Blossomstide 1924
The surf splashed against Emelia’s legs as she ran giggling down the white beach. At her side was her sister whose blonde curly hair shone in the sunlight.
She came to a halt, her chest aching. Emelia looked to the sea in confusion. Why was she here again? She was dressed in a damp cloth dress. She was still a woman, but the girl with her—her sister—was a child. That couldn’t be right.
Emelia felt the girl’s wet grasp slip away and she dove into the oncoming wave. With a laugh, Emelia followed her. She noted with delight, as she struck the water, that her legs had become a long fish tail. She was part Subaquan—a mermaid princess—and the call of the dolphins played a beautiful melody in her ears.
The tide had sent clouds of sand and shells swirling under the surface. Her shoulder was aching as she swam against the current. There was another shape visible through the water; perhaps a porpoise to tickle and cuddle?
It came closer and with surprise she saw it was a small creature, with a face identical to her own, and wild hair spreading out into the ocean like the tendrils of a jellyfish. Its body was covered with scales that caught the little light like there were a thousand gems.
Emelia, it said, stay under. He is here looking for you. While you are at your weakest.
“Who is looking for me?” she asked.
“Emelia?”
She could hear the voices. They were distant but pulled at her like a fishing hook. By Asha, her shoulder really hurt now.
Cool air brushed her face. The sky above her was dim, the clouds tinted pale blue by the moonlight. A surge of nausea exploded in her; she was on her back; she was going to choke.
“I can’t believe that was your secret escape plan,” Hunor said. “Are you even sure that whistle works? I can’t hear a damn thing except the horns signalling my imminent beheading.”
She was sprawled on a cold surface. Emelia glanced to either side and could see battlements in a wide circle around her. They must be on a tower. To her left were four unconscious guards. A pile of rope had been dumped at her side next to the guards’ swords and spears.
“It is tuned to griffon ears, you buffoon,” Lady Orla said. “They can hear it two miles away, irrespective of any blasted horns or trumpets.”
“To state the obvious, it would seem for some reason they are not responding,” Jem said. “I think we should seriously consider alternative escape options. We cannot battle a whole castle of Thetorians.”
“I still consider fleeing is an admission of guilt,” Orla said. “I am almost certain they would take the word of a knight as to the circumstances of the… well, the slaughter.”
Hunor laughed and turned with exasperation to Jem. “I told you and Emelia that we should have just fled. She’s got the Moon’s malady! If it hadn’t been for the mound of corpses blocking the door and you fizzy walling us up here then we’d be decorating pikes on the gatehouse by now. As far as the baron’s men are concerned we would be sword in hand for all those bodies. No trial, love, they’re Thetorians. Once their blood is up they won’t look at your Eerian Lady’s club badge!”
“You go too far, Hunor. If I wasn’t indebted to you…” Orla said.
“Well that’s how it is,” Hunor said. “That blue crystal is worth something special and we need to put as much distance between it and Blackstone, lest whoever sent that demon sends his bigger brothers.”
“Hunor!” Jem said and Emelia was suddenly aware of him by her side.
She tried to sit to speak but pain seared through her shoulder and she retched. Jem turned her gingerly as she vomited onto the stone.
“Sorry, love,” Hunor said, kneeling next to the pair. “I couldn’t get any mint down you. If it’s any consolation, Lady McPosh wasn’t a fan of it either.”
“How’re we going to get out of this one, boys?” Emelia asked.
Jem stood and stared over the edge of the tower. “Well in the absence of our former steeds I suppose we need to go over the edge, although four of us will be a strain. Then perhaps north across the countryside.”
Orla looked at Jem like he had suggested they all grow tails and begin eating cheese.
“It’s several hundred feet to the base of the castle then a further four hundred down that sheer slope to the bailey. In addition there’s a curtain wall to get over, although mercifully there seem to be no guards atop that particular section. Being a Knight of the Air doesn’t convey me the ability to float, gentlemen.”
“Only produce hot air,” Hunor whispered to Emelia.
“That is, in actuality, my consideration, Lady Farvous. It’s hardly as far down as the Keep in Coonor.”
“We need to head back to the bridge where the other two are though, Jem,” Hunor said.
“So the lady knight here can clap us in irons again, Hunor? That’s hardly the most sensible option.”
“You have my word as a knight that that shall not happen,” Orla said.
“I can’t leave my sword there, Jem. You know what it means to me.”
“So be it. You will need to carry Emelia so I am free to use my magic.”
Emelia began to protest and sit up but pain again gripped her and she slumped back. Hunor hoisted her over his shoulder. She bit her lip until it bled to stop crying with the agony.
Exhaustion flooded through her as Hunor clambered onto the battlements. The wind blew past her face as darkness soaked into her mind.
***
In the shade under the table she saw two figures. They were the size of children like she, but with adult faces.
Jem was knelt on the stony floor arranging cutlery in neat rows. He would return to the start as he reached the end of each row and adjust it ever so slightly.
Hunor sat next to the huge table leg, head in hands and muttering to himself.
“Why are we hiding?” Emelia asked.
Jem looked up. “It’s not safe. He is out there in the darkness.”
“Who is? Who are we afraid of?”
“The Darkmaster—he is coming for you,” Hunor said. “Oh, Master Hü-Jen, I am so, so sorry.”
Emelia felt the grip of terror stealing her breath.
“For me? Why for me? What have I done?”
Jem’s face was gaunt as he whispered. “He comes because you have something he desires. He comes for he seeks to invade your dreams now.”
“Help me then. Please.”
“We cannot. We have our own demons to defeat, our own journey to make,” Jem said. He returned his attention to his cutlery.
The shadows were extending slowly under the table. Emelia had the sense touching them would be a terrible thing.
She ran from her hiding place. She darted past cauldrons and pots, past the dog’s basket and the tarnished urns.
Her breathing was getting more difficult. She slowed, her feet dragging and despite her fear she looked back.
Her blood turned to ice.
Drifting across the kitchen was a small man with a dark cloak and a white face. She knew him, but from where? Then it struck her.
It was the man from the painting.
***
Emelia jolted awake and scrabbled for a handhold on Hunor’s back. He grunted in surprise and cursed. “By Tindor’s meaty wand, Emelia, keep still! You almost had me washing my hair three months before bath day.”
Hunor was waist deep in a river that buffeted against him as he waded through, Emelia over his shoulder and a rope tied around his waist. On the far shore she could see Jem with the other end of the rope.
Step by faltering step Hunor forced his way across. Only his remarkable balance averted a plunge into the waters. In time they achieved the far shore and Jem helped lift Emelia onto the bank. Hunor hooted a signal to the ghostly figure of Lady Orla on the far side. Jem snorted at the signal and Hunor shrugged.
If Hunor’s progress was difficult then Orla’s—in breastplate, gauntlets, vambraces, cuisse and greaves—was a living nightmare. Hunor braced himself against a tree stump. Emelia rested near Jem as they watched Orla crossing. The silhouette of Blackstone Castle loomed behind her on the river’s south bank.
“Jem, I’m afraid. I need some help. My dreams…”
“We can’t talk about it now, Emelia. You need to rest. The wound is severe and…”
“Damn it, Jem. Take me seriously for once. Something horrible is happening. My mind, I’m losing my mind.”
“I do take you seriously. I do. Your wound’s deep and filthy. It’s poisoning you, making you delirious. Try and rest. I’ll care for you, I promise.”
“I care for you so much…” Emelia mumbled, and then closed her eyes again.
“Jem, some help?” Hunor called. His feet were slipping and suddenly Orla stumbled. In an instant she had plunged under the water.
Jem scuttled forwards but rather than grabbing the rope he waved his arm towards the submerged knight and spoke words of power.
Orla broke the surface with a small splash, spitting water and clutching the rope for dear life. She floated for a few seconds, suspended by Jem’s spell, and then Hunor began pulling the wet rope. Within thirty seconds she was on the riverbank.
“Damn it, why didn’t you just do that to start with?” Orla’s hair was sodden into thick tendrils of silver over her face.
“After two weeks of tying us up and making us sleep with numb wrists, you’d begrudge us some fun, m’lady?” Hunor said.
“I am trying to conserve my magical energy, Lady Farvous, that is all. We are still uncertain how much it will be required tonight. My apologies for your discomforts.”
Lady Orla nodded at Jem and glared at Hunor, before approaching Emelia. “How are you managing? Have you the strength to walk?”
Emelia squinted at the knight. “I can try. The bleeding seems to have stopped. I’d be little use in a fight, though.”
Orla stood, turning to Jem and Hunor. “With luck, we may avoid any more conflict this evening. It is a mystery why Robert and Unhert did not respond to the whistle’s call. I concur that this more cautious approach on the north shore may have been a sensible, if rather cold, idea. I have yet to see any signs of activity on the road on the other bank.”
Hunor looped the wet rope into a coil. “The tree line obscures a fair amount of it, though, and the main gate was on the south east side of the curtain wall. Let’s not get too cocky at this stage.”
“Still it would appear our escape in this direction was the last thing to expect. Perhaps they still search the castle interior for us.”
Jem helped Emelia stand. She slipped her good arm over his shoulder. A rush of dizziness came over her. For a terrible moment she feared she would pass out again, but a fierce stubbornness at Orla’s words had bolstered her and she fought against it. This knight would come to respect her as an equal and not an escaped servant.
Hunor looked at her out of the corner of his eye and seeing her set jaw nodded subtly.
“Well we’re not helping our chances standing out of cover in view of the walls. As they say in Kirit’s eye, half a house is a house not worth having. Let’s get to the bridge. It’s a good mile off yet.”
The four moved through the small thicket and then along the rudimentary trail east towards the bridge.
***
Blackstone Bridge, like the castle whose name it shared, had played host to many over the centuries it had stood. Its cobbles had rung to the hooves of the Artorian war machine and to the boots of the Eerian Empire alike. The winds of change that had buffeted Thetoria in the past fourteen centuries had worn those stones—first laid in the Era of Magic—to an almost glass-like smoothness.
Hunor kept low as he crept across the ancient bridge. The blue moonlight had been partly obscured by a fortuitous cloud.
“Predicting the weather is like predicting women. Come on, Engin, let’s have a good roll of the dice,” he muttered as he hugged the shadows.
Professional sneakery. That was Jem’s phrase for his cutpurse activities. Hunor had tumbled into a life of thievery: it was the only way to clear debts that no honest man could pay. That had been the legacy of his father.
In the early days he had been a poor thief. He had lacked the focus necessary for the profession. Then Hü-Jen had found him and had become his life. The name still wrenched his soul.
Emelia’s sword was strapped to his side, a concession from the weary Lady Orla. He had met her gaze as he began his flit across the bridge; she feared the worst for her men.
“I guess that’s why I’m not a leader,” he said softly to himself, to ease the tension. “Last time I tried someone died. No, Hunor old mate, let’s just look after you and Jem eh?”
Ever so slowly Hunor came over the crest of the large bridge. He could see immediately that there was a small fire burning with perhaps a dozen men stood around it. The amber light glinted off chain mail hauberks and peaked helms.
Onor’s spit! Where are the bloody knights? Hunor thought.
The answer came as he slipped further towards the ensemble. On the near side of the fire were the soldiers’ skittish horses, tied to a tree stump. Beyond them, to the far side of the fire, he could see the recumbent shapes of the mighty griffons. They were all dead, crossbow bolts jutting from their bodies.
He left the bridge and began skirting the fringes of the group. The soldiers were chatting loudly.
“Jurged should have got back to the castle by now and told Quigor of our success,” the apparent captain said.
“Let’s hope he’s not too bothered about the dead ‘uns then, Captain,” a huge Azaguntan soldier said.
The captain laughed. “I’d say griffon feathers are probably top on the list for one of his vile recipes and they’re easier to collect when the monsters are dead.”
Hunor flushed with anger; certainly his rear end regretted ever encountering a griffon as a means of transport, but the remainder of him had a respect and admiration for the creatures.
The corpses of the griffons provided good concealment. Hunor deftly slipped a pack from the blood flecked saddle of the nearest and with a sense of relief saw his sword within.
His foot caught against a metallic object on the grass. At his feet was the maimed corpse of Sir Robert, his sword held in his rigor-stiffened hand. A half-dozen crossbow bolts sprouted from his front and a ragged wound on his neck was the clear cause of his death. Hunor sighed softly; Robert had been half-decent as a jailor. He almost regretted shoving the big lunk down the slope the prior night.
He secured his sword to his back, followed by the sizeable leather pack. He swiftly retraced his steps towards the unguarded bridge, his keen eyes searching for the second knight. The horses provided natural cover as he eased behind them, peering through the small gaps between the chestnut animals.
With a jolt he spotted him. Sir Unhert’s proximity to the fire and the armoured men had obscured him from Hunor’s view until the last moment. The knight was bloodied but alive, his arms tied behind him.
Rotting craven breath, Hunor thought. What am I going to do now?
The sound of hooves echoed on the road from the castle to the bridge. Twenty armoured riders approached, carrying spears and shields. The game was up; the alarm from the castle had obviously been sounded.
What in the name of the Pale? Hunor thought as his blood ran cold.
Atop a black stallion, his face pale and sinister, was the bearded figure of Baron Enfarson.
Oh, Jem mate! There’s some serious black magic going on this side of the river.
“Captain Thrisk, have you sighted the intruders? I assume you have posted guards all around this area lest they return to seek their steeds?” Baron Enfarson asked.
“My lord, my apologies. I had only been instructed by master Quigor to secure the griffons and capture the knights. We have one here,” Thirsk said.
Enfarson shook his head in dismay. “So clearly it is too much to ask for some initiative from your thick Azaguntan skull? One of Quigor’s many mistakes—depleting my stock of good Thetorians.”
“My lord,” Thirsk said, “is master Quigor to join the search for these escapees?”
“Quigor is dead, captain, along with a dozen others slain by the treachery of the Eerian assassins and their compatriots. I alone survived the massacre.”
Thirsk looked stunned, then quickly said, “Then the gods are still wise to have spared you, my lord. Perhaps the prisoner may assist in our search?”
He gestured towards Sir Unhert who glared venomously at the baron.
“Were I even to entertain your ludicrous fantasy,” Unhert said, his moustache bristling. “I would of course rather die a thousand deaths before I betrayed my fellow knights.”
“It is no dream, you insolent dog,” Baron Enfarson said. “Your fellow knights, a wizard and those supposed captives slaughtered Lord Jerstis and many good men before stealing from me.”
Unhert, to his credit, showed no acknowledgement of the story.
“You are insane, Thetorian! The knights bathe in the honour and glory of a thousand years standing. My capture and the death of Sir Robert and our steeds will cost you dearly when your king has to answer to the Eerian council’s incredulity.”
“You assume that the king will hear of this, knight. Yet even should his Majesty be troubled by the knowledge, the evidence is clear—your colleagues were murderers and thieves.”
Unhert flushed a dark red. “You shall pay for that slander and dishonour! By my ancestors, you shall pay.”
Enfarson leant forwards in his saddle and smirked.
“And you shall cool off in the very same dungeons that your ancestors were good enough to build in my castle.”
Hunor was torn with indecision. There was no feasible way he could rescue Unhert: there were thirty armed soldiers here. The knight was doomed and there was no sense going down with him. Hunor’s main concern was what to tell Orla when she asked about the two knights? From what he knew of the haughty Orla her main concern would be to free Unhert, either with some fool rescue now or some attempt to get back into the blasted castle they’d spent an hour getting out of. Worse, she could think about going to King Dulkar’s court to plead their case. Hunor was certain that they’d end up floating face down under one of the hundred bridges before they set foot in the marbled halls; Enfarson would not let them get that far.
The thief slipped around the horses to the foot of the bridge. The cloud treacherously slid away from the moon and a cool blue light bathed the river bank. A glint of metal in Hunor’s pack caught the baron’s eye and he stared straight at him.
Hunor moved first, his sword flashing from his back. The razor sharp edge slit a dozen reins in one swoop and the ends flicked from the tree stump to the spongy grass. The thief vaulted forward, his foot finding a stirrup and he mounted the nearest horse in a blur.
Enfarson roared and the foot soldiers scrabbled for their crossbows. The mounted troop with him began to surge forward, cursing the disorganised warriors who blocked their path.
Hunor galloped onto the bridge, digging his heels into the horse’s flanks. The freed horses cantered aimlessly in every direction, several following his lead. Hunor cast one last look back at Sir Unhert and with a pang of regret left him to his fate.
The hooves of his horse clattered on the bridge as he charged across.
“Jem! Emelia! Get moving, we’ve got company,” he shouted.
Hunor thundered over the bridge, his head low as crossbow bolts hissed like angry wasps past him. He saw Jem and Emelia in the moonlight stood casting spells and Lady Orla running towards the bridge. A rider was ten feet behind him, his spear glittering in the blue moonlight. Behind him by about thirty feet were a dozen more.
Orla sidestepped as he galloped past and with a battle cry swung her longsword at the pursuing rider. His spear grated off her shield with a crash whilst her sword sliced through his waist. In a spray of blood he tumbled from his horse and before he had chance to rise Orla plunged her sword through his mailed chest.
Hunor slowed and turned, ready to face the wave of soldiers pouring across the bridge. For a moment he considered scooping up Jem and Emelia and getting out of here, leaving the knight to cover their escape. After all, this was all her doing.
Emelia was shaking as she cast a spell and Hunor swore. She did not have the reserve for sorcery at the moment; her wound was deep and she had lost a fair amount of blood. He saw the ripple of the air around her slim body and then a duplicate shimmer on the bridge in front of the riders.
The first three riders crashed full tilt into the invisible wall of magic with such force that their horses necks splintered like dried twigs. The riders screamed as they were trapped under their tumbling steeds. Six further riders smashed into the thrashing bodies of the fallen horses, crushing all beneath. Emelia wobbled with the effort of maintaining the magical barrier; sweat matted her brow.
Jem was as immobile as a statue in the blue moonlight, his pinched face focused in complete concentration. His mouth spoke harsh mystical incantations as the magic swirled around him like the waters of a whirlpool. The energy became denser and denser as it accumulated; building like the pressure in a kettle until with a yell he unleashed a surge of arcane power at the bridge. It struck the stones with the violence of a raging mountain giant. The nearest abutment cracked with an explosion of dust then collapsed into the frothy waters below.
With a chorus of human and animal screams the near end of Blackstone Bridge crashed into the River Eviks.
“By Beeros’s drool cup, Jem,” Hunor said. “I used to trot over that bridge when I was a nipper.”
Jem caught Emelia as she fainted. She was deathly pale and her wound was damp with blood. Her lathered face looked dopily at his and he was overcome by a sudden awareness of her beauty.
Orla had caught and reined the loose horse and ran to Jem’s side. “I’ll carry her on this horse with me. We shall need to tend that wound urgently, lest it festers.”
Jem held on to her tightly, his mind numbed by both exhaustion and his own confused feelings. Orla pried the unconscious girl from his grip. Hunor cantered up and she glanced hopefully at him.
“I’m sorry, Orla, the griffons and your knights are dead, slain by the baron’s men. There’s nothing more we can do here.”
“Thank you for the brave risk you took in checking,” Orla said. “Their deaths will not go unavenged if it takes me to my final breath in this world. Where are we to seek sanctuary to recover and attend our wounded? ”
Hunor, guilt gnawing at his belly, glanced at Jem as the weary mage mounted behind him. The mage nodded.
“We shall ride due north towards Evik’s Pass. A score of miles from there resides an old friend whose skills we sorely require,” Hunor said.
Lady Orla, a slumped Emelia behind her, turned her horse and galloped away from the river along the trail bound for the hills. Hunor followed with Jem, his nimble mind already pondering what in Mortis’s name they were going to do with this blue crystal that had cost them so dearly.
Epilogue Dreams of Darkness
Emelia dreamt of dark things. Within a maelstrom of pain and fever she traversed the dreamscape of the night, sometimes running, sometimes crawling.
The world around her warped and flowed, images of the past intermingling with scenes she had never knowingly beheld. The mercurial landscape threatened to engulf her, overwhelm her with its confusion and chaos.
The agony of her wound continually sought to drag her down into a darker place, somewhere unholy and wretched, transfixed between awareness and the void. It took all her strength to keep going, to keep moving; if she hesitated then surely she would be lost.
In the swirl of the dreamscape she could see a stable point, a tiny island of grey stone amongst the whirlpool of colour. Emelia focused past the pain and dragged herself toward the sanctuary.
A small girl sat in the centre of the island of stone. Her dress was grubby and tattered. Her skin was scaly and it glittered. Eyes as bright as the stars in winter regarded Emelia as she slumped in exhaustion.
“We need to keep running,” the girl said. “If we stop then he’ll win. If we stop he’ll control you.”
Emelia blinked back tears and looked up at the girl. “Emebaka? What’s happening?”
“He’s coming for you, in your dreams,” Emebaka said. “Vildor—the Darkmaster. And at the moment, there’s no awakening to save you.”
Tears ran hot down Emelia’s cheeks and then tumbled onto the grey stones.
“Then I’m lost,” Emelia said. “There is no-one to help me. Jem… Hunor… they cannot aid me here.”
Emebaka’s scaly hand was cool as it held Emelia’s. “All I need is your trust and your belief. I can help you escape to wherever you want to.”
Emelia smiled. “You said that to me once before, when I was a child.”
“Dreams are a game. You just have to know how to play them. We need to stay one step ahead of Vildor, to give the others a chance.”
Emelia nodded, forcing herself to her feet. The dreamscape was coalescing into a tangible organized scene. To her left was a ruined city, its ancient stones coated with ivy and moss, its streets choked with weeds. To her right was a city of purple stone, pristine and clean.
“Which way do I go?” Emelia whispered.
“Let me be your guide,” Emebaka said. The two leapt from the stone island and began running. Emelia glanced over her shoulder. Across the dreamscape she could see a dark figure, face bleached as white as bones in a desert. It was Vildor.
Her time was running out.
***
A small galley sailed through the wet grey air of the Sea of Mists. Its black hull concealed a far darker purpose, but the manacles of the slaver ship were empty on this voyage. On this night it had a single passenger, left well alone by the terrified crew who counted down the minutes until they made port in Thetoria.
In a cramped cabin the air was sweet with the stench of putrification and death. Two corpses drained of their essences regarded the occupant of the cabin with their rictus leers.
Utrok slept fitfully, tormented by pain and malaise. He dreamed of dark things; he dreamed of vengeance.
He dreamed of Emelia.
To be Continued in Darkness Rising 2: Quest
Copyright (c) Ross M Kitson 2012
The right of Ross M Kitson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any real person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.