wall with her armour laid out on the grass before her. One of Jaan’s sons was balanced on the wall, his bare legs swinging in the morning sun. Orla was oiling the joins in her armour and working polish into the grooves. She was recounting a tale to the boy and Hunor paused out of view to listen.
“So it was with a heavy heart that Sir Kel-Tor returned from battle with the mountain giants atop his griffon. His three comrades, the very first Knights of the Air, had all fallen beneath the deadly clubs of the giants. Clubs that were as long as trees, shod with steel spikes as broad as your arm.
“Yet in his despair there was the sense that history was in his grasp. The delay to the giants’ advances had been essential. For at the vital moment, as the king of the giants—Echriz Skullsplitter—smashed the walls of Coonor as if they were but glass, the Netreptans arrived. Echriz had grown over-confident, smug in the knowledge that the magic of the Air-mages, an order then in its infancy, could not harm him. Yet as the sky grew dark with hordes of bird men his mocking countenance faded and the arrows fell like a hard rain on the king, his giant brethren and their lapdog trolls.”
“Have you fought a mountain giant, m’lady, atop your griffon?” the boy asked.
“I have, several years ago now. They’re awesome creatures, young man. Think of a troll, now they are a good ten feet tall. Quadruple that and you’ve an idea what you are looking at,” Orla said.
The boy paused. “Quadruple, m’lady?”
Orla laughed. “Four times, master Hinfer, four times. Think of one sheep then, well, stand three more on top of it.”
Hinfer nodded, chewing some salted beef and then his eyes widened. “So that’ll be like two of father’s cottages piled atop each other? How can you fight that m’lady?”
Orla eased back on the slab, the sun illuminating her face and grey hair. “With speed, courage, armour and sharp steel in your hand.”
Hunor descended the grass bank with a forced stroll, trying to imply he hadn’t been skulking within earshot.
“And a ton of griffon beneath you so you can reach his boulder of a head!”
Orla stiffened, looking embarrassed at her relaxed demeanour with the farm boy.
“And we appear to be lacking in those. What value a grounded Knight of the Air?” she asked.
“Oh, I’m sure we’ll find some use for you, Lady Orla. Run along Hinfer, I think your mother was after you. Something about lambing.”
Hinfer scurried from the wall.
“And don’t go and hide in those caves, little mate,” Hunor said. Hinfer pulled a face and scampered away.
Hunor watched him go then sat besides Orla.
“Are you recruiting to the knighthood from the farmlands of Thetoria now, m’lady?”
Orla smiled thinly. “The boy has a deep curiosity and he has clearly heard all the tales of Thetorian legend a dozen times over, though as I understand they tend to revolve around drinking, duels and winning the day by being roguish.”
“They’re my favourites,” Hunor said. He nodded at the pauldron that Orla was oiling. “Is the armour magnate?”
Orla ran her f
ingers over the contours and etchings on the shoulder guard.
“Your entrepreneur’s eye is correct, Hunor. An alloy of steel, magnate and coke.”
Hunor picked up a cuisse and tossed it in the air. It felt as light as his own hardened leather armour. “You use the magnate for the lightness then, not for the magical binding?”
She shook her head. “Some of the upper ranks, first and second lances have wards and enchantments on their armour but generally it is saved for weapons.”
“Like Emelia’s sword?” Hunor gestured at the weapon resting against the mossy wall.
“Emelia’s sword? I think you conveniently forget you stole it from the vault of my uncle Talis. Your own usage of it was a necessity in the skirmish with the demon but I certainly don’t plan for the girl to reclaim it.”
“She’s not in particular need of it as of now.”
Orla’s irritation faded slightly. “How is she? I assume Jem is with her at present?”
“Where else? She’s hanging on despite the wound but she’s running a fever that would make an Incandian jealous. We can’t tarry here too long no matter how grim she seems. We’ll need to ride up through the hills and into the Silver Mountains west of Evik’s pass to find Mek-ik-Ten.”
“And Jem feels certain that finding this Mek-ik-Ten is the only hope for Emelia’s festering wound?”
Hunor looked over at her. The knight’s manner had changed subtly. “Jem and I have great regard for him—he pulled us through some…crazy times. Jem seeks him for his counsel as well as his healing skills.”
“You mean counsel with regards the blue crystal?”
“Amongst other things. Jem means to keep the crystal for the time being. I assume you realise that?”
Orla’s jaw muscles flickered in annoyance. “Indeed I do. You know my own feelings are that we should return the stone to its owner back in Coonor. Where better to secure it than the impregnable walls of the Citadel of Air?”
“If it’s at all like the Keep then its hardly secure—not when a two bit thief like me can steal it. No, I can’t see Jem giving it away so easily. Anyway you owe us for saving your proud behind. That’s in the code of honour or something isn’t it?”
Dreams of Darkness Rising Page 33