Dreams of Darkness Rising

by Kitson, Ross M.

  “With a strong sense of curiosity about Dark-mages,” Torm said, gesturing at the mound of soil. He stepped towards the grave and reached for the partially exposed coffer.

  “Stop, you fool,” Inkas-Tarr said urgently. The wind whipped up into an abrupt gale and Torm was flung backwards.

  The lad looked in fear at the wizard. With a deep sigh, Inkas-Tarr flicked his wrist and the winds abated.

  “It is cursed. You should not touch such things. This is my world, boy, not yours.”

  “Then show me—your world, that is.”

  “By Torik, you have a nerve to speak to me thus. Pray tell me why should I do that?”

  Torm approached the wizard and looked him straight in the face.

  “Because when I look into your eyes I see loneliness, I see sorrow and I see regret. What is the point of all that knowledge and all those stories if you have no-one to tell them to?”

  Inkas-Tarr regarded the boy in astonishment.

  “I am a collector, Torm Freeman. I journey across the lands seeking curios and relics. Were I still an adherent to the Codex—and given that I did not immediately challenge those dark sorcerers I suspect I am not—I would be treading a fine line between palastar and unoristar. My situation is somewhat unprecedented. You would court danger if you accompanied me. There would be little room for tomfoolery.”

  Torm shrugged and smiled at the mage.

  “If I travel with you I do so of my own free will, risks and all. But you don’t mention the servitude again.”

  “Such impudence! Yet I look into your eyes and I see the same spark I saw once in an Islander girl. Ah…she was to be the prize of my collection. It is agreed. Now stand back whilst I break the curse and we shall see what hidden delights the Dark-mages strive to conceal.”

  The graveyard was lit by the crackle of electrical magic. Torm shielded his eyes, concealing his huge grin.

  ***

  Inkas-Tarr’s residence overlooked the west bank of the river that ran south from the Royal District. At night the larger bridges were lit with lanterns atop ornate poles and the lights glittered on the water like fallen stars.

  They approached the rear yard of the property and Inkas unlocked the gate and hastened Torm through. In the yard were a small covered wagon and a sturdy looking shire horse, munching on some hay. Torm ran his hand affectionately through the horse’s hair.

  “This is a grand place—how long have you been here?”

  “Oh—it’s not my home. It belongs to a friend, Githra-Torr, a courtier of King Dulkar. He is away from the city and I required somewhere to put my collection.”

  “Your collection? You mean in that old Parorion wagon?”

  “Indeed child—I would be a poor collector if I did not keep my treasures with me.”

  “It’s a wagon!” Torm said, reaching for the rear flap. “What’s to stop me…?”

  A blast of wind lifted Torm into the air and soaring up towards the rooftops. His arms scrabbled for something solid to halt his ascent. Inkas-Tarr flung his arms aloft and hissed word of magic.

  Torm drifted to the ground, as gently as a falling feather. He looked with concern at the wizard only to see him laughing and shaking his head.

  “You will really need to become less impetuous, Torm. Clearly you’ve dwelt overly long in Thetoria.”

  The wizard muttered strange words then opened the wagon’s flap. Torm’s eyes widened at the trove of items within. A myriad collection of mirrors, lenses, statuettes, stones, rings and phials were inside the deceptively large interior. Inkas-Tarr lifted a silver lens, a small bottle and a brass figurine of a bird from the side.

  “A music box?” Torm said.

  “That is almost amusing. Corffed will relish that one,” Inkas-Tarr said. Closing the flaps, he muttered a swift spell and the cloth flickered blue transiently.

  “Come let us find some comfort inside the house and begin our study. I trust you are hungry?”

  Torm nodded and followed the old wizard into the house. They ascended the stairs to the middle floor, passing dusty portraits hung on the papered walls. Inkas-Tarr led Torm into a parlour, in which a bottle of red wine was sat next to a platter of cheese and pickles. The wizard indicated for Torm to help himself, which he did whilst Inkas-Tarr placed his items on the table.

  The air crackled with magic as Inkas-Tarr turned a key in the base of the brass bird. Torm coughed on his wine as the bird stretched its wings and began talking.

  “I could use some oil in these joints, you old miser. Why have you awoken me?” it asked, in Old Azaguntan.

  “Obviously not for your witty dialogue, Corffed. I have something I wish to show you,” Inkas-Tarr said.

  “What? That retarded looking lad over there?” Corffed asked. “Is he secretly a sprite or other such curio? Are you getting partial to young boys now, Inkas? There was a certain cohort of the Cabal who…”

  “I’m not retarded, you gilded sparrow,” Torm said.

  Ekra-Hurr stared at Torm in astonishment and the brass bird tilted its head to regard the lad.

  “How come you to speak the Old dialect, young one?” Corffed asked.

  “It’s not old to me—it sounds like you’re speaking the Island tongue with your balls in a vice,” Torm said.

  The bird cackled in glee.

  “Oh—I like this one, Inkas. That is the most amusement I have had in centuries. Your face—such a picture. Even the Arch-mage can be surprised it seems.”

  “Yes, yes, Corffed—and I am more than aware that you persist in calling me the Arch-mage just to pour salt in my wounds. It would seem that there is a common lingual origin to the languages you both utilise.”

  “A common what?” Torm asked.

  “A common—Torik’s wind, it matters not. This is clearly why I have indulged in my own company for so long. I waste valued breaths on this prattle. Now, Corffed, I have a question for your ancient intellect.”

  “Why else would you awaken me? Certainly not to provide my release.”

  “That must be only achieved by a truly selfless act on your part—which is why I assume you are still bound after these centuries.”

  “Granted. What is your dilemma this day, Inkas?”

  Inkas-Tarr produced the coffer and placed it on the table. With a flourish he cast a flickering blue light at the box. A faint moan echoed around the room, sending a chill down Torm’s spine. The coffer opened with a click revealing a small black opal.

  The wizard whispered more mystical phrases and his hand was covered with a dense frost. He reached into the coffer and removed the gem. Smoke cascaded from his hand as he placed it onto a small silver platter.

  “Intriguing, most intriguing—place the Lens of Leszyk before the stone and then drench it with the Elixir of Truesight.”

  Inkas-Tarr did as he was instructed. The liquid from the bottle was bright purple and sent tiny sparks into the air as he poured it over the stone.

  Torm moved closer as thick fumes spiralled from the stone. The room was dense with the smell of rotten eggs.

  “The magic is old in this stone—very old and very evil,” Corffed said. “It is the sorcery of living death—necromancy. It is linked with other stones by ethereal strands, like a vast spider’s web.”

  “I’d surmised something similar. I know of its owner from many years ago, having almost had the pleasure of ending his vile existence when I was a palastar. I am certain Utrok Bane would have no benign intent. What is the opal’s purpose? Where is it from?”

  “It is a tool—nothing more. It has no purpose. As to where it is from—I can see a place in the smoke but all these modern places look the same to me.”

  “For Torik’s sake—describe it then.”

  “Anger will gain you as little as it did the Cabal in my day. Very well, I shall indulge your little curiosities. It is a city, in the hills, with walls as impressive as those of Heniopolis itself. On its throne—by the God of the Air—is a woman.”

  “Is ther
e anything more, Corffed?”

  “Do you want me to take you there?” Corffed said with exasperation. “No, Inkas, there is no more. I am tired and wish to rest once again.”

  “As you wish. My thanks,” Inkas-Tarr said.

  “Inkas,” Corffed said, as he folded his wings around his torso. “The opal is condensed evil and its originator is likely to be even more so.”

  “Your concern is appreciated.”

  “No, you misunderstand,” Corffed said. “If you plan to get killed chasing cursed treasures then try make sure you release me first.”

  Torm laughed as the magical bird resumed its immobile state. Inkas-Tarr shot the boy a look of annoyance.

  “A city with great walls and a queen?” Torm said as he passed the wizard a goblet of wine.

  “It can only be Keresh. Queen Hirga rules there.”

  “So this evil is Artorian?”

  “So it would seem. There are dark things afoot in Keresh and it has ignited my inquisitiveness. Besides it is decades since I have trod those green hills—who knows what treasures await us?”

  “Or what terrors,” Torm said softly as Inkas-Tarr strode to the bookshelves.

  ***

  Deep beneath the streets of Thetoria City the wine cellar had none of the warmth of the spring night. In the near pitch-blackness a pale hand trailed along the necks of the dusty bottles. The figure finally slid a dark green bottle from a rack and rolled it in his hands in the gloom.

  He proceeded between the racks until he reached a door. His chalk-white hands tugged it open and screams burst forth, as if he had breached a dam of sound. With a tut, he slipped into the chamber and closed the door behind him.

  “I chose an Artorian red, from Oakside, just for a change,” Ligor said.

  “Tis a good choice, brother, I shouldn’t be long,” Utrok replied.

  “He is a noisy one—if we weren’t as deep as a tomb I’d almost be concerned.”

  Utrok chuckled horribly and punched the screaming man who was secured to a stone slab. His cries faded to sobs after the fourth blow.

  “That’s better—now where did we put the spiritome?” Utrok said absently.

  Ligor placed the bottle on a table cluttered with jars, bottles and stained implements. The dark wizard pushed aside a huge jar of eyes with annoyance and lifted a golden funnel.

  The bloodied man on the slab was gibbering. “P-please spare me. I have money. I am cousin to Gaynor Marney, Duchess of Kokis. I can make you so rich, please…”

  Utrok bowed mockingly to the noble.

  “My lord—if I’d only realised,” Utrok said. “Money you say? Your offer is very kind but sadly you have something far more valuable for me. After all, what use is gold to ones such as us, eh Ligor?”

  Ligor approached Utrok and handed him the spiritome

  “I must concur, brother,” Ligor said. “The soil of Nurolia is riddled with gold and gems clutched in the decayed hands of those who insisted they take their wealth to the grave with them. No, much better to avoid the grave completely.”

  Utrok whispered words in a tongue so foul that several bottles cracked. The gold implement in his hand began showering sparks onto the stained floor. With a look of intense concentration Utrok placed the device on the neck of the thrashing man and shoved it down firmly.

  For several seconds nothing happened save a trickle of blood from the wound. Then the funnel began filling with a misty liquid. Inch by inch the fluid level rose and as it did so the man seemed to diminish. Within minutes he had deflated, the essence sucked from him, leaving nothing save a bag of skin, bones and dried organs.

  With great care Utrok lifted the funnel from the corpse and held it with his one hand over a large black crystal bowl. The milky liquid mixed with the purple solution already in the receptacle.

  “Be swift and drink it, Utrok,” Ligor said. “It will reduce in no time.”

  Utrok dipped a goblet in the foaming fluid and drank greedily. The goblet clattered to the stone floor as he convulsed in pain. A sound like ripping cloth came from his chest and slowly the stump of his severed arm began to change.

  The bone grew first, yellowed and notched. Then the veins and arteries spread down the limb, like tiny snakes, pulsing with dark blood. Finally the flesh formed, wet and shining, filling in the cavities and gaps between the vessels.

  Utrok held his new arm up in front of him with a look of disgust. His hand was twisted and gnarled, like an old root. The long fingers were taloned, the nails hooked like a claw.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” he askedLigor.

  The wizard chuckled and shrugged. “I added some Netreptan blood—out of curiosity. I consider it quite fetching, brother.”

  Utrok roared and sent a bolt of green lightning arcing into Ligor. The mage was flung back with a crash against the table, scattering bottles and jars to the floor with a crash.

  His body thrashed in pain yet still he conjured a counter attack, spraying tar-like black magic into Utrok.

  The corpse of the nobleman sat upright, the skin hanging off the bones like an oversized robe.

  “If you have quite finished this pathetic display…” it said, the voice grating and shrill.

  The two battling mages staggered back, their magic dissipating instantly. They regarded the animated corpse with astonishment.

  “Lord Xirik?” Ligor said, sweat running down his brow.

  “Ligor. Utrok. I shall not occupy much time as this mode of Deadspeech is especially painful. Utrok, are you recovered sufficiently?” the corpse said.

  “I am, master,” Utrok said, casting a baleful look at Ligor. “How may I please you?”

  “Despite my own reservations the Darkmaster has seen fit to honour you with the retrieval of an item of interest to us—a blue crystal.”

  “It would be the greatest privilege, Master Xirik. Where may I find this crystal?”

  “It is in the possession of a motley collection of freebooters who none-the-less displayed a modicum of ability sufficient to slay our brother Quigor whilst transformed by a demon.”

  Utrok glanced at Ligor, flexing the new muscles of his clawed hand.

  “Quigor was weak in the dark arts of conflict, master. I will not fall in such a manner—who are the prey I seek?”

  “There are seven: a thief, a monk, a knight, a Wild-mage, a druid, a tracker and a girl. They travel recklessly through Goldoria with this crystal. It would seem they are now in the company of a Goldorian knight.”

  “We are certain they have the crystal? Have we spies in the area?”

  “A squire of mean disposition seeks reward from the Sacred Knife. He speaks of a magical blue light—it must be that which we seek. The Darkmaster is convinced. I have arranged for assistance in your task—we have dispatched shadow assassins and a changeling to meet you in Goldoria.”

  “You are generous, master,” Utrok said. “Their deaths are assured. Tell me have we any names?”

  “Only one—the girl, she is a former maid from the Scattered Isles called Emelia.”

  Utrok clenched his claw in fury at the sound of the name.

  “Her? What sweet vengeance this shall be, master,” Utrok said, spit flecking his chin. “I shall savour every second of her agony as she dies a death most horrible.”

  “You shall have to make do with the vital juices of the others, Utrok—the Darkmaster has a particular interest in this girl. Maim her by all means but she must live.”

  Utrok’s jaw twitched with ill disguised anger, his dark eyes twinkling with hatred.

  “As you command,” he said. “Though it is my honour to do this service would it be premature to ask…?”

  The corpse laughed at the query, several of its teeth dropping onto its cadaverous chest.

  “It is indeed premature, Utrok. None the less the Darkmaster has inferred that the Gift may be considered should your worth be proven.”

  “And I, master, how shall I prove my mettle?” Ligor asked.

 
“By avoiding your indulgences and completing the tasks you were set, Ligor. Do not fret, I have much in mind for you. That is all.”

  The pair bowed as the corpse slumped back onto the slab.

  “Rest assured master—they journey now to their deaths.”

  Utrok smiled smugly as he poured two goblets of red wine and then passed one to Ligor. He sipped the fragrant beverage as Ligor began to rant about his poor treatment and lack of opportunities.

  Finally he would be bestowed the Gift and in doing so he would savour the deaths of each of Emelia’s friends, for that would rip her apart more painfully than any knife in the belly.

  Chapter 11 Terror at the Ball

  Sunstide 1924

  Aldred hoped that the eight mile ride from the castle to Eviksburg might diminish his turmoil but it was not to be so. His thoughts clattered around inside his head like eggs boiling in a pan.

  The Azaguntan thespian Ekris was sympathetic company. He had a good sense of when to chatter about some traditional Thetorian tragedy or some bawdy Feldorian farce and when to ride along in silence and admire the beauty of early summer in Northern Thetoria.

  They had chosen the riverside trail, primarily for the calming sight of the River Eviks. The remnants of Blackstone Bridge had been scattered on the banks as they trotted past and a makeshift wooden construct was in place as repairs took place. Dragonflies darted across the bubbling waters and kingfishers swooped from the waterside trees.

  The ruined bridge had brought to mind the knight and for much of the journey Aldred pondered Sir Unhert’s proposal from the prior day. He had confided some of Unhert’s offer to Ekris, which in retrospect he now regretted. Aldred felt fatigued and oddly dissociated from events around him and wanted urgently to talk to Livor.

  “It would seem our journey together is almost concluded, my lord, for I suspect that to be Eviksburg ahead,” Ekris said. “Unlike Azaguntan towns which are preceded by an odour most rank I am pleased to say it almost sneaks up on one.”

  “Oh it’s got its own malodorous places, I can assure you.”