Dreams of Darkness Rising

by Kitson, Ross M.

  He found the first dead priest folded like a broken doll over a lamp post. He’d only been dead a short time and with a glance he saw four others in convoluted postures, bones jutting at odd angles. They had no other marks upon them—this was the work of Wild-magic.

  He could only see the rear of the crowd as he moved into a square. The city folk huddled like a herd of dumb sheep as they stared at the scene before them. Hunor advanced and an ice cold grip squeezed his heart.

  In the centre of the square two hefty Godsarm were binding a kicking Emelia to a wooden stake. A broad Goldorian knight was supervising and to his left four other Godsarm were directing three city men with barrels of oil and wooden planks.

  Hunor’s mouth was dry with fear. Seven to slay or Emelia was going to die.

  I know I’m good, he thought, but killing seven of the buggers is impossible. I’ll definitely die if I try. So Hunor, old matey, is she worth dying for? I mean what good will be served by both our deaths?

  Jem’s serious face came to mind, sat on a log at Jaan’s farm.

  I’ve got no bloody choice, have I? So this is how I’m going to meet my maker. Did my father think these same thoughts as he charged the king’s infantry, lance lowered? Did Hü-Jen think them as he fell?

  Hunor slipped through the crowd.

  Ah, it’s irrelevant, he considered. There aren’t many things I’ll kick the bucket for but a promise to a mate, sincerely made, is one of ‘em. If I can get Emelia loose somehow and a sword into her hands then we might have a chance.

  Hunor attacked the first Godsarm from behind. Honourable fighting wasn’t an option when it was seven to one. His magnate blade opened a crimson rent in the soldier’s lower back, ring mail shattering in a jingle of falling links. The Godsarm screamed as he tumbled and his companion whirled. Hunor brought his weapon down in a deadly slice. The soldier screamed as his arm parted from his shoulder in a fountain of blood.

  Emelia’s bonds were tight and on the opposite side of the stake to Hunor. He cursed his luck as he turned to face the knight and the four remaining Godsarm. With dismay, he saw the knight step back and the Godsarm raise crossbows. He was a sitting duck; Thetorian impulsiveness had cost him dearly.

  “Hunor, get the Pale out of here,” Emelia said.

  “What, and ruin this amazing rescue, love? I think not,” Hunor said with a grin. He might as well meet his death with a laugh.

  The crack of the crossbows firing was drowned out by the screams of the crowd as an enormous black shape leapt in front of the hissing quarrels. It was an ebony wolf—the size of a small pony—and the four bolts thudded into its side. The creature did not even flinch and Hunor saw the missiles clatter like useless sticks to the cobbles.

  The creature struck with a speed belying its size. The square erupted in pandemonium as the monster tore into the four Godsarm warriors. Their swords hacked futilely against its hide as its dagger like teeth ripped open armour and flesh as if it were paper.

  Hunor ran to Emelia and severed the bonds. She slumped against him and he helped her down from the oily stake.

  “What in Torik’s name is that thing, Hunor?”

  “It could be one of Nekra’s lapdogs for all I care. It’s got us out of a tight spot. Let’s get out of here before it eats us for dessert,” Hunor said. Stooping low, he grabbed Emelia a sword from one of the dead Godsarm.

  The Goldorian knight charged at the massive wolf, fighting with sword and dagger. Hunor saw the knight wielded a null-blade in his left gauntlet. The sword skimmed off the flank of the monster as it turned, flesh dangling from its crimson maw. The knight thrust the null-blade up into the side of the creature with a yell. Black blood splashed against his armour.

  The monster roared in pain and fury and slammed its weight against the knight, overbalancing him, the null-blade jutting from its side. He fell with a screech of metal on stone. The monster was atop him in an instant and Emelia averted her eyes as it tore his head from his body.

  “He had it coming, love,” Hunor said, grabbing her arm. “He’d have torched you without a second thought. Now come on we need to shift, before more Godsarm arrive.”

  Hunor led Emelia running from the scene of slaughter in the square and into the warren of alleyways.

  ***

  The creature lapped the blood from the cobbles, savouring its rich taste. Its flame-orange eyes glanced up at the crimson half-moon. It was nearly spent, the moon of blood. This feast should last him well, until the next waxing of the moon, when the thirst would take him over once more. Yes—he would slide back into dormancy until that time.

  The huge wolf bound across the square, hearing the horns of approaching warriors. Its body rippled with magic and it transformed into its half-wolf, half-man form and effortlessly leaped onto a balcony and then again onto a bridge between houses. Its eyes faded into the gloom of the night, the null-blade still jutting from its side.

  ***

  Utrok’s presence in the dining room was apparent before he was visible. Orla stood impassively, the dagger pressing unwaveringly into her neck. A sudden sense of trepidation came over her. It was as if the air in the room had become thin, somehow inadequate—similar to breathing on the peak of a mountain.

  The dark wizard drifted like a spectre from the corner of the chamber. The sorcery warped the atmosphere of the room, creating a strange pressure behind the eyes.

  Sir Krem had begun to stir but, feeling the point of a sword at his back, had wisely not erupted in anger. All four sat in silence as the mage prowled around the room. Krem’s null-blade and Orla’s sword had been placed at the far end of the table. Her uncle’s sword lay at its side, the product of a fruitless search through the rooms.

  Sir Krem trembled with rage. “Vile sorcerer. You presume...you dare...to sully this house with your dark arts and your changeling lackey.”

  Utrok paused to pour a measure of gin. Sipping it gingerly, as if it were scalding, he sneered at the knight.

  “It was hardly a fitting challenge for Regor here. Your idiocy made the deception so easy. After all, you’ve enjoyed the company of all manner of magic this last week.”

  “What rot is this you speak?”

  “Let us see—two Wild-mages and a druid—in possession of an ancient magic crystal. That’ll be one to tell at the next Synod meeting, eh?”

  “Get to your point, fiend,” Marthir hissed. A shadow assassin pressed his blade tighter against her skin and she winced.

  “Oh, you speak human tongues as well as animal,” Utrok said, pacing slowly around the table. He grasped her dress and ripped it open with his talons, exposing Marthir’s tattooed torso. Sir Krem flinched as if slapped and the changeling Regor cackled.

  “My point is that one of you knows the whereabouts of the blue crystal,” he said. “It wasn’t on the corpses of your friends when I checked.”

  Seeing the flare of anger in Marthir’s face he leered. Orla stared stoically forward. The situation was desperate; they had no leverage and no opportunity to escape.

  “My guess is that our little elemental cousin here knows the most,” Utrok said.

  Utrok grasped Master Ten’s shoulders and there was a flare of magic. The monk’s back arced with the agony of Ingor’s caress, yet no scream arose from his mouth. His body spasmed against the table as Utrok’s eyes shone with sadistic pleasure.

  “Stop that, Torik curse you,” Orla said.

  The Dark-mage stepped back; smoke spiralled from Master Ten’s shoulders. Orla had the sickening impression that he was dead. Then, with supreme effort, Master Ten pushed himself back up. The shadow assassin pressed his sword against the Galvorian’s back again in surprise.

  “Pain is but a perception, a gift of the senses like any other,” Master Ten said. “For without sensation we are but stone.”

  Utrok had turned his attentions to Orla. He sauntered around the table pausing to run a thoughtful claw along Orla’s sword, his hand twisted and withered. He picked it up and slid it fro
m its scabbard. Orla’s heart was like thunder in her head and sweat was rising under her tunic.

  The mage stepped slowly and deliberately behind the knight. She could feel his presence behind her but the blade of the shadow assassin who stood to the side allowed no movement away. His voice hissed in her ear, sending tingles down her back.

  “Perhaps it is you who know, lady of Eeria—yet perhaps not. You covet the crystal, I warrant. Your narrow naïve little mind thinks that the stone should be back in Eeria, tucked away in Coonor.”

  He let loose a hideous laugh with such volume that Orla jumped.

  “There is nowhere that is safe from our grasp. There is nowhere it may be hidden. Not in the snow tipped peaks of Eeria nor the mossy glades of Artoria. We are everywhere! And all of you preoccupied with your own little nations and your own little causes stand divided and divided you fall—oh so easily.”

  Orla flushed with shame. The Dark-mage was correct. She had sought to betray these companions. She had thought that the blue crystal was Eerian to claim. Her pride and her faith in her noble country had blinkered her.

  “Your prattle is boring me, mage. Finish what you came for and have done with it,” Sir Krem said. The changeling struck him on the head with the mace and he reeled.

  “It would seem that you do not take me seriously enough,” Utrok said. “Very well. Tell me where the crystal is or one of you shall die now.”

  The room fell silent as Utrok walked around the table, Orla’s shimmering sword in his hand. His feet echoed on the floorboards. By Torik, Orla thought, this was what I did to Emelia, Jem and Hunor those weeks ago.

  The mage meandered behind each of the four, tapping the metal of the sword with his yellowed nail.

  Sweat ran in rivulets down Orla’s face. Torik, air father, bestow me bravery in the face of such evil. Give me strength to look the others in the eye as I die. Forgive me for a death outside of battle.

  Utrok struck like a serpent. Orla’s sword slid with ease through Sir Krem’s back and erupted from his broad chest. A look of surprise and then disappointment flashed across his face before blood began to run from his lolling mouth. With a crash he collapsed on the table, scattering the platter of food.

  Orla stifled a sob, tears of fury moistening her eyes.

  Master Ten’s eyes glittered with anger. “Vengeance shall not recognise the constraints of the mortal flesh, for it lives on in the world like the echo of a bird’s final song.”

  Orla glanced in confusion at Master Ten but his gaze had returned to Marthir.

  “Aye,” Marthir said. “Vengeance is the snake that bites the thieving hand that blindly explores the sack.”

  Utrok moved around to stand behind the druid. He lifted the blood soaked sword and pressed it into Marthir’s back.

  “Now tell me where the crystal is or I shall run the druid through. This will be down to you, knight, and to you, monk. Tell me now!”

  Orla felt sick as she saw Utrok draw back her sword to kill Marthir. Torik help me, I know not what to do.

  “Get your hands of my wife,” Jem said, phase-shifting through the wall.

  Magical force slammed into Utrok and carried him like a hurricane back against the stone wall with a crunch of bone. The sword span from his clutches.

  The dining room erupted in chaos. Orla slammed her head backwards into the startled shadow assassin, feeling the crack of his splintering nose. She dropped and twisted as he slashed with his long knife and kicked him hard in the knee.

  Orla rose and saw Marthir melt away into thin air as the assassin behind her slashed an instant too late. A slithering shape was just visible darting from her seat. Master Ten thrust back and brought his elbow up to deflect the flashing dagger of his former captor.

  Orla dove to the floor as the assassin came for her. Magical forces thundered in the chamber as Jem’s Wild-magic clashed with the dark energy of Utrok. The Eerian saw her sword on the floor where it had fallen, still wet with the blood of Sir Krem.

  Conscious of the shadow assassin closing, she rolled across the floor and then came up sword ready. The assassin jabbed his blade towards her but she parried and drove her attack forward. Back-footed, he sought to slip into the shadows of the room but Orla attacked with vigour.

  The assassin feinted to the side then delivered a swift thrust at the knight. Yet Orla was no simple target. Years of experience served her well as she parried, twisted and then slashed her magnate sword across his chest. He staggered back, blood spraying from his opened heart.

  Orla turned to assess the melee. Across the table Marthir’s assassin took aim with a small crossbow at the knight. Regor was running towards Master Ten, who was delivering a blur of punches and kicks to his opponent. The changeling’s arms were transforming into long vicious talons.

  The crossbow hissed as the assassin fired at Orla; with a sense of horrid fascination she could see the quarrel blur through the air towards her chest. It was like moving through thick mud as she tried to evade its deadly tip.

  The quarrel never got to her. It stopped in mid-flight and with a flash of recognition she realised Jem had shielded her. It had cost him dearly. Utrok seized the opportunity and black energy flowed like a torrent of oil from his arms and into Jem’s weakened shield. He gasped in pain as the tar like substance flowed over his arm.

  Orla could see the shimmer of the Dark-mage’s shield. She vaulted onto the table and ran towards the assassin, who was pulling out his mace. Orla dove to the side as his crushing blow splintered the table and sliced down her sword into his shoulder. The edge of the blade parted his neck and collar bone in a spray of gore. He toppled back and Orla drove the sword through his heart.

  A looming shape was at her side. The talons of the changeling ripped open the flesh of her back with a sear of pain. She slashed her sword wildly but the roaring changeling evaded the attack and tore at her again. The razor sharp talons shredded the cloth of her tunic front, exposing her, though she was far beyond embarrassment.

  Orla’s vision swam as the vicious back wound weakened her. The pain was excruciating yet her fierce will kept her fighting, jabbing and slashing to keep the creature at bay. Through the haze of pain she could see Jem flagging against the dark wizard.

  “You shall be joining the hapless knight soon enough, woman. Best you leave the fighting to the men eh?” the changeling said.

  The expression of arrogance dissolved in an instant as the powerful form of a mountain lion crashed into him. In a flurry of claws and a fine cloud of blood the two rolled across the dining room.

  Orla clutched for the stability of the table. Her legs were shaking and her head span. She had to help Jem—she owed him her life. Her hand pressed against the cool metal of Sir Krem’s null-blade.

  “Jem!” she said, her throat parched.

  She grasped the dagger feebly and with a grunt threw it towards him. It span in the air and began to drop towards the floor and Orla realised her throw was far too weak.

  Jem caught her eye and with a grimace of concentration he reached out with his magic and sent a platter spinning under the tumbling dagger. In a flash of silver the platter hurtled towards him and in one motion Jem grasped the null-blade and lunged. Utrok’s shield shimmered as Jem effortlessly passed through it and thrust the blade into the Dark-mage’s neck.

  His shaking hands probing the dagger handle in disbelief, Utrok’s legs buckled and he crumpled dead on the floor. The room pitched around Orla as she stumbled forward, the floor pivoting as she grabbed for stability and found Jem’s arms. The flesh of one arm was blistered and red. He held her as she slumped to the floor, his face slick with sweat.

  “Daring rescues with no plan—I think perhaps Hunor is rubbing off on me after all,” Jem said.

  “Not a bad thing, Jem,” she said and then darkness enveloped her like a warm blanket.

  ***

  Sunlight crept from behind the docked ships, like a nervous child. Pastel shades of red and orange tinged the slender sil
houettes of the masts then drifted warily over the copper domes of the city behind them.

  Hunor and Emelia sat atop a timber pile whilst the wharf-side came alive before them. A dozen Pyrian sailors stretched as they emerged from the deck of a merchant galley.

  Emelia had nodded off against Hunor’s shoulder about two hours ago and was beginning to stir. He had remained awake: there would be slumber-a-plenty when they had set sail but for now a city full of zealots and shadow assassins was enough to demand his wakefulness.

  Emelia looked about slightly bewildered. What had dwelt in her dreams those last few hours? Hunor wondered. Torn back from the grip of madness to nearly die on an oil soaked pyre, only to be rescued by a gigantic demon dog. What in Engin’s name had they become embroiled in?

  “Where are the others? Shouldn’t we chance going up to Sir Krem’s house?” she said, sipping water from a gourd.

  “Not yet, love,” Hunor said, munching an apple. “The city will be crawling with Godsarm and with Goldorian knights. Pale knows where Kervin is or Jem or that dark wizard you tackled. If Marthir and Ten think straight they’ll head down here with the blasted crystal.”

  “What if they’re captured?” Emelia said.

  “I don’t know, love. If it’s Jem then—then I’ll go back. The others? I…”

  Emelia nodded and a silence crept between them, as intangible as mist yet as solid as stone. The cries and yells of the sailors intermingled with the calls of the gulls.

  Hunor ultimately broke the silence. “Jem was going to tell you, you know, Emelia.”

  “What? About his secret wife?”

  “His wife? No. Well, yes, I’m certain he would have mentioned that but I meant about the—er—madness thing.”

  “That was a spell, a curse from Utrok.”

  Hunor fixed her with his vibrant green eyes and shook his head. “The sorcerer only unlocked what lurks inside your head. It’s the price you pay for the Wild-magic.”