It was a strain to sit up, like every individual muscle had to be taught how to perform even this basic function. Across the chamber, in the corner, a man sat propped up against the wall.
He was broad and stocky, with sandy brown hair tied back in a pony tail. His beard was unkempt and did little to hide a haggard face that added years to his likely age.
“Hello,” he said. “I’ve been watching you while you’ve slept. Sorry, I know that sounds a touch creepy.”
Emelia looked at him without smiling; where were Jem and Hunor? His demeanour seemed amiable but Emebaka was whispering caution. She fiddled nervously with her shell pendant.
“Looked like a good rest you were having. I’ll admit to being jealous,” he said.
“It’s a rare thing for me as well, so don’t feel too envious,” Emelia said.
“Your Imperial is very crisp, like an Eerian’s.”
Emelia continued to stare at him warily.
“My mother used to tell me—between hitting me with her mighty wooden spoon—that dreams were what your spirit saw when it left your body at night. She always claimed the wind sprites, children of the earth goddess Nolir, would slip on the breeze into your bedchamber and ease your spirit away with their long ethereal hooks.”
“I had a friend who believed something similar. Spirits at night,” Emelia said.
“Really? Because I’m fairly well travelled and I’d say Corinthians usually believe that dreams are vapours from the Pale, changed as they bubble through the oceans. The good-hearted get the dreams that Asha the water father has altered the most. The wicked, well you know. I do assume your friend is an Islander like yourself?”
“No she was Azaguntan. In truth I’m not…ah, certain what the Islanders believe. I left as a child. I am…was, a servant. A kitchenmaid. Not any more. Now I’m—not certain.”
Emelia’s head was heavy, her thoughts dragging like feet through mud.
“I don’t think any of us know who we truly are,” the man said. “We play so many roles in our days: child, warrior, adventurer, tracker, lover and friend. I’ve had such a number, such a range of guises to wear that at times I lose track. Feel like coming to a room like this and just been alone with my thoughts, sort out the clutter.”
“What is this room?”
“This is Master Mek-ik-Ten’s chamber of reflection. He just lost the mirrors. Ouch, sorry, terrible jest. We were brought in here to be healed and to regain our fortitude.”
“He’s done a good job on my wound. What was wrong with you?”
“He’s not certain. Since I escaped from Erturia a month or so ago I’ve been delirious and running this fever. We’re sure it’s not contagious, so don’t panic. Besides it seems to be reducing now.
“I’m Kervin by the way. I’m a tracker, amongst my other ‘masks.’ I’m from Artoria which I suppose makes us distant cousins.”
“How so?”
“Well without getting all Jem-like on you it works like this. I’m from South Artoria, near Keresh, but my old dad was from Belgo in the North. The first men to settle in Artoria, ooh three thousand years ago, were from Aquatonia and Corinth. They’re your kin, the Islanders. So really we’re distant cousins.”
“The resemblance between us is uncanny,” Emelia said and the two erupted in laughter. The mirth made her shoulder ache but it had been so long since she had laughed she had forgotten the warm intoxication it provided.
“So we’ve got an Islander former maid with impeccable Imperial travelling with an Eerian knight, a Thetorian thief and a Goldorian Wild-mage, sat in a cave belonging to a Galvorian monk with an Artorian tracker. We’re a lesson in international unity! Mind you when we add Marthir in, the Artorians take the lead.”
“Marthir?”
“Jem’s wife, the druid. You won’t have met her yet, she’s a…force of nature.”
The jest fell on deaf ears. Emelia felt faint, the room swirling like a whirlpool around her. Nausea clawed her throat and she crumpled back onto the soft sheets. He’s got a wife? Jem has a wife? The force of her furious scream was countered by the silence of deepest sorrow such that all that came out was a stifled gasp.
The room came into focus and Kervin’s face dominated her vision. Up close she could see he was a handsome man, though the impact of starvation had tarnished the better features.
“I’ll take it that was a surprise? Sorry,” Kervin said. “I mean Marthir is his wife but, well, they’re not really together in what I’d consider a normal sense. It’s a thing of the past, back when we all adventured together. Before she left to become a druid.”
“Are you and her…together then?”
“Me? Marthir? Nolir’s roots no. No. Druids are polygamous and that’s way too strange for me, all that free love. I mean she’s a gorgeous woman, wild and passionate, but she’s my friend, my comrade. You can’t go into battle by the side of someone you love. It ruins the focus. You’d wind up dead and I was far too close to that happening in Erturia to risk it again.”
Emelia smiled, her eyes glittering like a hundred fire flies in the amber light. Kervin helped her sit back up.
“Kervin, my name is Emelia. I have no family name I know of. I don’t really feel like seeing the others yet. Shall we unclutter our thoughts a bit more, like you said? Maybe you could tell me more about you, Hunor and Jem and what you used to get up to?”
“No problem, Emelia. Let’s enjoy some peace and quiet. It is supposed to be a room of reflection after all. Let me tell you about Hunor, me and the Wailing Bog-Troll of Varsan…”
***
Lady Orla Farvous had a degree of familiarity with Galvorians yet despite this she could not help but be impressed by Mek-ik-Ten’s residence. To say it was hewn from the mountain was a disservice to the quality of the place. There were no rough chiselled edges or harsh carved lines to be seen. Rather the place flowed from the rock around them, all smooth graceful curves. Orla scowled at herself: where were these artistic thoughts coming from?
The druid girl, Marthir, sat opposite Orla and maintained a manic energy. Hunor sat with her and conveyed the manner of a man entertaining a tavern full of dear friends. Each laugh and familiar touch of Marthir’s arms irritated Orla far more than it should.
Mek-ik-Ten, sat cross-legged on a rock chair with a long pipe in his wide mouth. Orla had always found Galvorians a curiosity. The race hailed from Orio, an island a thousand miles west of mainland Nurolia and many more from Coonor, yet were no strangers in the City of Mists. Even as a girl she had seen their stunted bodies, skin the colour of richest soil and had been fascinated. They had turned their expertise in excavation and rock lore into an indispensible requirement for any nation that mined. Eerians had employed them for hundreds of years, along with Earth-mages, burrowing further and further into seams of gold, silver, iron and magnate in the Cloudtip Mountains.
Master Mek-ik-Ten, a Galvorian monk, exuded an infectious tranquillity and all in the room were struggling to stay awake, despite the clear importance of the impending debate.
“I’ve never been able to work out how someone who eats rocks can still cook such delicious food,” Hunor said, his mouth full of the potato dish Master Ten had prepared.
“Hunor!” Marthir said. “It’s plain to see your etiquette hasn’t improved in the last eight years.”
“Hunor’s skills have ever lain within realms more subtle than etiquette, Marthir,” Master Ten said. “Answer me this, young Thetorian—what use is a herbalist who can not flavour the fruits of the earth that you now consume?”
“I’ll assume the herbology also helps with that potent mixture of smoke you sedate us all with?” Hunor said.
“Peace of mind is peace of body. You shall not heal with minds wounded by anger,” said Master Ten.
Marthir stretched like a cat, pulling Jem’s cloak around her tattooed shoulders.
“So you finally got caught doing something you shouldn’t have been doing, eh boys?” Marthir said. “Astonished
it took so long. What on earth did you do to get taken down by an Eerian knight?”
“As you suggest, they perpetrated a crime against one of the most important nobles in Coonor and justice still awaits them there. It is no matter of jest,” Orla said.
“All credit to you then, lady knight. I could never find Jem when I was married to him. He was always sneaking off for a wild weekend of meditation with Master Ten.”
“I’m certain Lady Farvous has minimal interest in the details of our marital woes, Marthir,” Jem said. “She may however join me and Hunor in a certain curiosity as to why we find you on the wrong side of the Emerald Mountains with a semi-conscious Kervin and some rather blood-thirsty pursuers?”
“And a horse one minute and a mountain lion the next,” Hunor said.
Marthir sat forward, the green glow of the lichen making her emerald eyes all the more intense.
“With regards the latter, I achieved fourth tier in the mastery of druidism and with that came the gift of bestial forms: therianthropy. It’s a gift to use…carefully. As for my pursuers: they were Knights of the Ebony Heart.”
“This is fantasy,” Lady Orla said, her eyes rolling. “To my recall there are only three true orders of knighthood: the Eerian, the Goldorian and the Artorian.”
“Well true or not they are a force to be respected,” Marthir said. “It’s unlikely you’d have met them as they don’t venture this side of the mountains so often and certainly not towards the splendid isolation of Eeria.”
“Tell us of this black order, Marthir,” Master Ten said.
“We’re not certain as to when they first formed but they came to the attention of the Druid council about a decade ago, before I went to the Great Forest,” Marthir said. “They originate from the wastes of North-Eastern Artoria and seem to confine their activity to the mountains and the wilderness.”
“And did the noble Artorian knights not take affront at this black troop?” Orla asked.
“The Artorian knights? Noble? I’d say you’re stuck in your fairy tales, m’lady,” Marthir said. “Agreeably I’ve no love for the northerners. None of the Kereshians have. But it’s true to say if they spent half the time being knights that they spent arguing politics and principle then the Ebony Heart would have never got a foothold.”
“But why were they pursuing you, Marthir? And what is the nature of these devices they employ?” Jem said.
“I suppose it best to start at the beginning,” Marthir said. “Four years ago I came into possession of an old book after clashing with two knights near Sandar’s Beck. I was with Kervin and Ygris then as Sir Tinkek was indisposed.”
“Tinkek? How is the old sot?”
“I’m sure you’re more aware than I, Hunor, what with your covert arrangements.”
The thief shifted uncomfortably in his stone seat as Jem flashed a curious stare at him.
“He’s grand, Hunor. Fatter and, well, goutier than when last you saw him,” Marthir said. “He’s neck deep in all the machinations of the knighthood. Half of them joust with only their tongues now, the other half charm the ladies and curry favour from the equally useless king.”
Orla rose in anger at this affront. “Twice now you have spoken ill of a knightly order. I can not believe such irreverent twaddle of an order as ancient as my own, especially from one with such brazen regard for attire.”
“And that’s twice you’ve interrupted me. I’d suggest when you have something useful to contribute then speak up; otherwise I’d confine your opinions to events that happen east of Midlund, like most Eerians I’ve ever met do.”
Orla stepped forward in anger but before Hunor and Jem could rise Master Ten was stood between them. His short arms were raised in a sign of peace.
“Fury is the fuel of the dark paths,” Mek-ik-Ten said. “It has no place in this house of peace. Lady Orla, you would do well to listen, for I sense this tale shall send ripples across the pond of this world that may be felt even in the distant shores of Coonor—a place normally insensate to such tidings. You would do me dishonour as my guest if you embrace anger not wisdom.
“Speak now, Marthir, for your story is the crossroads of our days. Do not be distracted by your desires to fight battles that are not your concern.”
“Please accept my apology,” Marthir said. “The book was about Erturia and it dated back to the House of Valgansi during the Artorian Empire.”
“Erturia? The dead city? I thought that was totalled along with the rest of the Wastes two hundred years ago?” Hunor said.
“It was and that’s what made it strange for them to want this old book. In truth, I was shaken by the whole thing and made my way back to South Artoria and the Forest. The Druid council were as intrigued as I about these dark knights and their interest in Erturia.
“Over the next few years I was involved in gaining greater amounts of information about these black knights. None of them have ever been captured so it’s mainly from rumour and supposition. They are based, we think, in an old Imperial—that’s second Empire—fort in the Wastes. Their particular hatred for nature and life makes me think they are tied in some way to the Dukes of the Pale.”
“This combination of acid in their armour and white fire projectiles –the technology they employ is fascinating,” Jem said.
“Devilish more like. Anyway, about four months back I was called to the Druid council. They were particularly concerned that they had sensed a major disruption in the earth power in north-east Artoria and given the proximity of the dark knights they suspected evil was afoot. The council had already attempted to raise concerns with Queen Hirga in Keresh—via her daughter—but she was loath to take action in what is effectively North Artoria. King Liisar and his decadent court in Belgo would be a lost cause so the council didn’t even bother to try. Their conclusion was to send three missions north, one to spy on the fort, one to gain information on what the knights were doing in the mountains and the third to travel through the Wastes to Erturia.
“I volunteered for the third, given my knowledge of the Wastes from our days foraging in that cursed land. To my surprise they accepted my offer though when I explained that I wished to choose a group of mainly non-druids I thought I had pushed my luck too far, as ever.
“I took Ygris, Kervin, Ograk, my acolyte—Ebfir Greeneye—and Iogar, an Artorian warrior who knew Ograk. A good group for the task, I thought. It seems I was…wrong,” Marthir sighed, emotion in her voice.
“What happened in Erturia then Marthir? We know Kervin and you came out but what about old bead-beard Ygris and Ograk the miserable?” Hunor asked.
“Erturia was full of dark knights. They were digging in the centre of the city, where the Emperor’s palace was. Yet I don’t think they dug for the main ruins, they seemed to be going deeper. It seems that there was an older palace.”
“That’s correct,” Jem said. “The first palace was torn apart in the coup that killed Stelfan II. The Emperor’s eldest son had got involved with dark magic, to his own doom.”
“Well the doom has returned, Jem. The knights were meeting with a dark wizard called Xirik—I say wizard, when I mean ghast,” Marthir said, her voice shaking.
A chill flowed through the room. All were stunned into silence by the statement until Orla said, “A ghast? A vampyr lord? I thought them a tale for children and superstitious peasants.”
“No...no fairytales in what I witnessed. He annihilated our team and took Kervin, Ygris and Ograk captive. I was left, thought dead and that was Xirik’s only error.”
“What did this Xirik want in Erturia?” Jem asked.
“That was soon to become apparent. On the fourth day they exhumed the bones of a man, adorned in a rich purple robe that had somehow not rotted in the ground. The air stank of evil as they brought them forth.
“I knew I had little time to free my comrades. I got into the Halls of Justice where they had them prisoner but I found only Ygris and Kervin. It transpired they needed fresh blood for their ritual.<
br />
“The three of us were on the roof of the Halls when we saw poor Ograk die. More blood than I thought any body could hold,” Marthir said. Tears were now running down her cheeks. “And from the bones rose a terrible white faced man, hair as black as night, lips as red as a rose.”
“Vildor,” said a voice from the far side of the room.
All heads turned as Emelia entered, her face ashen despite the comforting warmth of the room.
“Aye, it was Vildor,” Marthir said. “Back from the dead.”
***
Sat at the edge of the smooth circular living chamber Orla noted how Emelia’s arrival had subtly altered the dynamics in the room. The girl sat by the central fire pit. Jem was sat by her side, a move that seemed to draw unwarranted attention from Marthir. On Emelia’s far side the small Galvorian monk had moved and he now sat munching on what seemed to be pebbles.
Orla surveyed Marthir, who was talking in hushed tones with Hunor. She caught a glance at one stage from him; he threw her his trademark smile, which Orla was certain would charm any passing peasant girl. The knight felt isolated, both physically and mentally from this group.
Moreover, and she was most troubled to admit this, both Emelia’s and Marthir’s outbursts had wounded her far more effectively than any sword thrust. The druid she had little respect for: the woman was clearly liberal in her sexual morality and the practices of those who worshipped the earth goddess were infamous, at least according to the sombre priests of Torik. But Emelia was a different matter. Agreeably the girl was an absconded servant and were she being completely, well, Eerian about it her opinion would count less than a griffon’s. But she had developed a respect for the girl over the past few weeks and in doing so felt stranded between two worlds. The more she reflected, the more morose she became and the more she began to doubt her own heritage, her own culture. And those screams, the screams from years before always came back at times like these.
Dreams of Darkness Rising Page 40