Dreams of Darkness Rising

by Kitson, Ross M.

  He patiently scanned the pages, trying to drag his sparse theological learnings from his drink dampened mind. He finally located the passage he required, the letter of Graen to Arcox of Birin, on omens and signs from the Father.

  The voice came unto my mind as if the calls of the Hergada, those who ride at the right arm of the Father. And the voice spoke of five signs and five signs there were in my minds eye. Five portents of doom. Five to match the elder gods, the second born. Five to match the Younger Gods and five to represent the quintet of the Pale.

  And the first of these five shall be the omen of blood. It shall pour like a widow’s tears. And those that crave the water of life shall rise in its wake. Vampyrs, men call them and their fell Lords the Ghasts, minions of Nekra, abhorred child of the Mother Miria, whose domain is Time. And the dead shall stir in their graves.

  And the second shall be the omen of ice. From the skies of the summer day it shall pour…

  Aldred stopped reading, the hairs of his neck rising. Vampyrs and Ghasts? Surely they were just fairytales to scare errant children? Like the Barrowlands and dark wizards? Like the ghosts of dead parents. No, it was only too real. He began shivering as terror seeped like damp into him. Something was wrong: the priest had stopped praying.

  A huge shape padded into the chancel, its eyes burning a flaming red. It stood perhaps the size of a small pony with thick black fur that seemed to devour all the light near it. For an instant Aldred thought it some enormous wolf but as it turned its face towards the terrified priest he saw the canine features were strangely human. Its wide mouth was packed with long knife-like teeth and the fire of the brazier tinted the tendrils of fetid drool a golden colour.

  Aldred was frozen to the spot with fear. This was no opponent he could battle. He had no sword to even try. He shook as the beast approached the priest, who seemed miniscule before it.

  Then it spoke.

  “Your time of deliverance has come, priest.”

  “May Mortis curse you for entering his house, hound of the Pale,” the priest said, quaking.

  “And Nekra relish in your screams for all eternity. Your faith is weak, old man.”

  The priest bolted but the beast was upon him. In a blur it sank its wicked teeth into his body and he screamed as it shook him like a doll. Blood spattered across the altar and stone floor.

  Aldred felt sick with fear yet in an instant knew he could not leave the pastor to die this way. He leapt to his feet and charged down the nave towards the beast. It looked up as he kicked the flaming brazier over onto it. The hot coals spilled across its black fur and it roared in pain. Smoke erupted from the old cloths that adorned the blood soaked altar.

  Aldred grabbed the pastor but with dismay realised he was dead, a look of agony transfixed on what remained of his head.

  The beast struck him with a crash and he hit the bloodied stone hard. He tried to scrabble from under the bulk of the huge monster. Aldred could feel its hot breath on his neck. He could feel his bladder empty as the monster pressed down.

  Then it stopped.

  Smoke was pouring from the blazing cloths and he could hear shouts from outside. The creature whispered in his ear as he spluttered and choked.

  “Never challenge me again, boy. I have little mercy within me.”

  Aldred sobbed as he laid face down, smoke clawing at his throat. The weight of the beast was gone. He rolled over and saw the flames writhing up the wooden walls of the shrine. The orange glow looked ghastly on the half eaten face of Pastor Pritir.

  The door splintered in. Hinkir the stable boy and six commoners stumbled in, coughing in the smoke. Aldred numbly allowed them to lift him, his breathing raw in his chest. A single thought dominated his mind.

  Why had the beast spared him?

  ***

  The question still plagued him the next day as he leant miserably on the ledge of his chamber window. From the window he could see the remnants of the chapel far below in the bailey and see the common folk sifting like tiny ants through the debris.

  Aldred looked up at a knock on his door. Jirdin’s walnut-like head poked into the room.

  “M’lord Aldred. There’s that Azaguntan thespian here to wish you well. I’ve told him you were indisposed but he’s rather persistent. Shall I call the guard?”

  “No, Jirdin, send him in. He means well.”

  Jirdin’s look was of the most profound doubt. “As you wish. If there’ll be nought else I shall take my lunch, sir.”

  Ekris swaggered into the chamber a minute later.

  “My lord, such a catastrophe. Truly you are beset by menace with every step you take. Were I but by your side I should have bored the creature to an unholy death with my famed rendition of Holden’s Sonnet for the Fallen.”

  “I’m in a poor frame of mind for frivolity. I have delayed my journey to Eviksburg to see Livor Korianson. Onor’s spit, I need a drink.”

  Aldred poured a draught of wine for the actor and handed him the goblet before repeating the action for himself.

  “A touch early, m’lord, but as I’m not at work I shall partake. Your health!”

  Aldred drank deeply, for his belly still twisted.

  “And what is your work, Ekris? Are you really an actor as you say?”

  “But of course, though the statement is rather redundant as in many ways we are all actors playing a role in this convoluted epic of life. Anyway, enough about me. Are you recovering, m’lord?”

  “Aye, although the memory of the beast will haunt me for many a night. It makes no sense why it should spare me. How has my father responded?”

  “By all accounts, at least in the warm confines of the kitchen, the baron is incensed,” Ekris said. “He is furious that this creature could infiltrate the castle grounds. I hear he is considering flogging the captain of the night guard, though that may really be to whip the Azaguntan fraternity into shape, if you’ll forgive the pun. But still…”

  “You have some reservations about the whole thing?” Aldred said, sipping the wine once more.

  “Yes, m’lord. The baron seems to be discounting a rather obvious possibility, if you’ll pardon me commenting.”

  “You’re pardoned, go on.”

  “The possibility that the beast came from within the walls.”

  Aldred looked at the Azaguntan, his mind turning it over. Could a member of the household have something to do with the beast? It was possible. Quigor had brought in enough foreigners over the years. He needed to talk this through with his pragmatic friend Livor.

  “What do the folk in the castle say?” Aldred said. “You seem adept at tapping into gossip.”

  Ekris faked a look of mock horror at the statement.

  “Such slander! It is in the nature of Azaguntans to stay alive and keeping one’s ears soundly to the ground, or wall, is a step towards this. The guards and the servants spin endless theories already of the beast’s nature. Top of the list has to be the knight that your father has tucked away.”

  “The knight? He’s an Eerian Knight of the Air. What on earth do they think he has to do with any of this?”

  “What’s to think? They’re scared,” Ekris said with a shrug. “There are omens in Eviksburg, a dead maiden and a chewed up priest. None of this was here before the knight and his comrades appeared. They all speak that he has made a pact with Quigor’s spectre to wreak havoc on the barony.”

  “This is madness!” Aldred said. “Eerians are by all accounts aloof and arrogant but they are not a nation of dark sorcerers or demon worshippers. The Pale take my father. I need to talk to this knight. He may well help me find the answers I need.”

  Ekris looked shrewdly at him and Aldred cursed his careless tongue.

  “I’d urge you to be quick then, m’lord. The Azaguntans are not ones to ponder the hostage value of an Eerian knight in the way you noble Thetorians do. If they think he has anything to do with this creature then they will slit his throat in his sleep and be done with it.”

 
“Damn it, I need to see him,” Aldred shouted, throwing his wine goblet with a clatter against his cupboard door. The red wine spattered across the wood and Aldred was reminded sickeningly of the dead priest from the night before.

  The Azaguntan sat there as Aldred’s temper abated.

  “Then perhaps you have need of my talents again, Lord Aldred. I have a proposal.”

  A tingle ran down Aldred’s back as he sat down by the actor. He had little choice but to trust the man.

  ***

  The dungeons of Blackstone Castle had had their fair share of occupants over the years. Yet to Aldred’s knowledge not once had one of the architects of the dank chambers, the Eerians, been incarcerated here. That was until now.

  The stairs down into the dungeons were an extension of the southern tower’s steps. Their proximity to the barracks of a hundred or so soldiers did little for Aldred’s nerves as he descended them towards the dungeon’s guard room. He balanced a hot pot of gruel in his hands, the steam threatening to make the theatrical make up run from his face.

  The guard room stunk of sweat and odorous men. Four soldiers sat idly around a table, dressed in chainmail. Aldred’s heart was in his mouth as he entered but the four men, two Azaguntans and two Thetorians, barely looked up. Remembering his directions, Aldred shuffled over to a heavy door in the far wall. The skirts were a nightmare to walk in.

  “Agnelia sick then, love?” one of the guards said, rising to open the door.

  “Yes, sir. Got a spring chill,” Aldred said, trying to make his voice light and girlish.

  The guard nodded and heaved the door open. Aldred wobbled into the gloomy corridor. The dress fitted well, though he knew not where Ekris had procured it from. Agnelia had been surprisingly easy to divert with a few silver pieces whilst he took her place. The passage contained six cell doors, three on each side.

  Aldred set about the five other prisoners first, enduring the leering comments and desperate stares. The final cell housed the Eerian knight. Aldred entered the cell, the only light emanating from the sputtering torch in the corridor.

  It took several seconds to see the Eerian. He was manacled with rusty iron bracelets and chained to the wall. The knight was a tall man with a strong physique which he had managed to retain despite a fortnight in the cell and several apparent attempts at forcing confessions.

  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t rise in your presence, young lady, I find myself a touch fatigued this day,” he said pleasantly in crisp Imperial.

  Aldred approached the knight and kneeled, doling out a large glop of gruel into the last bowl. The knight was paying little attention to him.

  “I am not what I seem, knight,” Aldred said quietly. “Forgive the guise but it was the only way to see you.”

  “Torik’s wind,” the knight said. “Wait—is this some new tactic to try and gain a confession, given that you know the crudity of torture to be failing?”

  “No. I am a friend. I mean you no harm and in truth your treatment sickens me.”

  “Then your name, friend? Mine, as you may or may not be aware, is Sir Unhert, fifth lance of the Eerian Knights of Air, unjustly imprisoned in this dingy prison.”

  “I can not divulge my name, Sir Unhert, and I do not have long before the guards become suspicious,” Aldred said.

  “Then what do you wish to see me for…friend?”

  “An evil has descended on this castle and this land. It came with your arrival in the barony. Unlike my…the baron, I do not believe that you have anything intentionally to do with this…this horror.”

  “Then you are a lone voice of reason in this feral place then. What is it you wish to know?”

  “Your companions, whom are no longer here—I wish to know of them. And what brought you to Thetoria. Perhaps then I can trace the origin of this evil.”

  “And in divulging names to you I shall sign their death warrants. No, friend. I am a man of honour, I do not betray my allies at any cost,” Unhert said stubbornly.

  “Damn it, sir,” Aldred said. “I know their names already. Hunor Markson, a Thetorian adventurer, and Jem a Goldorian mage. I have found Hunor’s sister and nearly died in the process. And from what I have discovered I can not see how they are embroiled in this abomination that plagues us here. Two are dead by its evil, not counting the score that died when vile Quigor set about the dark magic two weeks past. All I ask is what you know of Jem and Hunor and why were you here?”

  Unhert looked stunned at the outburst and then pondered. The silent seconds seemed to crawl and Aldred was convinced that soon one of the guards would come upon them.

  “Very well,” Unhert said finally. “I know much of the pair, some of which will be invaluable to you. Our purpose here? We came to recover a blue crystal stolen by the baron. It can not be a coincidence that our arrival for this item is the same day as the beginning of your ills.”

  A crystal? Quigor had mentioned a crystal to his master Garin in the hidden chamber. Garin had said a Darkmaster wished to have the crystal retrieved.

  “Go on, Sir Unhert. The crystal? I wish to know more.”

  The knight sat back and said, “No. Not yet.”

  “What do you mean not yet? I haven’t got any more time. Please, I need to know. I need to track this evil to its source.”

  “What I just said. No. I can tell you much much more but I will not do it here. You seem resourceful, friend. If you achieve my escape then I shall tell you all that I know,” Unhert said.

  “But that’s impossible. I implore you, Sir, tell me quickly.”

  “The secrets will die with me then, friend. Do not think that I do not sympathise with your plight. I despise all evil and doubly so the darkness that has resulted in the death of my allies. I wish to avenge their deaths.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?”

  “I propose that you break me free of this place. I propose that in doing so I shall be indebted to you. I propose that upon this I shall swear an oath to assist you in your quest to track the root of this evil to whatever land that spawned it. That, friend, is my proposal. Think on it.”

  “I—I’m not sure. I can risk no more time here.”

  Aldred rose and made to leave, pulling up his gruel pot.

  “One more thing—be swift in your plans, for the sinister glint in the guards’ eyes may not provide you, and by that I mean me, much time,” Unhert said.

  Aldred sighed deeply and slipped into the gloom of the corridor.

  Chapter 7 Spectres of the Past

  Sunstide 1924

  On the fragments of wall that remained of the house was daubed ‘burn witch’ in red paint. Jem traced the contours of the letters with his finger. He eased around the wall and clambered into the rubble of the interior. Once inside, Jem halted and checked his pack, feeling the reassuring smoothness of the crystal.

  He could still hear the scream as the spear had struck; still feel the devastating release of power; still taste the brick dust as he stumbled down the street. They were fragments of the past bound to this place, suspended in time like flies in amber.

  Jem checked his pack again. The crystal was still there. He knelt and sifted gingerly through the chunks of masonry, worn smooth by the wind that perpetually blew across Parok from the lake. His fingers closed around the crumpled casing of a clock.

  Jem held the bronze remnants up to the light, smiling as he turned it in his hands. He turned to leave the ruins and then paused. Gently putting the casing down, he opened his pack again to check the blue crystal.

  “That’ll be the eighth time in twenty minutes, mate.”

  “Doesn’t hurt to remain vigilant, Hunor, especially in this city,” Jem said.

  “That’s fair enough. It’s also alright to admit when you’re getting—well, anxious about things.”

  “I appreciate the concern. Are the others prepared yet?”

  “They’re getting there,” Hunor said. “Emelia’s in a neobalt already, although she’s not so pleased a
bout her proposed role. We’re getting two for Marthir in case she rips one doing her changeling thing.”

  “Sensible idea—I must say Hunor, you look impeccable.”

  Hunor smiled thinly, scratching the shaving rash on his neck. He was attired in a stiff grey tunic and trousers; the collar was starched and tight.

  “You’re loving this, aren’t you? It took me years to grow that ponytail and as for my earrings…”

  “You looked far too Thetorian for our masquerade. Trim hair, clean shaven and ears less like curtains…you’ll pass as Goldorian. How about the permits?”

  “Lifted last night from the City Hall,” Hunor said, fiddling with his greased centre parting. “I took plenty so as to give us some flexibility.”

  “Good…that’s good. We should head back.”

  “No rush, mate, they’ll be a while yet, they’re still haggling the price of the swords and bows. Left ‘em to it, lest I got tempted to just nick the lot. I’m still chuckling about the look on Kervin’s face when Master Ten pulled out that bag of gems.”

  “Indeed, most amusing. He had been hoarding them for years as a delicacy. It is…gratifying to see Emelia has settled in so well with Kervin and Marthir.”

  “There’s time yet. Your missus can be a touch wilful after all,” Hunor said. “Listen, are you really alright? Is this…?”

  “Yes. Eighteen years ago but it may as well be a thousand. It feels like another lifetime.”

  Hunor entered the shell of the house and came to stand by Jem. He rested his hand on the Wild-mage’s shoulder.

  “You can’t let the past rule you, Jem. I know that makes me a hypocrite when I say that but…”

  “The past is like whispers on the wind, Hunor. Every night I used to listen to the cries from the poorhouse that drifted in through my window. It was engorged to the rafters with lunatics and madmen, with the imbecilic and the infirm.”

  Jem gestured across the lonely street to a grey building.