Dreams of Darkness Rising

by Kitson, Ross M.

  Emelia was transfixed by the tale. She could still recall the confusion when her own Wild-magic developed in the Keep.

  “Well Jem was in the bishop’s chambers, trying to read some psalm about charity when the old goat starts getting a bit too close. He’d obviously decided to make his move. Well he moved alright. Jem sent him through a fifteen foot stained glass window without raising a hand.

  “Jem was out of the chambers like a quarrel from a crossbow and he ran down to his father’s shop, all tears and panic. His parents were still arguing what to do when the Godsarm arrived to take him. Poor Jem knew that he’d be next star attraction at the monthly bonfire.”

  “H—how did he get away from them?”

  “Well it got ugly. The Godsarm started trashing the place. One of them stuck a spear through his poor father and Jem lost it. That spell you both do which sends ‘em flying? Well put years of fear and frustration behind that,” Hunor said.

  I did Hunor, when I sent Uthor Ebon-Farr flying across the room, Emelia thought. My poor Jem.

  “Well the whole shop came down upon them,” Hunor said. “A squad of Godsarm and his parents were under that rubble, though I think his father was nearly dead from the wound anyway. Jem got out, first time he’d done that passing wall thing, but he couldn’t stay in the city. He had the Godsarm on his heels and the Sacred Knife keeping their evil little peepers peeled for him. He fled Parok and into the country and I think not long after that he met Master Mek-ik-Ten.”

  Emelia felt numb at the tragedy of the tale.

  “So Master Ten would have known how upset Jem would be, returning to Parok for us to purchase supplies, equipment and, well, our disguises?”

  “That’s right. When I’d told him back in the mountains that I thought it wasn’t the easiest idea he gave me one of his herb smoking phrases. ‘A man who bears the burdens of his past is like the tree with rotten roots, only by chopping free the rot may he yet grow’,” Hunor said.

  Emelia rubbed her head, and then smiled wearily at Hunor.

  “Accept my apology, my friend; I’ve been acting like a child these last few weeks. I’m just a bit confused about Jem, you know, and the prospect of Orla dragging me back to Coonor shook me more than I admitted.”

  “You’re alright, love. None of us have been at our best. I’ll look out for us don’t worry. But I think we’ll have to accept Jem’s dead set on this mission of his and Master Ten’s.”

  “And Lady Orla? There’s times when I see her, well—sneering at me. Is she going to be a problem?”

  “No. No problem at all. I’ve reached an understanding with the good Lady Orla Farvous. I’m certain she’s not sneering at you either. I reckon as long as we keep our heads down, keep these bloody disguises up and watch out for the Sacred Knife we’ll be fine.”

  “If you’re certain…”

  “Yeah, dead certain. Now did I ever tell you the tale of the three legged troll, the fire weasel and me?”

  Emelia laughed and indulged Hunor and his fantastical yarn. The watch went well after this and three hours later she stumbled to wake Jem and Orla for the final shift.

  Jem straightened his grey tunic and neat hair, blinking sleep from his eyes.

  Emelia leaned close and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  Jem looked startled then regaining his composure nodded.

  “Me too.”

  The Goldorian looked uncomfortable, his gaze still not meeting Emelia’s, and then scuttled off to join Orla by the ruined wall.

  Emelia slipped into her bedroll feeling less troubled, weariness coming upon her with such a weight she hardly noticed that ten feet away Kervin’s bedroll was empty.

  Chapter 8 A Cold Future

  Sunstide 1924

  The warmth of the day had leached swiftly from the dented metal panels. Dusk smeared the surface a ruddy red, recalling the day months ago when the machine was spawned by the forge in the Ebony Tower.

  Two knights stood guard, as immobile as the enormous excavator behind them. In contrast Vildor was a streak of motion, his robes rippling like liquid night.

  Vildor came to a halt by a huge wheel, each of its broad spokes wider than his gaunt waist. He rested his head against the metal, as if he were listening to some sound deep inside the construct.

  “You and I are so alike, my beauty,” Vildor said. “Your cold lifeless metal is unfeeling and uncaring. You have a singular purpose that none may oppose. Aah, how you suck warmth from the night air like a greedy babe. A mirror image to me, like the moon on the water at night.”

  “It is the future, my lord,” said one of the knights.

  Vildor slid his face along the wide panel, over the furrows and the rivets and the bolts. With a flourish he turned and paced towards the knight, whose demonic face remained as impassive as the machine he guarded.

  “The future you say?” Vildor said. “In truth what know we of the future? I stood on this ground five hundred years ago. The Empire, whose head I had severed much as a farmer would a tasty chicken, was convinced of its own immortality. They genuinely thought they would last forever. And now? Now they are ash and dust, charcoal ghosts and memories on the breeze. A pair of fools—greed and ambition.”

  “M—my lord, I meant no affront.”

  “And none was taken. For this machine is like me in that respect. I am the future. From the dust-choked depths of antiquity I have risen and my future is as chill and mechanistic as this wonderful construct and oh so cold. So, so cold. An absence of heat and life so profound that millennia in the damp soil may not even compare. Mine is a future of ice and iron, of steam and smoke fed incessantly by the rape of this nature, this life force that irks me so.”

  The knights bowed in awe and respect. Vildor turned to observe a knight and a girl walk through the desolation of the central square and around the excavated hole. In the distance the fires of the trolls’ camp threw a hellish glow against the grandiose buildings.

  “Good evening to you, Darklord Jüt. I am flattered you find time to attend me personally,” Vildor said.

  “The honour is mine, great one. I have selected this girl for your—ah, feast this eve.”

  The girl was slim but powerfully built, her body taut like a coiled snake. Her brown hair was braided and her figure barely concealed by doe skin and furs. A spiral tattoo weaved like ivy up her arm and neck.

  Vildor slowly approached her and touched her soft skin. She flinched at his touch.

  “A barbarian girl and the braids would imply a high caste,” Vildor said.

  “Indeed, great one. She is a young princess of the Garashi tribe. Fierce warriors and now productive slaves,” Jüt said. He tugged on the chain that bound her wrists.

  Vildor tutted and gestured at the girl. The iron chains turned a dirty brown colour before crumbling into a shower of rust.

  “You have chosen well. Barbarian has ever been a most succulent taste. Tell me my dear, do I repulse you?” Vildor asked.

  The barbarian snarled at him and replied in her own coarse tongue.

  Vildor touched the girl’s forehead. A tiny flicker of light illuminated her face.

  “What—have—you done?” she asked.

  “It’s so tedious being showered with tribal phlegm and not understanding a word,” Vildor said. “A tiny spell just so we’re singing from the same sheet, eh? Don’t look so surprised. Not all my spells invoke death, pain, disease or worse. Most of them do, but not all. That one draws on the Demon Duchess Sirgos. You can’t have abject terror without language after all.”

  “Lord Vildor, I must excuse myself. I have matters to attend to in the Ebony Tower. Master Xirik wishes to speak with you,” Jüt said.

  “He wishes to? Well, who am I to refuse my most treasured disciple eh? Inform Xirik I will see him in my chamber,” Vildor said, with a touch of irritation. “Now what do you make of this magnificent machine that your enslaved kin spend so long in the presence of, my dear?”

  The barbarian girl curled her
lip.

  “I think it an abomination, unnatural as you are, mage.”

  Jüt went to strike her but halted as Vildor raised his slender hand. He chuckled, stroking back his long black hair then replied.

  “Unnatural? Your words please me greatly, princess. I abhor nature. Never has a more fickle mistress been painted with such exuberant colours, never has such a whore as Nolir been inadvisably adored. She revels in death with every pulse of her foul heart. Feckless. Cruel. Only the strong survive her cruel pageants. A chain of devouring and consumption where no quarter is given to the weak and infirm. If that is nature then I bask in my unnatural form.”

  “Your words are twisted and poisonous, wizard. You speak with the cunning of Abral, the snake god.”

  “I speak with my own tongue, girl, and it is far from forked. You barbarians fascinate me. Such passion, such life. It flares like wood cast upon the fire, sears like the magma of Pyrios. Yet for all that vitality your race is stagnant.

  “When I graced the younger lands of what would become Trimena, two and a half thousand years ago your barbarian ancestors trod the plains of Foom. They were like you in every way. Same garb, same tattoos, same defiance. Two millennia of squabbling like angry children and here you stand, an anachronism. A creature of yesterday. Widen your eyes, savage princess, and see the future of this land. It looms impassive and inspiring, its fires now still but eager to begin belching the destruction of your beloved earth once more. The future is hard and cold; steel not wood. Malleable and mighty, not brittle and rotting with the kiss of time.”

  The barbarian princess, her face flushed, went to strike Vildor again. He casually caught her wrist and bent it back until she buckled with a whimper. His cloak opened out like a blooming black rose and the girl was swallowed by shadow.

  ***

  Vildor and the barbarian princess stepped from the murky corner of the ghast’s chamber with a crack, like the sound of a flag in the wind. The room was vast. It had once been the old courtroom for the Empire’s Great Court and the furniture had been reorganised and rearranged to give the chamber some semblance of order.

  Vildor strode to a purple velvet chair, procured from the Grand Auditorium across the square. He slid into it then gestured to the barbarian. To her horror she found herself drawn to him, his power like a magnet.

  She stood trembling whilst he ran his hand over her waist. His touch was like an icicle on her skin.

  “I am so cold, young one.”

  He rose and slipped around her, his breath in her ear.

  “I am as cold as the damp earth. It’s like an emptiness, a void. It aches, deep inside me, like a gnawing tumour. Oh, and the thirst. The thirst is so powerful that even I, the master of both the ghasts and the vampyrs, a prince of the undead, can hardly stymie its command.

  “And inches away I can scent your warmth. It pulses in your body, driven by that heart of fury and pride. That burning scalding liquid of life. My only source of heat in this frigid half light that I inhabit.”

  His teeth brushed against her neck and a strange desire began to wash over the princess.

  Another figure materialised in the room, forming from the shadows. He was much like Vildor, but his face was more angular and sharp, like the edge of a knife.

  “My apologies, master, I did not know you were about to dine,” Xirik said.

  “None are necessary; you are ever welcome at my table. You have always been my most faithful disciple. Please, take a chair.”

  Vildor waved a hand and a second chair formed from the deep gloom of the room.

  Xirik sat and eyed the paralysed barbarian with hunger.

  “Spies in Goldoria have found those we seek. They travel on the road from Parok to Goldoria City in disguise. We have yet to confirm the presence of the blue crystal.”

  “Then it was as I said. They have avoided travel in Northern Thetoria and head towards Goldoria City for a ship. All credit to them—it is a bold strategy. Clearly, though, we can’t have the Goldorians getting their ignorant little digits on the crystal. We must ensure they reach the city undisturbed and unawares then spring our trap. Who do we have in the vicinity?”

  Xirik reached for a goblet and poured thick red liquid from a decanter.

  “Well—Utrok is the closest, across the border in Thetoria with Ligor, recovering from an injury.”

  “Utrok? This one is not known to me. He is not one of the Gifted.”

  “No, master, he is not. Though he covets the Gift he has yet to prove himself worthy. He has gained the ability to nourish his powers by drawing on the souls of his vanquished foes. Indeed he has shown skill and dedication to our cause. He has almost single-handedly seeded both Eeria and Azagunta, whereas others such as Garin, Livor and Ajacre are easily distracted by other matters.”

  “Indeed, Xirik, indeed. Garin interests me in a manner which would not please him if he knew. His inertia, albeit born from ignorance of our plans, has allowed the blue crystal to slip into the hands of these freebooters. Very well, if Utrok is recovered then he may regard this as a test of his mettle. How soon can he be there?”

  “I shall contact him using the Deadspeech. He is adept at shadow-walking and could be there within two nights,” Xirik said, toying with the goblet in his slender hands.

  “Something yet troubles you, Xirik. Speak, we have no secrets.”

  “Apologies, master. Given the importance could we not dispatch one of the three remaining humours to fetch the crystal? Or even myself? I would gladly shadow-walk to the Gates of the Pale for you.”

  “I know this. You are my most trusted and precious ally, Xirik. We underestimated these vagabonds once. We should move only minor pieces in the game at present. The demons draw heavily on my magic and I yet recover from my resurrection. Besides sending demons into the halls of righteousness, replete with Pure Water and null-blades could be construed as foolish. No we will send Utrok and inform him firmly that the girl is to be captured and not harmed.”

  “As you command. But I could recover the crystal for you—why manoeuvre the minor pieces?” Xirik said, with a trace of indignation.

  “Take care, disciple, you begin to irritate. The simple reason is that I have a far more vital task for you. The game with the crystals is just afoot and I require your presence with the army in the southern mountains.”

  “W—what? With the ogres and goblins? Master, they have their command. And we also have Garin performing his tasks.”

  “I am aware of our plans, Xirik!” Vildor shouted.

  The air rippled with dark forces and the barbarian princess recoiled.

  Xirik’s face contorted in fear. “Forgive my impertinence, master. I have been tasked with the plan for such a long time alone I forget my place.”

  “Indeed you do. I am not ungenerous. I recognise all you have achieved in my name: the formation of the knights, the scheme you have hatched and the armageddon you have devised. It brings something nearing pride to my undead heart. You are much as a son to me, Xirik, and yet more. But the child must obey the father without question. Are we clear?” Vildor said slowly, his deep voice laced with menace.

  “I beg your forgiveness. I did not contemplate we would require a prism for the spell.”

  “How could you? My legend is vivid but as with many tales of yore somewhat…exaggerated. I am undoubtedly the most powerful sorcerer ever to tread the world, for none have achieved immortality in such a manner before me. Yet I doff my hat to the Azaguntan Cabal, the black arts of Kevor and the might of the prisms. Without the crystals the spell we plan would consume me and my eternal soul. And where would be the fun in that, eh, Xirik? Forced to rule alone?”

  “It would be an eternity of agony. I shall depart soon for the southern camp, once I have finished the enchantments of the Stormships,” Xirik said.

  “That’s the spirit, Xirik. Before you go I will need you to select perhaps a half-dozen of our dark sorcerers to attend me here in Etruria. None of them are to be of the Gifted
. And find that liberated Fire-mage also whilst you are down in the south.”

  He rose and strode to the mahogany desk by the side of the quivering barbarian princess. It was strewn with maps and scrolls, books and letters. In the centre lay a silver bowl, inscribed with runes and a slender knife, its hilt carved to resemble a serpent.

  “As you command,” Xirik said.

  He rose and made to slip into the shadows. He paused then turned.

  “Master, this girl, whose dreams you share. She is beyond your control?”

  “Yes, it is both fascinating and a little frustrating. She has gained a new discipline of mind. I am certain she is the key to our finding the other facets of the prism. But her thoughts are most intriguing, even intoxicating to experience. Why?”

  “No reason, master,” Xirik said sulkily.

  Vildor laughed and gestured for Xirik to approach. He reached out as Xirik neared him and touched his cheek.

  “Is this the gnawing grasp of jealousy, Xirik? Ease your green demon, my faithful friend. I care only for the flesh of womankind as the wolf cares for the sheep. My tastes are far more esoteric,” he said.

  Vildor grasped Xirik firmly and kissed him, his flesh sliding corpse-like over the other wizards. Their passion was fierce and cruel as they grasped each other’s cadaverous bodies hungrily.

  The barbarian girl abruptly felt an easing of the enchantment that held her still. In hatred and disgust she lunged for the knife on the table. Grasping it with both hands she plunged it into Vildor’s spine to the hilt.

  Vildor broke his embrace from Xirik, his mouth wet and leering. The knife jutted from his upper back harmlessly. With a sigh he grabbed the barbarian’s head and twisted forcibly. With a loud crack her neck splintered and she slumped dead on the desk.

  The dark sorcerer turned to Xirik, his eyes twinkling in lust.

  “Will you join me for supper? Quickly, before it gets cold.”

  And the two tore into the still warm flesh of the barbarian princess, their dark robes flowing like tar.