Dreams of Darkness Rising

by Kitson, Ross M.

  Finally a short sleep, the dust of the rubble like a blanket. In the hands of one who fears, who knows not of our power. We awaken that madness within him, a sickness like our lost fifth side. Our sister, our once weaker four-sided sister who we have not seen since the purple skies and the civilisation that became dust, challenges us.

  And she wins, sealing our fate with her own destruction. We are torn apart, our remaining four faces—faces of such beauty—sundered and spread. Scattered by the magic explosion that slays a city and ends an Empire. Yet we may never be truly apart for threads so thin as to be the hair of a sprite run between us.

  A place of ruin, the stinking waters of the swamp streaking their slime near our edge. Black and silver pillars, obsidian and marble, aged and decayed. Ancient carvings of snakes and dragons. A mammoth statue stands above a pit of ancient evil. A lizard headed demon.

  The blazing heat of lava, the chanting of a hundred voices. The past now in the present…

  A forest so vast it coats the earth like a carpet. Gnats swirl in the sunbeams as they slice through the dense green canopy. Hidden and safe, a long kept secret.

  And our black side, the darkest face, the first to be lost to us. You are hidden in the depths of the mountains, concealed behind devices born from insanity, a demon exiled for its treachery. A cold white hand is still searching. He awaits us, an old friend. He wants us together.

  Emelia.

  He wants you.

  Panic erupted like an explosion in her chest. Oh Torik help me, there is too much power, she thought. This crystal, it thinks, it lives in some horrible way—it craves dominance again. She had to be free of it, the energy was too much and she could feel it spilling over from her body.

  Once again her consciousness surged out, like the waves of the sea. Her mind rippled down the strands of the Web. A frustrated squire strode down the corridor, dislike for his arrogant master in his thoughts. The lovers writhed, in the searing heat of their lovemaking. Emelia had never sensed such pleasure, such abandonment before. In the inn below she could hear her friends’ thoughts, tumbling out of their heads into the smoky air.

  Emelia, stop this. It is wrong. Rein in the horse, it is galloping away with you, Master Ten’s voice called within her mind.

  She pulled loose from the crystal with a grunt, the Web twanging around her. A pulse of blue energy flashed out from Emelia and shook the room like the kick of a giant. The beds bounced with a thud and the door clattered noisily. Mek-ik-Ten flew back across the room and into the wall, flakes of stone raining around him.

  Emelia slumped back as Master Ten regained his feet and scuttled towards her.

  “You have done well, my student. The power has ruined many a mighty sorcerer before you. What have you learnt?”

  Emelia looked up, sweat drenching her face. Her diamond eyes were almost feverish.

  “I’ve learnt Jem is right. We need to get the other crystals before Vildor. If he gets hold of a prism he’ll be unstoppable.”

  Mek-ik-Ten nodded and then held Emelia tightly as she began to weep.

  Outside the door the scrawny squire picked himself off the hallway floor. His look of confusion and fear was slowly replaced by one of cunning and malice.

  ***

  The tremor rattled the uneven tables and sent a tray of beakers clattering onto the floor. Hunor glanced urgently at the dozen Goldorians scattered around the tables in the common room. To his relief they seemed nonplussed by the event, continuing their conversations in low voices. They had clearly attributed the disturbance to the thunder.

  Jem was moving to leave their fireside table. Hunor placed a firm hand on his shoulder and subtly shook his head. It would not do good to be responding to the inexplicable shockwave.

  Jem relaxed into his seat in silence, leaning back into the shadows of a recess. Marthir, seeing this, concluded her chat with Kervin about the fragile situation between North and South Artoria.

  “Sounds like Master Ten’s having a good time with young Emelia,” Marthir said. “Good to see there’s life in the old dog yet.”

  “Marthir!” Jem said. “I’d thank you for keeping your lewd comments to yourself. What they do is a serious business.”

  “Engin’s nuts, Jem, I was only trying to lighten the mood. Are you normally this sensitive about your protégés?”

  Kervin beat Hunor in his interjection. “Can both of you calm down? Just because you’ve been apart for seven years that doesn’t mean you have to catch up on all the arguing in one go.”

  The pair looked embarrassed then Marthir laughed.

  “I’m sorry, Jem. I can’t ever recall you being this wound up before.”

  “The stakes just seem higher this time, Marthir. I apologise too. Time had dulled my memory of your sense of humour.”

  Hunor looked around the room; the absence of Orla was beginning to make him feel nervous. It had been two hours since she had rode off. His eyes flickered over the assembled Goldorians; they looked like traders, perhaps one or two travelling craftsmen. The Mirioth merchants had retired to bed twenty minutes ago. By the stairs he saw a callow squire in green and gold surcoat.

  Marthir had followed his gaze and leant close.

  “You’ve spotted him coming down the stairs too?”

  “Aye,” Hunor said. “Keep an eye. We might need to jump him later if he looks like he’s off to find the Sacred Knife.”

  The squire went to a long trestle table that acted as a bar and grasped a foaming tankard before draining it. A similarly dressed lad was next to where he stood. Hunor wondered where their knight had got to.

  “Do you seriously think we can trust her, Hunor?” Marthir asked, sipping at a cup of boiling water she had sprinkled herbs into.

  Hunor was confused for a moment as he thought about Emelia then realised the druid referred to the knight.

  “Orla? Yeah, sure thing. I’ve got her on an oath. I mean, we’re a week into our journey here. Trust me with this one.”

  “You’ll forgive me for taking that with a hefty draft of doubt,” Kevin said. “I seem to recall those exact words before that fiasco in Nulor.”

  “How was I to know that the ruins had been over run by trolls? That southern toff that flogged me the map seemed honest enough.”

  “Aye, it always comes down to honesty,” Kervin said. “You Thetorians—always feet bloody well first. I hope you’re damn sure about this knight.”

  “For the last time, she won’t betray us, I’ve told you. She swore an oath to me. That means something to the Eerians, Torik bless ‘em. Not like Artorian knights where the only oafs are the fat useless variety.”

  Kervin laughed at this and Marthir also smiled. Jem was deep in contemplation, stroking his moustache slowly.

  The three exchanged glances; they had rarely seen Jem so preoccupied.

  “What’s the plan when we get to Goldoria City then, Hunor? You know I struggle in such places,” Marthir said.

  “I’ll head to the port. I know one or two old contacts that owe me a few favours. Elbek-Trall is always a good bet if he’s in dock.”

  “If we were perchance visiting the Subaquans in their sea bed home then I would concur,” Jem said. “He’s sank more ships than the Corinthian navy and that’s no mean feat.”

  “That’s a bit unfair, Jem. Besides we need a captain that’ll be flexible as we don’t know where we’re actually going as yet,” Hunor said.

  “We shall know soon enough,” Jem said. “Though I may need to divert to either the Guild of Cartographers or the Revered Library in Goldoria City to narrow down whatever ideas Emelia will give us. So I suppose flexible would be good.”

  “Aye. He can be a bit funny about women on board though. Mind you, I don’t think he’ll have a trouble with Marthir.”

  “And why not?” Marthir asked, rearranging her neobalt.

  “Other than the fact you could turn into a lion and munch his fishy bones up? He’s got a thing for lasses with big chests and tattoos.”


  “I am hardly a dockside harlot simply because most of my body is tattooed. They are lines of earth power, indelibly placed in my skin during the ritual of newbirth and added onto upon achievement of subsequent tiers of mastery.”

  Jem hissed them a warning as the innkeeper slunk over.

  “Will there be anything else? Evening prayer is in ten minutes, at sundown. I assume you all pray in the lands you travel from?”

  With a concurring mutter of agreement they all sat in silence whilst he collected the beakers and empty stew bowls then left. Hunor saw one or two Goldorians rise and head off home. We’ve done amazingly well so far, coming undetected through this magic hating land, he thought smugly. Those permits worked a treat.

  The door crashed open at that instant and a small group of figures staggered in, rain hammering the floor next to the door. Hunor saw Orla, a blood soaked squire and a broad chested knight whose armour bore the stains of battle.

  “By the blazing gaze of the Father, don’t stand and gawp, you peasants. Attend to my injured, now!” the knight said with a roar.

  The two squires from the bar ran forward and grasped their moaning colleague. Thunder pealed as the door was shoved closed.

  “Rejoice paragons of glumness, for we have slain the vile creature of chaos that so plagued the lands around,” he said, grabbing a nearby bottle. “But not just by my own mighty weapon. No, no and thrice no, I was aided by this Eerian knight who honours me by her presence at my side. And now we shall find these companions of hers.”

  The common room erupted in cheers, the innkeeper pouring further measures of clear spirit for the celebration. Hunor cringed in his seat next to the crackling fire and he caught Orla’s exasperated gaze.

  “So much for the low profile,” Hunor said through gritted teeth.

  Chapter 10 The City of a Hundred Bridges

  Sunstide 1924

  A roar erupted amongst the thousands of Thetorians gathered in Palace Square as Princess Marcella and Prince Altred emerged onto the balcony. Children scrabbled up their fathers’ backs to get their first look at the fiancée of the sullen prince. The crowd surged like a living thing against the barriers erected by the line of royal guards.

  “I still can’t get used to those bloody wigs,” a tipsy pedlar said to the cowled man next to him. “They’re just, well, too Artorian. Powder everywhere.”

  The hooded figure was silent and then slid off into the throng.

  “Charming,” the pedlar said and looked around for someone else to bother. A broad lad with blond hair was stood looking bemused.

  “Alright mate. You a foreigner?” the pedlar asked.

  “Aye, I’m an Islander.”

  “Bet it’s a bit warm for you here, isn’t it? You impressed with the show the royals are puttin’ on?”

  “I’d be more impressed if I thought she actually wanted to marry the idiot.”

  “Steady on, mate, you’ll get into bother with that mouth,” the pedlar said. The lad shrugged and walked away through the sweaty masses.

  On the edge of the square two figures lurked under the shade of an elm tree. They were cloaked and hooded, their faces hidden.

  “It is the former Arch-mage. I am certain. You can sense the power from here.”

  “Why would he be in Thetoria? I assume it to be a coincidence.”

  “That may be a dangerous assumption, brother. Still, it should not affect our plans. Fortuitously, as I am too weak for a needless challenge.”

  The pair silently observed the hooded figure leave the square and cross the decorated bridge. Then they turned and began to walk in the opposite direction, deeper into the streets of Thetoria City.

  “We shall need a strong victim to drain, Ligor. Perhaps we should amble to the college greens. The essences of the little lords are most succulent.”

  “Patience, Utrok, the healing will be complete soon enough,” Ligor said. “First I have another seeding to perform. In my haste over the last year I have omitted one or two of the smaller cemeteries.”

  The pair eased through the bustle of the streets like ghosts. Evening was approaching and the lanterns were being hung on the porches.

  “Inefficiency will not sit well with Xirik,” Utrok said. “I covered twice your area without a problem.”

  “Barring the loss of your arm, you mean?”

  “Your humour has ever been droll, brother. I shall exact my vengeance some day soon and it will involve exquisite agony for the little whore. I fantasise about her slow excruciating death. But tell me have you considered what underlies this plan of the masters? Have you augured the opals?”

  “You will lose more than your arm if you become too curious,” Ligor said. “No—I am content in the task as commanded. The Gift shall await us all, Xirik has said as much. And I suspect that may be as well given the death magic that pulses from these stones.”

  The pair traversed a courtyard and halted outside a pair of locked gates. Ligor glanced around then whispered words of sorcery. The padlock on the gates rusted in seconds and he tugged it loose. The two sorcerers eased into the graveyard.

  “‘Xirik has said as much’—forgive me for speaking my mind, brother, but I do wonder what drives the ghast.”

  “How so?”

  “Well Xirik has created this ambitious scheme. He has nurtured the dark knights. He has woven magic of terrible power to realise his plan. He has united the dark wizards in a way none have done since the days of Kevor. Yet he hands it all over like a child seeking approval when the Darkmaster returns.”

  “Take care, Utrok, you sound much like Garin.”

  Ligor crouched and scooped the soil away from a grave. From his robes he brought forth a small coffer. He placed the box into the hole and then lifted the lid. A black opal drank the surrounding light avidly.

  “Garin has great vision,” Utrok said, looking absently through the gates. “He covets Xirik’s position in the new order.”

  “Garin is a fool—the talk is that he has allowed a treasure of great importance to slip through his fingers. It would not surprise me if Vildor strips him of his Gift. You would do well to choose your allies a little more carefully my brother.”

  “Such as you, Ligor? Do you aid me simply to indebt me to you?”

  “No, it is because you are my brother and I admit a certain joy in watching the pain as your arm regenerates,” Ligor said. He waved his hand and a flare of green magic sealed the lid of the box with a curse.

  “Ha! You are a snake indeed,” Utrok said with a laugh. “But still answer me, why does Xirik spend decades on this scheme only then to relinquish it to Vildor?”

  “Perhaps we will understand more when we receive the Gift,” Ligor said. “Vildor created Xirik—the bond between patron and the Gifted lasts beyond the grave, for all eternity.”

  “We shall have to hope our Gift comes from one we are content to follow for eternity then.”

  “We shall talk ourselves beyond the grave at this rate. Come, my brother, let us find a stray noble. It is a royal occasion after all.

  The pair laughed—a shrill unholy sound—and left the graveyard for the vibrant banks of College Green.

  ***

  Footsteps resonated around the courtyard as the hooded figure crossed towards the graveyard. He touched the shattered padlock with curiosity and then slipped through the gates. His long cloak billowed in the sudden breeze as he strode past the gravestones and sought the site of recent disturbance.

  Magic began to pulse around him as he waved his hand over the pile of soil. Just as he began to crouch he hesitated, cocking his head to the side.

  “You can come out now.”

  The graveyard was silent.

  “I am not in the habit of repeating myself. Come hither before you are brought forth by a bolt of lightning.”

  A broad-shouldered lad emerged from the shadows of the gate, trembling.

  “You’re fairly adept at sneaking, boy. Step into the moonlight so I can see you,” the ho
oded man said.

  The lad did as he was instructed. He was tall, muscular and had a shock of blond hair.

  “I saw you outside the palace. Why are you risking your life by following me?”

  “Probably the same reason you were tracking those black wizards. It’s more exciting than watching princes preening,” the boy said.

  “Your insolence is refreshing. But choose your next words with a touch more care.”

  “I followed you because I recognised you,” the boy said cautiously.

  “I very much doubt that. You’re an Islander.”

  “You’re Inkas-Tarr, the Arch-mage of Coonor.”

  The hooded man was silent, though the wind in the graveyard abruptly picked up. After a minute he slowly pulled back his hood. The moonlight shone off his bald head.

  “Very well—you have piqued my curiosity and that is a rare event. You are…?” Inkas-Tarr asked.

  “They call me Torm.”

  “I see—an Islander, called Torm, speaking acceptable Imperial, in Thetoria. That would make you—a servant?”

  Torm flushed in anger and jabbed his finger towards the mage.

  “It makes me a free man who was of so little value to my ignorant parents that they sold me to your bloody people,” Torm said.

  “Diminish your anger, Torm ‘Freeman.’ They are my people no more—I elected to leave in much the same way I suspect you did. Well now you’ve recognised me feel free to return to the life of an escapee. Just for my own curiosity—who was your former master?”

  “Talis Ebon-Farr, though I hold little against him,” Torm said, arms folded.

  Inkas-Tarr stroked his beard, regarding the boy with his blue eyes.

  “It is a pity I can not claim the same. Still, that is all in the past now.”

  “Why are you in Thetoria, Arch-mage?”

  “I hardly feel that it is your place to ask, irrespective of your new found independence. And I am no longer Arch-mage. I am simply a traveller now.”