Dreams of Darkness Rising

by Kitson, Ross M.

  “It’s called a craven, but don’t let the appellation fool you. I’ve never seen one run away yet,” Jem said, riding level with her.

  “The dark knights—do you recognise them?” She drew her sword.

  Jem shook his head and he squinted at the group, some eighty feet away. His eyes widened and he gasped.

  “By the gods! It’s Kervin, Hunor,” he said as Hunor came jogging into the ravine. “It’s Kervin on the horse.”

  Hunor took in the scene in one glance and drew his sword.

  “Jem, a shield, quick. Orla take the craven before its gets to Jem.”

  Orla bristled at the orders but began to prepare her charge. The four dark knights aimed their crossbows at the horse and fired. The quarrels hissed like snakes towards Kervin and the horse, then halted in mid-air as they struck Jem’s magical barrier. The tips sprang open into rosettes of vicious barbs before tumbling to the ground.

  The knights whirled on their steeds. The monstrous craven came charging towards the trio, drawing the pair of swords. Jem thrust forth an arm and magic surged into the creature and it slowed, its fur buffeted by the flow of energy around it. The craven shook off the attack and renewed its charge.

  Orla rushed to meet it, her long sword glittering in the spring sun. The clatter of clashing metal was harsh and loud in the ravine as the two fought. Orla parried and feinted in a blur of blows, her magnate blade giving her the edge of speed if not power. The monster was snarling its hatred, saliva swinging in pendulous droplets from its maw. It stood as tall as her horse.

  ***

  Jem urged his steed forwards towards the knights, Hunor keeping level with him. The mage saw the horse shimmer and melt, its long legs shrinking to short powerful ones as it became a mountain lion. Kervin rolled off its back and onto the ground.

  “Hunor, the horse…the lion…do you think?” Jem asked.

  “Knowing our luck, mate…that’s all we need.”

  The first black armoured knight bore down on Hunor. In a whirl Hunor sliced his blade low across the belly of the horse, evading the knight’s devastating slash. He rose to parry a blow from the second knight. The impact jarred his shoulders.

  Jem rode his horse at the third knight. The tendrils of the Web were luminescent in his mind’s eye, spread across the glen. He mouthed words of power and sent a loose rock rolling under the thundering hooves of the knight’s horse. It tumbled with a whinny, throwing its rider forward and under Jem’s steed. The crack and splinter of bone mixed with the harsh sound of rent armour, as the knight thrashed under the hooves.

  Hunor struck left and right at the mounted second knight. The first knight turned his horse and then scrabbled in panic as the saddle slid from the black horse’s back. Hunor’s immediate opponent hacked at him. He sprang back then aimed a precise blow across the join between cuisse and poleyn. His sword cut deep, severing the leg in a spray of blood. The knight screamed and slipped back, tugging on his reins. His horse reared and Hunor dove under the flailing hooves and out the far side. In a blur of motion he thrust his sword backwards into the flank of the knight. The bloodied blade punched into the mail hauberk exposed under the back plate. The knight jerked and stiffened, then slumped forwards dead.

  “Hunor, go and assist Orla against the craven. I shall deal with the knight,” Jem said. He rode towards the dismounted first knight.

  The mountain lion circled the fourth knight, who had drawn his sword in favour of re-loading his crossbow. Hunor sprinted back across the ravine towards Orla and the craven.

  The dismounted knight advanced warily. Jem focused his mind again and felt magic surge out at the knight. The mystic energy slammed the knight backwards towards the wall of the ravine. A screech of armour sang out as he crunched into the stone.

  “Curse you, wizard, those of the Ebony Heart do not yield to your trickery,” he said.

  He threw a small metallic sphere towards the mage. It arced through the air then struck the rocky ground a few feet from Jem.

  The explosion sounded muffled in quality in the confines of the ravine yet the flare of light was as intense as the sun. Jem gasped as the world flashed white then black: the glare had blinded him. His horse reared in panic as white hot balls of phosphorus burnt its skin, throwing Jem from the saddle. His back jolted as he landed on the ground.

  Jem coughed and spluttered. His mouth was full of dust and grit and he could hardly breath such was the raw ache in his ribcage. Panic crawled through him as he clambered to his feet.

  He drew his slim sword and crouched low, ears straining for any indication of his assailant. He could hear other noises: the roars of the lion and the sound of claws on metal, the clash of blades from Orla’s direction, the scrape of leather on stone. His opponent was coming closer.

  ***

  Hunor halted forty feet away upon hearing the crash of the explosion. Across the ravine he could see Jem crouched. The dark knight was advancing, clearly trying to flank the mage. Hunor glanced at Orla, who fought the craven with vigour. She landed a blow on one of its four arms sending black blood onto the rocks. Her cuisse was dented, though the craven’s strike had not drawn the knight’s blood.

  In the end it was no contest and Hunor ran back towards his friend Jem. The black armoured knight saw him approach and slowed his advance. Hunor stopped some ten feet from the knight and the pair began to circle.

  “Fifteen paces in front of you, Jem,” Hunor said.

  “Hunor? I thought you’d run off to play saviour to your lady friend again,” Jem said.

  “No, old mate,” Hunor said. “Best let her work off some anger without my assistance. It seems you were right about this being the wrong path to take though.”

  Hunor calmed his breathing down and relaxed his mind. The scene seemed to blur: he became acutely aware of each breath, each heartbeat. His eyes watched each step the knight took, the angle of his foot, the shifting of his weight.

  The knight lunged and then span. Five-inch blades sprang from his gauntlet with a click and he slashed with both these and his long sword. In one fluid motion Hunor stepped laterally, then forward and brought his sword upward, across and then back inwards. The dark armoured knight stumbled past him then fell to his knees, blood running thick from the gouge in his mail-covered neck.

  ***

  Lady Orla blinked back sweat as she parried the relentless blows of the craven. Its breath was ragged too, which was some consolation. Her leg was numb from a blow she had received, the armour having bent into her thigh. Her sword arm ached and she recognised she was too long out of practice for an opponent such as this.

  The craven leered and thrust towards her. She blocked one then two slashes from its dual blades, sparks raining down onto the monster’s chest. With a jolt its third arm slammed into her belly and she felt herself dismounted, her boot slipping from the stirrup.

  Her free hand scrabbled for grip, finding the edge of the saddle. She swung herself down off the horse, her shoulder screaming at the awkward angle. The horse bolted as she landed, the craven pushing past it to get at her.

  Its blades rained down at her with increased force.

  I’m on a back foot here, she thought, and this monster has far superior height and strength. I’d give my commission for my helmet and shield right now.

  Orla sidestepped and slashed her sword into the creature’s side. The blade sliced into the monster’s black ring mail and drew black blood and flesh. With a roar of pain the craven jabbed down hard with a muscular arm and the blow caught Orla on the left pauldron.

  By Torik my shoulder, I can’t feel it. Get to your feet you stupid girl or you’ll be joining your griffon.

  A flash of steel was above her and she braced herself for the decapitating attack. A brown boulder abruptly obscured her vision.

  Is this some sorcery of Jem’s? No, Orla focus past the pain. Its got limbs and robes and eyes. Like twin droplets of night. Focus past the pain.

  The craven’s sword slash halted in mi
d-air as the small figure caught the blade between its two craggy brown hands. The creature’s stunned expression turned to pain as the small rock man released the sword, grabbed its wrist and pivoted with remarkable grace. The crack of the bone was like a whip as the wrist developed a grotesque tenting of the skin.

  The craven slashed at the small figure with its remaining sword but he evaded the clumsy blow and kicked the monster in the knee.

  By the gods he’s shattered its knee. Now Orla, here is your chance. While it staggers back, strike.

  She plunged her blade into the craven’s chest and twisted. The keen sword slid up to the hilt and the monster gasped as black blood poured from its wolven mouth.

  Orla staggered back from the crumpling body, a sudden weariness upon her. She could see Hunor approaching the last knight, who bled from a series of gashes in his armour. The mountain lion now circled him. Kervin was on his feet, leaning against the wall of the ravine for support.

  Her small rock-skinned saviour was already running with surprising speed towards them. The horses were cringing at the far end of the ravine. Ignoring the crunch of her collar bone, Orla began to jog across the ravine after the short figure.

  “Time to put the sword down, matey. You’ve less chance of winning than me finding a beardless woman in Kir,” Hunor said. The lion snarled, its fangs already wet with blood.

  “Surrender is for the weak. My death will be my honour,” the knight said. He grabbed a small sphere from his belt and threw it. Hunor brought his hand up to shield his face.

  The sphere exploded mere inches from the knight’s gauntlet as a crossbow bolt struck it. The white hot flare illuminated the knight as the phosphorus rained upon him like snow. The metal hissed as the white balls of heat melted into the armour and the knight screamed.

  Orla came beside Hunor as the small brown figure reached Jem. The knight was on his knees and the lion slowly moved towards him. The wounded tracker she had heard called Kervin slumped against the rock, a crossbow falling from his hands.

  “He must be allowed surrender and parley by the code of conduct that I adhere to, Hunor,” Orla said.

  Before Hunor could reply the dark knight began wailing. Orla saw smoke billowing from the joins in his armour and the eye holes of his helm. His body convulsed and twitched in agony before he tumbled to the floor, liquid flesh running through the holes.

  “That is no honourable way to die. How sickening,” Orla said, covering her mouth with her hand.

  “Acid mechanism in the armour. One more from their bag of bloody tricks.”

  Orla turned and with amazement saw, in the place of the mountain lion, a short woman with cropped hair and a flushed freckled face. To Orla’s absolute horror she saw the woman wore no clothes; her curvaceous figure was covered in tattoos, running over her breasts, abdomen and arms.

  “By Torik—you’re naked.”

  “Observant isn’t she? New play pal of yours, Hunor?” Marthir asked.

  “Ha! Nice…err, tats there, love,” Hunor said with a grin.

  “Thank you—they were hard earned.”

  “Outrageous…this is outrageous. Give her something to cover up with, Hunor—now!” Orla said, averting her eyes.

  Hunor pulled forth a red handkerchief from his belt and handed it to Marthir. Jem came to Orla’s side, his eyes watering and red. The short brown figure whom Orla now saw to be a Galvorian walked with him. His coal black eyes regarded her with some interest.

  Jem passed his cloak to the druid with a sigh. “Lady Orla, it’s my uncertain pleasure to introduce you to Marthir, a druid of Artoria.”

  Marthir came striding up to Jem and gave him a passionate hug then a warm wet kiss. Orla’s jaw dropped.

  “And not to mention, his wife,” Marthir said, her green eyes flashing with mirth.

  Chapter 4 The Barrowlands

  Sunstide 1924

  The immediate period after a downpour was always Aldred’s favourite. He shook the loose water from his travel cloak and savoured the distinct post rain scents: the stark odour of the damp soil, the freshness of wet grass, the tang of the still moist air as it hit the back of the throat. His horse splashed through the puddles on the rutted road and he heard the bird songs erupt once more. It was as if they had waited during the brisk shower with baited breath and were now catching up on lost time.

  In a sense he felt similar. This simple trip south was like a lungful of much needed air after too long struggling in the turgidity of his life.

  “Let us hope the rain holds off for the Spring Fayre, Otius. I think the town had its fair share of misery with the girl’s murder,” Aldred said.

  “As you say, m’lord. Master Poris will no doubt have himself a fine time. It’s a credit to us Thetorians that we rise above such darkness. I understand the baron has recovered well enough to attend it,” Otius said.

  “Aye. It got me off the hook for hosting it, which I am most heartedly relieved about.”

  Aldred had been dreading the prospect of hosting the event whilst the image of Arlien Smithson lying pale and bloodless was emblazoned in both his waking and sleeping mind. He was not the only one. He had approached Guntir Hawkson the following day to gain directions to Lord Markson’s former estate. The normally stoic captain looked drawn and distant as he gave Aldred the instructions.

  Guntir could not know why Aldred sought Hunor, possible son of Lord Markson. In all truth Aldred was also a little uncertain, beyond it being the dying words of Holbek and the fact he had made a vow to his widow. In any event he had charged the attentions of his friend, Livor Korianson, to assist in the investigations of Arlien’s macabre death in his absence.

  His escort came level with him as his horse splashed through the mud. They were two soldiers from the group who had accompanied Poris Longshanks to Eviksburg. The pair were less than impressed with the prospect of leaving the inns of Eviksburg at the onset of the Fayre to be Aldred’s bodyguards for the journey but Poris had insisted. The lantern jawed Otius and the hook nosed Relium were placated by the bag of silver coins that Aldred had given them and the promise that they would be back before the end of the Fayre.

  “I’ll warrant the baron was aided in his recovery by the prospect of seeing those lovely young maidens parading on the stage,” Relium said.

  “Perhaps. I suspect my father remains more concerned about the death of Smithson’s daughter.”

  “As you say, m’lord.”

  Aldred glanced at the soldier whose face was impassive. Did he suspect the baron’s utter indifference? His father had dismissed the tragedy with a bored look and said Guntir may have whatever he required for capturing the creature responsible. Aldred had suggested perhaps a mage, one of the lower sash ones that frequented the courts in Thetoria City, could be hired but his father had tonelessly said he wouldn’t want the king to be troubled and then promptly ignored his son in favour of a yellowing book.

  “Turning chilly for this time o’ year,” Otius said.

  “I’m not certain it’s just the weather.” Aldred said. “Shall we quicken the pace?”

  “Aye, m’lord. Best not be in the Barrowlands at night.”

  Aldred suppressed a shudder. They were on the second day of the journey south of Eviksburg. The road was an old Thetorian road lacking the straight well designed quality of a good Imperial highway. It had suffered centuries of trade vehicles on its winding course from Benscastle in the centre of Baron Benrich’s lands to the crossroads twelve miles east of Eviksburg.

  The north of Benrich’s barony was wild and mainly used for grazing by shepherds and their flocks. Twenty to twenty five miles south of the crossroads the lands rose to a hillier terrain. A ridge of highland ran from Oldston nearly a hundred miles to the west—and in Baron Enfarson’s lands—to eighty miles east of where Aldred rode now. The name of the hills had been lost in time for now they were known only as the Barrowlands, after the ancient burial mounds of the first tribesmen of the area.

  The mounds were s
cattered amongst the hills, interspersed with stone circles and dolmens. The ancient stones had given rise to many a folk tale in Northern Thetoria, used to scare errant children and occasionally even adults. Although Aldred had never scared easily, the events of the last few weeks had taught him fresh respect for sorcery and the dead.

  “M’lord, pardon me asking but will we be making journey end before dark?” Otius said. The huge warrior licked sweat off his lip.

  “By Guntir’s estimate it’s about another thirty miles, so barring any heavy showers we should be fine. Why? Don’t you fancy a night with spirits for company in your bed roll?”

  Otius smiled thinly whilst Relium chuckled and said, “He’s had much worse than that in his bed roll, m’lord. An’ that’s not countin’ his missus.”

  Aldred grinned at Relium. The tall Thetorian was the less superstitious of the two guards but none the less had spent the trip offering every theory as to the recent death of Smithson’s daughter in Eviksburg.

  “No, m’lord, we’re best off out of your town if you ask me,” Relium said. “Times like this they’ll be grabbing every cross eyed lad with funny eye brows or a curious birth mark. Course it stands to reason that the creature what done her is a hound of the Pale.”

  “Can you not be quiet of such things in this place,” Otius said. “You’ll bring a curse down on us from one of the barrows.”

  Aldred felt a chill run the length of his spine.

  “Yes, come on, Relium, let’s offer a bit of respect. The lords of old were buried in these hills in the Era of Legends. What a land it must have been. The great nation of Trimena, running from the top of Goldoria all the way to the southern straits of Feldor. Imagine that! All of us countrymen.”