“With respect sir, it is the burghmaster that’s asked for you. And Lord Aldred as well,” Urgon said as he cringed.
All four at the table looked surprised at the request. It was common knowledge that there was no love lost between Guntir and Orlo Smithson and even less between the burghmaster and the nobility.
The four rose from the table, leaving their flagons and squeezed through the crowded common room with Urgon. The heat of the room seemed suddenly cloying to Aldred and he found a strange sense of panic rising in him. He had struggled with enclosed spaces since his night in the crypt.
His heart was racing as he followed Guntir and his two friends. They were led by a town guard whose chainmail glinted eerily in the red moonlight of the Pyrian moon. Tears of blood. An ill omen.
The quintet moved down Evik’s Bar and over the crossroads, following the cobbled street of Rivergate towards the river. Guntir was talking in hushed tones to the guard. They passed several stores before reaching a few tall houses. The largest of the six belonged to Orlo and commanded fine views of the river and a small copse of willows. Guntir lead them through the open gate, around the side of the house and into the gardens.
Orlo Smithson’s garden stretched a hundred yards to the riverside, a jetty protruding between the willows. The grass was flecked with snowdrops that in the red moonlight looked like spatters of blood. At the edge of the jetty were gathered a small crowd of guards and Orlo’s wife who was sobbing. Orlo was knelt, rocking a figure in his arms, concealed by a cloak.
Aldred’s heart was in his mouth as they neared. The air was dense with a sense of evil. Black magic, he thought. Guntir leant forward and put a firm hand on Orlo’s shoulder and he turned his head to face them. His features seemed cadaveric in the moonlight.
“There’s evil afoot, Hawkskin. Evil! Nekra herself could not have committed such depravity on my little girl.”
Arlien Smithson lay dead in her father’s arms, her long Mirioth satin gown torn and muddied. Aldred had seen much horror in the past two weeks but even he was not prepared for the appearance of her body.
She was white. It was as if every iota of colour had drained from her body, leaving her skin almost translucent. The moonlight cast a ghastly pall over her. Her slender neck had a gash, the size of an animal bite. Yet what creature could have done this?
Aldred felt faint and nauseous, the cider making his head swim. He walked on to the jetty feeling numb, the only sound other than the sobs being the gentle splash of the river. All of a sudden he wanted to be back in the castle, eight miles up stream from here, warm and safe in his own bed.
Across the far side of the River Eviks a dark shape watched Aldred, its eyes burning like orange coals. It turned silently and padded off along the riverbank, the girl’s blood still warm in its mouth.
Chapter 3 An Unexpected Reunion
Sunstide 1924
Fever dreams had a different quality. Whereas a normal dream was distinct from the world which lay outside the dreamer, the fever dream merged with the exterior. At the age of ten years, gripped by winter fever, Emelia had slipped in and out of a macabre world: stone walls flowed like porridge; little men inside floor grates sang to her; spiders with grinning masks crawled over her skin in places she could not reach to itch and so forth. An awareness of Mother Gresham mopping her burning skin emerged periodically, always accompanied by her distinct lavender scent.
Now Gresham was seven hundred leagues to the east and if she ever set eyes on Emelia again was unlikely to greet her with a tepid sponge. Despite this, Emelia had a pang for the comfort of the Keep’s matriarch.
Emelia alternated between the cool surface of Lady Orla’s armoured back and the gentle ministrations of Jem. As her cognition undulated with the peaks and troughs of the temperature she was vaguely aware of the motion of a horse. She felt an intense chill despite the layers of clothing around her and the warmth of the sun on her brow.
They were in the highlands now, rising slowly along a trail into the looming mountains. They glinted like the teeth of a gigantic metal dragon, the rock the silvery hue that bestowed the range its name. She clutched tightly to Orla’s back. A tug on her waist reassured her she was secured to the saddle with a robust strap.
Emelia slid once more into a slumber. The rocky hills and their purple bruises of heather faded away and soon she was elsewhere.
For a moment she thought she was dreaming of the purple stone city once more, running down its wide canyons. She looked around at her surroundings and what she saw made her long for the recurrent dream.
A city. A dead city. She had recently been here in her nightmares: it was his favourite place. The streets were choked with weeds and vines, a slimy glint to them from the recent rain. The impassive figures that populated this ghostly warren were black and shiny, like beetles. The wind carried their woes; pleading souls doomed to spend eternity petrified in this place, cursed by the folly of magic and the arrogance of Empires.
So the chase begins again, she thought. Part of her considered confronting him, to get it all done with. Yet she knew that when she did she would surrender to him totally. She would lay back and let his cold hands move over her body.
She wore her black armour and tunic, her hair tied tight in a whip of gold. In her hands she carried the blue crystal, yet it was different. It was a looking glass. Images twisted like eels within the bluish surface: a desert of red sand and lava, fire plumes rising like birds taking flight; a twisted swamp, slime rolling down the walls of a ruined building looming above the filthy water; a vast green forest, columns of light streaming through the canopy like pillars of gold.
Emebaka—dreamt in the form of a deformed child—tugged at her hand. The mystery of the glass would have to wait. He was searching again. She moved like mercury through the desolate place, clambering and climbing, using every surface and level to evade her pursuer. Emebaka bounded like a mountain goat, vaulting from balconies and shattered roofs. The motion made Emelia hotter and hotter and she felt her mouth barren and dry, her lips cracked from thirst.
They halted atop a wide flat building, its frescoes chipped and faded.
“Yet another mural of the faded Empire,” Emebaka said. “Once it was an Empire as bright as a midday sun, now it is as disparate as the dusk.”
“If you say so,” Emelia said. “Onor’s spit, my mouth is like the dunes of Pyrios.”
A pothole in the roof had collected water. Emelia scooped some into her hands, tucking the mirror first into her belt. The water was turgid but she was so thirsty that she cared not.
It ran thickly down her chin. Its taste was metallic and filled her with wonderful warmth, soaking into her like moisture through a cloth. It dripped between her fingers thick...and red.
She saw with revulsion that she drank blood. Yet it tasted delicious, like the finest Feldorian wine.
“My favoured vintage. Can you see why?” a voice asked.
She jerked upright and looked around in panic.
He stood atop a similar rooftop a hundred feet away, the breeze blowing his dark purple robes. His hair was liquid night, flowing like oil over his shoulder. His skin was chalk-white and pristine, like the snow of the mountains. Emelia knew it would be every bit as cold. Even from this distance she could see his grace and nobility, his burning hot eyes and his arrogant mouth with its thin crimson lips.
“I must confess, you fascinate me, Emelia,” he said. “In the space of these last few weeks we have moved from your uninvited visitations into my dreaming to hosting me so generously within your own.
“In my day though, and I’ll confess I am rather old fashioned, a hostess would actually sit down for a feast with her guest.”
His voice was close to her ear, despite his physical distance.
“This is all some mistake. I never meant to come into your twisted mind. I don’t know how it happened and I certainly don’t want you here,” Emelia said.
“Now that’s not entirely truthful is it? I excit
e you and intrigue you. I’ll admit that I too am at a loss to explain how we have forged this link and moreso how a child such as you can resist me when I have been bending minds to my will for nearly three millennia. Perhaps I am losing my touch? Too much time spent as dry bones and mummified flesh. Well no longer. This new body is far more comely, wouldn’t you say?”
“It’s ghoulish and vile,” she said. Yet within her a strange desire was rising.
“Ha! You modern girls. So ready with your insults. In the day of Gilibrion few women were even acknowledged, save his little warrior girls who played at being men. I told him it was short sighted, that the fairer sex had untapped depths, but he was more concerned with stopping my goblin allies annihilating his lands.”
“What do you want of me, Vildor?”
“My name, you’ve remembered my name! Untapped depths indeed. You are the first human, well near human, to interest me in centuries. I want you. And what can I give you in return? What you want more than anything. I can give you true freedom. The freedom that comes with knowledge. I can show you such things if you come to my side. I can give you such treasures. Two and a half thousand years of learning. That is most of this world’s recorded history. Moreover, I can give you eternity if only you stop resisting me.”
Emelia could feel his enormous will pushing against her. Flashes of emotion ran through her: desire, fear, longing, temptation, loneliness, insecurity. She stepped forward to the edge of the roof.
Come to me now, he whispered inside her head. Step from the precipice and become mine. Together Emelia, we will never need to be apart. Bring it to me.
She hesitated, resisting the intense pull from his mind. She squinted down at Emebaka who looked at her with eyes that glittered like diamonds. Her own eyes: star eyes. Warm thoughts of the Keep cemented her feet in place on the rooftop. Whether he desired her or not, he coveted the blue mirror even more.
She vaulted from the rooftop and onto a shattered balcony below, Emebaka at her side. The chase was back on.
Vildor smiled and melted back into the shadows of the dreamscape, leaving only a hint of shadow in his wake.
***
Orla was surprised at how long it had taken for her to get comfortable riding a horse again. Riding a griffon exclusively for most of the last decade had undoubtedly deskilled her. Being Coonorian born and bred (she felt like a horse herself when she put it that way) exposure to riding had been fairly limited. Her father’s family, the Farvouses, were jewellers and gem merchants and had little interest in anything organic. In the summer breaks she had journeyed from her city school to the family estate in Lower Eeria. Yet whilst her brothers and her cousins rode and played in the pines she shunned them in favour of books, feeling their immoderation below her. Ironically it had been books that had lead her to that shameful incident in the final summer.
Her mind moved on instinctively. Lord Tor-Baal and her other lower lord uncle, Talis Ebon-Farr, would be on the high council with her father Elik when she returned to Coonor. She felt a pang of fear at the prospect of admitting the failure of her mission. She would return without thieves, without servants, without her men and without the blue crystal. A demotion would be just reward, to fourth lance at least, but that would be minor compared to the looks of disappointment.
Orla glanced over to where Jem and Hunor sat astride their horse, arguing in low voices as to which of two potential mountain paths to follow to Giant’s Crag. Jem had the blue crystal in his pack. She could not tackle the Wild-mage unaided: he was swift at magic and an adept swordsman also. Hunor laughed and joked but watched her like a hawk. She knew he wanted to be rid of the blue crystal, but probably in order to realise its financial worth.
To round off her dismay she was indebted to Hunor for he had saved her life when they fought the demonic humour. Honour dictated she acknowledge that debt and she would be damned if she was going to return to Eeria with her honour as shattered as her pride. Yet the orders from the High Commander had been specific—retrieve the blue crystal by whatever means necessary.
Orla caught herself staring at Hunor, looking at his stubbled face and long brown hair. She turned her gaze back down the trail they had followed into the heights of the Silver Mountains. Behind them the weaving path drifted to the heath lands of the hills bordering the barony. The path ahead forked: one branch dove into a ravine, the second followed the curve of the mountainside around. Hunor’s caution had paid off thus far. They had skirted a dozen miles past Fort Birsdale which guarded the Thetorian side of Evik’s Pass. It would be similarly wise to evade the fortifications—and necessary border checks—on the Goldorian side of the pass.
“Orla? Orla?” she heard Emelia croak.
“Lady Orla, if you please. You should try and rest whilst your friends debate the route to their Galvorian hermit.”
“Lady Orla, how is Mother Gresham? And Lord Ebon-Farr?”
“That’s not really your concern, young lady.”
Emelia paused and Orla had a twinge of guilt. She knew she was taking out her dark mood on the girl. Nonetheless Emelia was still a servant. It wasn’t her place to enquire of her superiors in such a manner.
“I know I have little right to ask, given that I ran away. But the Keep was my home,” Emelia said.
“Very well, though it is most irregular to be answering this enquiry. Gresham slows by the month, the Guild Healers say her girth had taken its toll on her heart and her legs shine with dropsy. She purges daily to try and reduce the swelling.”
“And m’lord?”
Orla hesitated. What could she say to a servant? That Uncle Talis had been shaken deeply by that night at the Keep? That his anger had at first forced the Archmage Inkas-Tarr to leave the heights of Coonor and then stagnated into guilt and regret. How could she explain that Talis had altered? How could she tell Emelia that he was now a moderate, espousing reform and the welfare of the lower classes?
“He is well, Emelia. He is well,” Orla said. “Although if you have such concern over the wellbeing of your former masters then why did you flee the Keep?”
“My friend died. She… fell.”
“Yes, I recall that. Uncle was most perturbed by the events,”
“By Onor’s putrid breath he should be! It was his damned son that pushed her.” Emelia’s eyes glittered with fury.
“Are you insane or just febrile, girl? Karak and Geldir didn’t even live in the Keep then. In fact why am I even humouring the moronic rambling of a sullen maid with a reply?”
“Evidently you forget to defend your cousin Uthor. Is that blood running thicker than sense? Or do you protect his rotten bones because he’s a knight now?”
Orla spluttered at the impudence of the girl; to think she had being taking pity on her.
“Yes, that makes the most sense. You defended that bully Minrik’s actions before he died as well. You know as a maid I used to dream of the honourable knights. Every morning I would rise early to try and see the dawn patrol return. Even when I used to feel worthless and devalued, staring at the floor boards in deference and retreating out of rooms, I used to wish I was Eerian so that I would be one step closer to the noble order.”
“Girl, I warn you.”
“What a joke. The only one with any honour amongst you is dead and his name was Unhert.”
“Enough!” Orla screamed. How dare she sully the name of the Knights and the memory of the fallen.
“That’s enough from both of you,” Jem said. He and Hunor had ridden over and were observing the argument with concern. “You’ll bring every nearby soldier, goblin and ogre down on our heads.”
“She insults the Knights,” Orla said.
“She has a burning temperature and sickness. Yet with all due respect, Lady Orla, your current conduct hardly engenders regard for the Knights of the Air.”
“You go too far, mage.”
“Some would argue we don’t go far enough. I have no particular opinion one way or another on the knighthood. But the E
erians? I find it woeful that a nation that spawned a mighty empire—that bestowed us an enduring common language and a culture that permeated most civilised nations—finds itself so arrogant as to feel it can take children from across the seas for a pittance and work them into an early grave. All in the pretence of charity.”
Emelia unbuckled her waist strap and slipped from the saddle onto the rocky path. She wobbled drunkenly as she struck the ground. Hunor dismounted and Jem took the reins. The action broke the escalating dialogue. Orla glared icily at Jem. He held her gaze.
It was speculation as to what would have happened next had Hunor not suddenly pricked his ears up.
“Did you hear that?”
Both Orla and Jem looked blankly at him. He froze and listened intently then gestured towards the ravine trail.
“I can hear voices and the sound of armour and swords.”
“Let us solve your mystery then.” Lady Orla turned her horse and cantered off into the ravine. Hunor scowled then indicated Jem to follow her whilst he sat Emelia down.
“Stay here, love, and try not to pick any more fights with passing knights, eh?” Hunor said. He stood and loosened his sword in its back scabbard then ran towards the gully trail.
***
Orla entered the ravine, her gauntlet resting on her long sword. The initial passage was narrow, the cliff sides sheer either side of the path. After twenty or thirty feet it widened into a ravine over two hundred feet wide, although the cliff remained similarly steep both sides. The floor of the ravine was dry and dusty; no stream had flowed here for many years. The path continued along the centre of the ravine before rising to exit through a narrow passage similar to the one Orla had emerged through.
In the ravine were a collection of figures: the source of the noise. A brown horse trotted warily in front of one of the cliffs, a slumped figure on its back. Orla noted it had no saddle. Four mounted knights and a strange creature were arranged in a wide horseshoe formation. The knights were armoured in black plate, their helms cast to resemble leering demonic faces. The knights pointed crossbows at the horse and its unconscious rider. Yet it was the creature that fascinated Orla the most: it stood seven foot tall with four muscular arms, its head was that of a black wolf and across its back it carried two long serrated swords.
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