Dreams of Darkness Rising

by Kitson, Ross M.

  Orla flushed and Hunor thought perhaps he had gone too far.

  “That much is true,” Orla said. “It is my eternal regret that my bravado cost my men their lives and in many ways I dread the return to Coonor and the task of informing their families of their loss.”

  If she knew one of them was still alive tucked away in the baron’s dungeon she’d be dragging us back there, Hunor thought with an unfamiliar sense of guilt.

  “I am also sure you can see why Coonor is the last place we’ll be heading irrespective of the choices you make,” Hunor said. “Whatever good word you may or may not put in for us, Jem and I are looking at spending the rest of our days breaking rocks in the Cloudtip quarries and Emelia will be dragged back into either servitude or prison.”

  “I’m…ah…not certain what would happen, Hunor. The whole situation is not as clear cut as I once thought.”

  “As you say, m’lady. I’ll go start sorting the packs out. Can you manage the horses or can you only handle griffons?”

  Orla glared her reply and with a wink Hunor left the knight to don her armour.

  ***

  In the confines of a back room Jem tended to Emelia. He had tidied the room, organising the packs in his own precise manner. Jem had been putting off attending to Emelia’s wound dressing. He drew a deep breath and knelt by her bed.

  “Easy Jem, control yourself,” he muttered. His sweating hands lifted the pus soaked cloth from the wound. The erythema had spread onto her chest and a sweet odour assailed his nostrils.

  He gingerly removed the dressing and looked around for the basket to throw it in. A blob of blood and pus ran onto his skin as he turned. He dropped the cloth in a panic.

  “Damn it. Damn it.” His heart thudded fast in his ears and he felt faint. He reached for the bowl of water and began scrubbing the slime off, harder and harder.

  “Jem?”

  The Goldorian froze and stared at Emelia. Her eyes were red and sore and her skin pale.

  “Emelia. You need to rest. I’m sorry I awoke you. It was just…”

  “I know. Jem Gem. Diamonds… I’m scared. He’s after me. After, happy ever after. Can we live happy ever after?”

  “You’re not making sense, Emelia. You need to rest.”

  “Voices, Jem, there’s too many in head. Dead. Are they dead voices calling? He is dead but alive. Chasing me. The Darkmaster. Is this the Moon? The malady?”

  “You’re running a fever. Rest, Emelia, please. I’m looking after you.”

  Emelia smiled and eased her head back onto the pillow. Within seconds she was asleep.

  Jem looked pensively at her. It was like hearing the voices calling from the poorhouse in Parok once more. After a minute he dipped some soap in the water and gently dabbed the wound. The soap was pungent. Hunor had said it smelt like a tart’s powdered corset when he had given it to Jem on the journey. He’d procured it from an apothecary in the town of Hayford as they had skulked past. Jem had been so happy he could have kissed him.

  “Who is this Darkmaster, Emelia?” he asked softly. “Why does he haunt your dreams?”

  Jem gently touched her flushed cheek. “I am sorry that you have been put in such danger, my young friend. When we took you from your servitude that night in Coonor I felt what we had done was correct—was noble and just. Yet now I see you clinging to life, your wound turning like the last fruit of autumn.

  “Hunor still has reservations in which I have never shared. Yet now I find myself doubting for different reasons. I doubt whether I had the right to bring you into our chaotic world, away from your closeted life in that keep in Eeria. What price your freedom should the demon’s savage wound take its toll?”

  Jem took a deep breath, an icy sensation in his chest. Tears were starting in his eyes and he could feel the magic pulsing within him like water boiling in a kettle. Focus Jem, harness your emotions.

  “I saw the potential for the Wild-magic within you aching to be realised. Yet is it always right to open the stable door knowing that the mare may fall at the hurdles in the fields beyond? Is it better to gallop and leap, with the wind on your face or stay safe and secure in your stall?

  “Truly I have failed you Emelia,” Jem said, his voice cracking. “You tried to tell me of your dreams of darkness, of the dark wizard in Bulia, of your sense of trepidation as we came to Thetoria. Yet I was so preoccupied with my anger at Hunor landing us into trouble yet again that I did not give it the credence it deserved.”

  Jem reached into his pouch and pulled the blue crystal out. He held the glass up before him, watching the dregs of light from the adjacent kitchen filter through its deep colour. He could sense the power within it, far more easily than the time he had first seen it in Coonor. What was this crystal that a demon of the Pale should be brought forth to secure it? Why did the Air-mage covet it so before his grisly end?

  “I have been found wanting as a teacher and mentor. You have learned so much in such a short time but the passion that Hunor imbues within you for thievery and swords craft has diluted the discipline necessary to control the Wild-magic. For it curses the mind.”

  The slim Goldorian shook as he spoke now, his hand trembling as he tentatively touched Emelia’s lips.

  “And finally I have failed myself because I have not found within me the courage to admit how I truly feel about you. Hunor’s words cut me deep those nights ago. I am certain that, despite every attempt to the contrary, I am falling in love with you.”

  If Emelia heard she did not stir and Jem sat in silence his hand on her face, the neat room the only witness to his confession.

  ***

  Hunor walked outside the farmhouse deep in thought. The cottages in this remote stretch of Thetoria intrigued him. The wood in this region was notoriously poor: the commonest trees were slim and silvery with green wet wood and were called arynx. Ever resourceful, the North Thetorians chose to burn peat and dry the flexible arynx to use as thatch for their cottages. The farmhouse had such a silvery roof, running the length of the one storey structure, broken only at the far end by a stubby chimney.

  Hunor ducked under the lintel of the red-stone frame. The kitchen was a broad and long room, extending for almost half the building and yet was cluttered with tables, chairs, pots and pans. In the centre of the kitchen was a wide fire pit, glowing red with smouldering peat. Doors led from the kitchen to the bedrooms and the pantry.

  Jaan’s wife stood at the side of the fire pit. The younger of her sons sat at her feet playing. She glanced over as Hunor entered.

  “Loral, you need a hand with anything?” Hunor asked.

  She looked away and said, “Don’t trouble yourself.”

  Hunor paused by the door through to the room he was sharing with Jem.

  “I just mentioned to Jaan that we’ll be on our way later. Get out of your hair. We’re grateful for what help you’ve given us.”

  “It’ll be a shame to see you go,” Loral said insincerely.

  The thief stared at Loral’s back and weighed up his response. He thought better of it and walked through into his room.

  It was a tiny chamber vacated by Hinfer two days ago. The room was immaculate with neat sheets, folded clothes and Hunor’s sword all arranged very precisely on the bed. Even the mud and dust from the kitchen had stopped at the threshold as if it were afraid to enter. This is Jem and his magic all over, Hunor smiled to himself.

  Hunor picked up his sword. He drew the blade and held it out to gaze at the way the light flickering from the kitchen caught the metal. It was magnate alloy, like Orla’s armour, but with spells of sharpening augmenting its keen edge. Its Shorvorian name was Ur-iy-Sytk. It meant ‘Shard of the storm.’

  The Shorvorians believed that a man’s sword, bestowed upon him by his family and in many cases from a long line of ancestors, was a part of his soul. It was an outward expression of his courage and his pride, his valour and his mercy. For a sword could save as well as slay. The Shorvorian warrior caste—the hârdan—ded
icated their days to perfecting their art in the belief that the sword was an extension of your being, only ultimately realised by extensive practice. The light rippled in the metal as Hunor reflected if he truthfully wished to display his soul for all to see.

  Hü-Jen had had no heir, no kin to pass Ur-iy-Sytk to. In many ways Hunor had never had a father he would choose to have learned from. Thus their relationship developed beyond master and pupil. He spun the sword around abruptly and slid it back in its scabbard.

  “Too much sitting around. It’s making you maudlin,” he told himself.

  “Master Hunor?” a voice called from the door.

  The thief turned; it was Hinfer. His face was red and sweating.

  “Soldiers. About a dozen of them. Coming up the hill. Father just sent me.”

  Hunor nodded, strapping on his sword. He grabbed his and Jem’s packs. Moving through into the kitchen he saw Jaan and Orla running in.

  “How long we got, mate?” he asked Jaan.

  “About ten minutes I’d reckon. Hunor if there’s going to be trouble…”

  “No. That’s not an option, mate, not with the kids about. Orla take the horses with Hinfer, he’ll show you the caves. The mules will account for the mess they leave.”

  The knight looked aghast.

  “You want me to sneak away and hide in a cave with the boy. Out of the question.”

  “Well the other option is a pitched battle outside and assuming we win we’ll have a dozen bodies to hide. Then should we take Jaan and the family with us?”

  Orla stared at him, her eyes narrowed. The seconds ticked away.

  Hinfer pulled on her gauntlet.

  “You could finish the stories.”

  The Eerian looked at the boy and smiled. With a last glance at Hunor she stalked from the kitchen.

  “I’ll get Jem and Emelia. We’ll hide in the pantry. Just act naturally, Jaan. Any hint of a problem we’ll be with you.”

  Jaan nodded, avoiding his wife’s look of horror. Hunor shouted to Jem, wincing with guilt and dragged their packs into the small pantry.

  ***

  Hunor had a reasonable line of sight into the kitchen from behind the wooden shelves and bags of produce in the pantry. Jem had managed to squeeze Emelia into the dusty gap with barely a minute to spare. His distaste was evident as Hunor flicked away the cobwebs.

  The door was thrust open with a crash and four armoured soldiers entered. They wore the black and silver insignia of the Enfarsons. Hunor recognised Captain Thrisk, one of the baron’s Azaguntan guards. He looked muddied and irritable. In his hand he carried a large scroll.

  “Jaan,” one of the soldiers said.

  “Captain Soron. You’re a way from the fort. What can we do for you?”

  Soron looked about wearily. Two of the soldiers began searching.

  “This is Captain Thrisk. He’s up from Blackstone, chasing some murderers. We’re looking through all the farmsteads.”

  Captain Thrisk passed the scroll to Jaan and then leant over the cauldron on the fire pit. He made an exaggerated smelling noise then smiled at Loral.

  “Big pot for just the three of you.”

  Hunor tightened his grip on his sword.

  “It’s to last the week, captain. You’re more than welcome to have some. Do they have stew in Azagunta?” Loral said.

  Thrisk didn’t reply but moved from the fire pit. He placed his gloved hand on top of the child’s head.

  “Terrible crime, it was, just horrific. Dozens dead and the baron the only survivor. Black magic as well. Dare say the culprits would bring down a curse on any who harboured them.”

  At Hunor’s side Jem was moving his hands ready for a spell. The thief gauged the distance. They would need to get to the child before the Azaguntan could draw his sword.

  Jaan looked pale as he watched Thrisk idly stroke the boy’s hair.

  “Where’s your other lad?” Soron asked.

  “Up the hill with the sheep. Captain, look I’m not certain who you are after but…”

  “Captain?” one of the soldiers called. Both Thrisk and Soron looked around. The soldier emerged from a bedroom and flipped a coin to Soron.

  “I’ll take the two captains, Hunor, you get the other two,” Jem whispered.

  Hunor shook his head, “Wait...let’s see how it pans out.”

  Soron held the silver coin up, twisting it in his hand.

  “Eerian. Where’d you get this from?” he asked.

  The silence in the room was agonising. Hunor slowly slid his sword from its scabbard.

  “It’s mine sir,” the boy said.

  The soldiers all stared in confusion at the child.

  “A lady in big armour gave it me.”

  Thrisk knelt by the boy, a false smile on his lips. He slowly drew a dagger and casually patted it on his palm.

  “When was that, boy?”

  “Three days past. Me and Hinfer saw some travellers down on the road. Foreigners but nice. The lady gave me a coin when I told her the way to the mountains.”

  The soldiers exchanged glances and Soron unfurled the scroll.

  “Do you recognise any of these faces, boy?”

  His eyes wide the boy nodded and pointed at the scroll. “The lady. That’s the lady, sir.”

  Soron looked elated and indicated for the soldiers to move out. Thrisk took a last look about and nodded at Jaan before exiting.

  The silence in the room lasted a whole minute before Loral burst into tears and hugged her son. Jaan sat back against the table looking faint.

  Hunor breathed out in relief and slipped out from behind the shelves.

  “Is she good to move?” he said to Jem.

  “As good as she’ll get. If we don’t get to her to Master Ten soon then I fear we will lose her.”

  The thief nodded grimly and moved across the kitchen, sword in hand. He peered through the crack in the door.

  “All gone. Your lad tells a good tale, Jaan.”

  Jaan rubbed his face and shuddered.

  “Too much practice with his brother. Hunor, you need to go. Take the top trail. They’ll be heading in the other direction now.”

  “Aye, they’ll be going to Evik’s Pass via the fort. If we take your way we’ll get to Giant’s Crag by tomorrow.”

  “Giant’s Crag? Take care my friend, there are worse things in those mountains than the baron,” Jaan said.

  Thinking back to the night a week ago he had last seen the nobleman, Hunor sighed and said, “Not so sure about that Jaan. Not so sure at all.”

  ***

  Jem and Hunor sat on the stone wall awaiting Orla to return with the pair of horses. The mood had been tense since the soldiers’ visit.

  “That has to be the worst drawing of me ever made. And what’s with the description—‘A Thetorian of mean disposition, lank pony tail, characteristic excesses of earrings.’ You can hardly read it.”

  “Thetorians were never renowned for their talents with the written word, nor the quality of their printing. There’ll be hundreds of these circulating now, Hunor. We will need to stay clear of Thetoria for the foreseeable future.”

  Hunor shrugged and tossed a stone against a wall with a clatter.

  “I’m not certain we’ll be welcome back here either,” Jem said.

  Hunor winced and nodded. “It feels all kind of wrong, to bring this crap on Jaan’s head. He’d left it all behind when he moved up here. I guess trouble just follows us around, mate. Might be better for Emelia to leave her at Master Ten’s place and make a run for it. You know, for her safety.”

  The Goldorian stroked his clipped moustache.

  “I know what you are saying Hunor and it has a certain sense to it. I would be lying to claim I haven’t thought the same, albeit transiently. But we’re a trio, a threesome. Hunor, we’re waist deep in something huge, something of significance. I can sense it. The day we became involved with Emelia and with this crystal was the day it all changed.”

  “Why us,
my friend? Why us? Surely this is the stuff for heroes, for ballads, for knights? I just want a bit of fun, a bit of a thrill and a pouch of gold for my troubles. Look, let’s get rid of that crystal—flog it, dump it, give it to tin knickers, whatever. We owe the world nothing, not one copper. All I care about is here with me now.”

  Jem placed his hand on Hunor’s cheek. It burned to the touch. Genuine affection illuminated his sombre face.

  “You’re a good man. A good friend. I know I can be difficult at times. But give me your word, as a friend, that we’ll stick together through all of this. Wherever fate and Engin are taking us. The three of us.”

  “Of course, Jem, you have my oath. Looking out for each other, like family. And the world can just get along without us.”

  “I’m not sure that’s an option any more,” Jem said.

  The two sat in silence in the warm Thetorian sun.

  Chapter 2 The Wake

  Blossomstide 1924

  The walk between the Chapel of St Higrid and the Traveller’s Rest Inn was a short one but Aldred took his time, soaking in the vibrancy of daily life in Eviksburg as an antidote to the gloom of the funeral.

  Aldred sought out the last sun beams that shone between the tall townhouses along Kirkgate. Twenty yards further on, the street opened out into the wide town square where local carpenters were hammering together a stage for the impending festival. The staccato beat of their hammers echoed out of time to the peal of the bells. Aldred smiled at the inevitable prospect of judging the Spring Maidens Fayre in his father’s absence, a more joyous commitment than his role today.

  “Aldred Enfarson! You young dog, look at you,” a booming voice struck his ears.

  Aldred turned with a grin as wide as a child’s on his birthing day and held his arms out in greeting.

  “Poris Longshanks. Only four hours late. Just like you to be only arriving for the wake, you old sot.”