Dreams of Darkness Rising

by Kitson, Ross M.

  The alley was narrow, filthy and dark and she tried not to reminisce about the similar alley that four years ago she had stumbled down, when first she had met Utrok as a girl.

  A motion to her left made her jump and she whirled, sword poised. A terrified beggar was crammed in the corner, as if pressing himself against the stone of the building would somehow make him less noticeable to Emelia.

  “A man. Pale skin, black hair. Have you seen him?” she asked.

  He looked at her blankly and replied in Goldorian, snot and tears caking his cheeks. She continued her advance, treading lightly and precisely.

  Should I go back for Kervin and Jem? she considered.

  No, this Dark-mage has brought the fight to you. Show them what you can do, Emebaka urged. They will no longer treat you as such a child.

  By Torik, I was about to kiss him, she thought as she came to the end of the alley. What if Jem had come out? He’s been so aloof this past two weeks but now I can see him starting to become his old self again. What would he have said?

  Emelia! Emebaka barked. Stop this distraction or they will be kissing you in an open coffin. Find the mage before he finds you.

  The alley had emerged into a courtyard, bordered by tall buildings. Light streamed from a sole streetlamp. An old fountain was in the centre of the yard, its cracked statue of the sun god Mortis no longer spouting water. A blossom tree had shed petals like tears into the brackish water of the fountain.

  Utrok stood next to the tree, bathed in shadow.

  “Our third encounter, Emelia. Now you no longer have the element of surprise. This time we know all about you.”

  “Really? You don’t know enough to stay away after I’d sliced your arm off, Utrok,” she said, stepping closer.

  “It would seem, by the vagaries of the irritating god Engin, that you have become an object of interest for the Darkmaster and that you and that group of fools possess the blue crystal,” he said, his features dark in the shadows. His voice came from all around her.

  She stepped closer, focusing her magic on a shielding spell. The air around her shimmered and the rain drops bent around her mystic defence in their course to the cobbles. He knew of the crystal: well that linked him with Vildor then. What was their plot, their plan?

  “Whatever Vildor is planning he’ll have a few surprises coming his way. Why don’t you tuck your tail between your legs and scamper back to tell him that, eh?”

  “Return without you and the blue crystal? How would I ever gain the Gift? You are my opportunity. Such a bitter irony, fitting of Beeros herself.”

  “Well, here’s a gift to keep you going.”

  She lunged, her sword slicing towards the dark mage whilst she widened the mystic shield to guard her from counter-assault.

  The steel cut through Utrok’s body with such ease that Emelia felt a knot of pain in her arm. He melted like ice in a furnace: it was a trick.

  Cold hands grasped her shoulders from behind and she heard the chilling voice in her ears whisper, “This is called Ingor’s caress. This is for my arm.”

  It was as if every nerve in her body was being pulled out and dipped in boiling oil. She convulsed in agony, arms spasming as her sword span away with a clatter. Her legs buckled under her and with a crack her head struck the cobbles. Intense white light exploded in her head and a sickening ringing dominated her hearing.

  Emelia, fight it, get up! GET UP! Emebaka screamed. You stupid girl, you walked into his trap. Stupid. Idiotic. Get up.

  Emelia tried to reply, tried to pull it together, but everything seemed muffled.

  Awareness came surging back along with thudding pain in her face. Wet cobbles occupied her vision, blood in her mouth and nose. Her arms and legs were aching like she had run twenty miles but, thank Torik, they worked. She tried to get up but a boot stomped onto her shoulder with a crack and she slipped again.

  Get away, phase shift through the cobbles, flee this monster, Emebaka screeched. Emelia tried to concentrate to cast the spell but the pain in her head and shoulder was so intense she couldn’t.

  Utrok grabbed her wet hair and hauled her off her knees. She cried in pain, her hands scrabbling against his firm grip. His face leered in her vision. His features were gaunt, his skin a horrid pale colour, the hue of curdled milk. She could feel the unholy magic from his opal, searing through his robes.

  “It is a tragedy I can not kill you, you little whore.”

  The darkness was sliding over his shoulders and beginning to cover Emelia. Torik preserve me, he’s going to take me, Emelia thought torpidly. Jem, Kervin, where are you? I’m so, so sorry.

  A quarrel sprouted from Utrok’s shoulder with a spatter of blood. Utrok gasped in pain and dropped Emelia. She fell heavily against the side of the fountain.

  Kervin had entered the courtyard, crossbow cranked and a second quarrel loaded. He let fly the quarrel as Utrok cast his spell. A surge of green light exploded from his hand towards Kervin.

  The attacks hit simultaneously. Utrok span with the force of the bolt punching through his hip. The emerald magic flared as it struck Kervin, erupting into a ball of flame. Kervin was lifted from his feet, smoke belching from his tunic, and smashed into the side of the building.

  Utrok was swift as Kervin staggered to his feet, his chest smoking. The sorcerer flung both arms forth and the shadow flowed from his robes like a dark serpent. The black torrent writhed across the courtyard and caught Kervin off-balance. It flowed over his arms and chest and slammed him back against the wet stone. His face strained as he tried to break free of the mystical bonds.

  Utrok snapped the quarrel shaft first from his pelvis then second from his shoulder, whilst keeping the steady stream of shadow flowing from one hand. Emelia saw blood wet his black robes.

  “I shall rip out your heart and devour it before this woman you seek to save,” Utrok said, walking towards Kervin.

  Emelia tried to focus past the pain. Her sword was on the cobbles. She attempted to stumble forwards yet ten feet may as well have been ten miles the way her legs wobbled.

  “I very much doubt that,” a voice calmly said.

  A feeling of warm reassurance came into Emelia, as if the dawn’s chorus of birds were calling in her chest. Jem strode from the alley, the air crackling around him. Rain was turning to steam as magic surged like a tidal wave out of him.

  A sheet of flame erupted across the courtyard, illuminating the square as if it were midday. The magical fire sliced through the shadow bond that flowed from Utrok and the black magic dissipated. Utrok hissed in hatred and leapt back, shielding his eyes.

  “Pyrokinesis. The mind fire. It took me a long while to study that trick. As I recall Dark-mages covet shadows and not light,” Jem said.

  “You are correct, Wild-mage,” Utrok said. “Yet I have more tricks than just shadow. This one is called Beeros’ kiss.”

  Utrok grasped Emelia’s scalp.

  Her mind lit up like a bonfire. It was as if every thought she had ever had suddenly vied for attention, like a crowd of needy children. A thousand images were bouncing around her head with every blink of her eyes. She could hear Emebaka scream as she was buried under an avalanche of thoughts.

  The agony of her limbs forgotten Emelia leapt to the rim of the fountain, her eyes as wide and round as the moon. Insanity propelled her through the air towards the wall of fire and with a cry Jem dispersed the spell. The courtyard plunged once more into relative gloom.

  Emelia sprinted past Jem and straight through the wall of a house, her slender form passing through the solid stone as if it were a piece of cloud.

  “A tough choice, gents,” Utrok said with a cackle. “Do you pursue your sorceress, gripped by madness in this city of witch burners? Or do you chase me to my appointment with the crystal and your midget monk?”

  With a chilling laugh the Dark-mage melted into the shadows.

  ***

  Jem pulled Kervin roughly to his feet.

  “What in the Pale’s na
me is going on, Kervin? You were supposed to stay by the library. That dead guard is going to bring half the Godsarm down on our heads any minute.”

  “Then I’d suggest we tell that to Emelia when we find her. It was hardly my fault. Real life gets a bit chaotic, Jem, not all nice and tidy like you prefer.”

  Jem glared in fury at Kervin, angry because he knew him to be right. Where should he go? If Utrok gained the crystal then all was lost. Yet Emelia was bewitched and lost in Goldoria City. She’d be dead before dawn.

  “I’ll find her,” Kervin said, as if reading his thoughts.

  “You will not,” Jem said. “She’s my responsibility.”

  “Right. Your responsibility. She’s not a little girl, mate. She’s a grown woman and whether you are her master, or mentor or whatever you bloody wizards call it I’ve still got the better chance of finding her.”

  “She’s a Wild-mage, not a deer gambolling in the forest.”

  “City or woods, I’m still a tracker and you know that well enough. Added to the fact that you are the only one with the ability to fight that mage. Use that enormous brain of yours, Jem, come on! You don’t need Hunor to tell you all the time.”

  Jem flushed then gritted his teeth. “Damn you—alright. Go find her. We’ll meet you at the docks. Please be swift. She...she means a lot to me.”

  Jem turned and ran from the courtyard, leaving Kervin stood alone. He let the rain sooth his scorched chest.

  The deluge diminished as he stood there, listening to the sounds of distant screams and yells from the library. The moons began to emerge from the dark clouds, the tri-colour adding to the amber lamplights. The red light of the Pyrian moon glinted in his eyes.

  “She means a lot to me too, mate,” he said and turning he began to track his quarry.

  Chapter 14 Childhood’s End

  Sunstide 1924

  “I am sorry, Lord Aldred, my orders were quite specific, your father is not to be disturbed,” the guard said, his broad frame blocking the door to the chamber.

  “I am not of a mind to discuss this further, soldier,” Aldred said, his face flushed with the heat of anger.

  Aldred darted to the left and, as the armoured guard stepped to block him, he twisted and grabbed the mail hauberk. The guard struck the floor with a crash.

  He yanked open the door and burst into the room. His father sat at his large desk, reading a letter which he had just slit open with a bronze letter opener.

  “My lord, my apologies…” the guard said, scrambling to his feet.

  The baron waved a jewelled hand. “It is of no concern. My son is, as ever, determined to disturb my running of affairs. Leave us, we shall be fine.”

  Aldred glowered at his father as the door closed. The baron had a fresh dressing on his shoulder.

  “Where did you acquire the wound?” Aldred asked. His face was smeared from tears of grief and rage.

  “Not that it is your concern, but I injured it whilst riding. Your little displays of independence are getting tedious, boy. What is it you wish to say?”

  “My friend, Livor, he—is dead.”

  The baron rose and strode from his desk to the window. After a minute of silence he said, with a flat voice, “I had heard as much. An absolute fiasco—I am considering whether to insist that Smithson relieves Hawkson of his duties in the town.”

  Aldred swallowed, fear was seeping through his red haze like oil leaking from a barrel.

  “It was hardly his fault. The creature knew about the trap.”

  The baron stiffened, his back still facing his son.

  “How?”

  “You tell me.”

  The baron turned. “Take care now, Aldred. You tread on dangerous ground.”

  “Curse you, father. What have you done? What have you become? Does mother’s memory mean so little to you?”

  “Silence! It was her softness that has made you so weak. You want the truth, boy? It was in her death that I saw the mirror of my own mortality. I saw it and I chose not to creep so meekly into eternity!”

  “In Mortis’s name, he was my best friend!”

  Aldred lunged across the room and grabbed his father’s tunic. Fury fuelled his strength as he wrestled the baron, intent on nought but throwing this imposter to the floor. The two thudded into the wall then twisted back into the window sill. Aldred’s hands closed on his father’s throat, squeezing with a fervent power. The baron’s good arm was pinned under him as he leaned precariously through the window.

  Wind blew Aldred’s hair as he sobbed, choking his father.

  “Aldred. Stop. Help me.”

  Aldred eased his grip, his anger dwindling.

  “Please help me,” his father said. “It’s like a disease, consuming me. Each day I come closer to the shadow. Help me, I am fading and soon none of me will remain. Break the curse, I beg you.”

  Aldred stepped back in horror, his hands lifting. For an instant he could see the face of his father as he had always been: stern yet fair, reserved yet proud, loving and disciplined.

  Yet in the next breath it was gone, battered back by a visage of evil. The baron dove at Aldred, grabbing at his mud-smeared clothes. The two careened back into the desk.

  “You weak fool,” the baron said.

  Aldred fumbled behind in panic and found the letter opener. He stabbed the slim blade deep into the baron’s neck. The baron staggered back and a ripple of dread ran through Aldred. By Mortis, what had he done?

  The baron stood before him, his breathing heavy. He removed the blade from his throat with no more effort that a child pulling a thorn from its hand. Aldred’s eyes were wide; it was one thing hearing the accusation of his father’s curse, it was another thing entirely to witness it.

  The baron tossed the letter opener to the table.

  “This, then, is the gift—the gift of eternity. And its cost? The blood of a few peasants. Blood so that I may live on forever, with such a fierce cold power coursing through my veins. You can not fight this magic, Aldred.”

  “The Pale take you. I shall tell the king,” he said petulantly.

  “He’d not believe you. No, he’d no doubt think it some ploy you were employing to gain your inheritance prematurely. In any case, he will have enough on his plate soon enough.”

  “Then the wizard and the warrior that come to hunt the beast. That come to hunt you.”

  “They will arrive to find the culprit executed.”

  “Who..?”

  “Why the Eerian knight of course. Evil foreigners are always a good scapegoat. After that I shall be more subtle in my...nocturnal wanderings.”

  “Damn you. Is there not a shred of humanity in you?”

  “A tiny part that fades more each day, like ink in an aging book,” the baron said. “Curse me all you like, boy. I am cursed already. Now go from this place that was once your home. Go far away. I have no need for an heir. No need for a son. I tire of warning you. If you cross me again you will share Korianson’s fate.”

  ***

  Aldred struck his room like a whirlwind, a maelstrom of emotions inside his mind. Surges of hatred for his father merged with despair at the loss of Livor, with self loathing at his own cowardice, with an aching sense of dread at the prospect of departing forever from his home. He grasped his ripped shirt and doublet and, with a curse, shredded them off. His sword lay on his bed, where he had tossed it on his return from Eviksburg and with a roar he seized it and swung it wildly about him.

  Wood splintered as he hacked; the Corinthian urns shattered; the rich Mirioth drapes around his bed were slashed like paper; his clothes fell in tatters like the leaves of autumn. Tears and snot ran down his reddened face as he cast his sword to the floor with a clatter.

  Then his grief came in sobbing waves and he collapsed face down on his bed. It wracked his body, like he was a doll shaken by a furious child. The warm wet patch under his face felt comforting, dark and moist, like a cave he could hide within. Weariness crept through him and for what m
ay have been a second or an hour the room became distant and removed as his breathing slowed.

  He jolted awake, his face red where he had lain. In the corner of the room sat Jirdin.

  “J—Jirdin. How long...I mean, have you been sat there the whole time?”

  “Since you entered, master Aldred. Don’t be concerned, I’ve seen you in more shameful positions than that.”

  Aldred blushed—he did not need reminding of the incident with Henrietta Scormanskin on his sixteenth birthday.

  Jirdin was flicking through Livor’s small notebook. With a shudder, Aldred saw the splatter marks of dried blood on its cover.

  Jirdin peered closely at the journal as if reading Aldred a bedtime story. “There are a number of ways the vampyr may come into being but ultimately all come from a ghast. The ghast, a vampyr lord, is a dark wizard whom has invoked ancient and potent sorcery, tainting their eternal soul as a price for fearsome powers and tolerance of physical assault by mortal weapons.

  “Vampyrs may be slain by a number of methods with varying reliability (see later notes) but for those who wish to be cured, that is relieved of the curse of vampirism, there is but one perilous solution. And that is the death of the ghast from whom the vile magic originated, whether that sorcery was as subtle as the mystical bite or as elaborate as a blood curse. For each vampyr ever created bears some part of the ghast’s essence within him that ties him to the vampyr lord and the lord to him, diminishing the might of the ghast some small degree (extract Creatures Foul and Fair, Hirhil Bethman c1425).”

  “But Quigor was slain at the Feast of Blood,” Aldred said. “Why does the beast not then become human again?”

  The servant rose, closed the book and then approached Aldred. He said nothing but sat by the side of the boy on the large bed.

  “Unless Quigor was not the ghast, but a catspaw for some enchantment,” Aldred said. “Perhaps the blood curse was worked through the ogre spell book, from Quigor’s master. Damn it, I heard his name—Garin. He must be the ghast.”