Darkness Rising 1 - Chained

Chapter 9: Trial By Fire

Blossomstide 1924

The three moons sent complicated shadows through the villa—perfect for Emelia’s needs. She paused at the foot of the stairs that lead to the second floor, waiting patiently for the guard above to pass. Once the coast was clear she ascended the tiled stairs crouched low, cat-like in her black garb.

On the upper landing Emelia slid behind a statue of the god Engin, whispering a quick prayer to her patron. She counted inside her head as the guard’s footsteps faded then reappeared as he completed his circuit of the villa’s west wing. A count of a hundred; that’s a nice round number, she thought.

The guard halted before the statue and yawned, looking down the stairwell. He was armoured in ring mail and carried a short spear, with a sword strapped to his side. Blue moonlight shone through a wide north-facing window in the hallway. It mingled with the muted light from four lanterns that spouted thick whale oil smoke into the air.

After ten minutes Emelia’s legs were beginning to cramp. Her patience was rewarded when the guard finally turned and resumed his stroll back down the west corridor, tapping his spear tip in a slow rhythm. Emelia counted ten then slipped out from the recess of the statue and padded down the corridor.

She was dressed in a black tunic and black leggings that in turn covered dark leather armour. Strapped to her slim back was a sword, its hilt and pommel gilded and shaped like the head of an eagle. Her face was covered with a black woollen balaclava, her blonde tresses braided tight and wrapped in a bun. She reached a door about halfway down the corridor as the guard disappeared from view around the corner.

Emelia eased against the door, noting instantly it was locked. In a flash she had a long pick in her hand, manipulating the brass mechanism. She calmly kept a steady count in her head as she worked. Sweat was starting to rise on her forehead under the itchy wool of the balaclava as she reached forty-five. With a click the lock released and quickly she slipped through the door and gently closed it behind her. She heard the returning step of the guard in the corridor outside as it shut; he was three seconds quicker this time. She listened as his footsteps passed.

Reassured of her continuing secrecy she moved into the room, her eyes evaluating its contents. She rolled up the balaclava to make a hat and wiped the sweat off her brow. The room was about twenty feet square with a window that allowed the light of the three moons to partly illuminate the interior. Its walls were decorated with paintings and small tapestries and two large maps of Azagunta. Three tall cabinets dominated the wall that the door occupied. A desk sat in the room’s centre with a high back red leather chair on its far side.

Emelia moved around the desk and to the window. It was barred, with the bolts and grill secured to the exterior of the wall. Through the gaps she could see the ornate gardens of Hegris Grach’s villa sprawling out towards the orchard and the perimeter wall.

The villa was in many ways a paradox. The shell of the building was old Azaguntan: stones had stood in this spot fifteen miles from the city of Bulia for a millennium. From this traditional core Grach’s family had added layer upon layer of superficiality and its latest incarnation had adopted the style of a villa akin to the fashionable residences in the sunny climes of Feldor. Yet the wide arches, tiled roofs, courtyards and balconies that leant themselves to basking in the sun and sipping wine were somewhat misplaced in the rain-soaked and fog-saturated slopes of Azagunta.

Hegris Grach was a thoroughbred Azaguntan: a medley of selfishness, arrogance, cunning and cruelty. His debonair appearance masked a festering soul that clawed money from every vice of Azaguntan society, from slavery to prostitution. He courted the corrupt ruling classes of the Isle of Thieves as readily as he arranged the murder of those who stood in his way in the seedy recesses of the cities of Bulia and Bomor.