Dreams of Darkness Rising (29 page)

Even Hunor was silent at the prospect of a day’s flight suspended by rope from the underside of a griffon. The knight returned his attention to some wood he was whittling. Noise drifted like smoke on the breeze from the four others who sat around the fire fifteen feet away. Emelia rested her head on a damp sod that had grown between the scattered stones. The fire made a flickering show on the walls and soon her eyes were heavy.

She drifted uneasily into a slumber, vaguely aware of Hunor and Jem muttering. Loose thoughts weaved through her mind, like the amber ghosts on the towering walls. Hunor had meant his apology with earnest, she was certain of that. He had made a mistake and in truth she accepted that it happened. The harsh realisation was that she was angry with herself. She was angry at being used by the knights in such a manner; angry about being the weak link in the team. She was frustrated at not facing imminent death with more valour, ashamed at her fear and her tears. This whole situation was so unfair, she thought drowsily. To have tasted freedom, like the finest nectar of summer’s bloom, then to have it wrenched away so cruelly. Was this some curse, laid upon her for challenging that Dark-mage? His white face flashed in her mind’s eye again and her palm throbbed in recall at the vile sensation of the black opal. The darkness of sleep seemed that shade blacker this night. She still hadn’t got around to telling the others about the mage but she felt so weary now.

***

As Emelia’s breathing changed Jem and Hunor sat looking at one another in silence. Sir Unhert had risen and was talking to a second knight, Sir Robert, as he ate his meal.

“So what are your musings on this blue crystal, mate?” Hunor asked, his voice a whisper. “I knew it was worth a bit of coin but nothing to warrant this business.”

Jem glanced at the two chatting knights then shuffled nearer Hunor, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. “I’ll concur—it’s a mystery. I could sense magical power within it back in Coonor but nothing that exceeded a minor enchantment. It would appear that its true value has only become apparent after we stole it.”

“Aye, it’s a meaty response alright, mate. Quoting treaties and proclamations at us—thought they were going to bore me into a confession.”

“Any word of more than three syllables is likely to do that, Hunor. Personally I think the response is disproportionately small.”

“Come again?”

“Well if this item is so valuable as to warrant the High Commander’s ‘anything goes’ approach that nearly cost Emelia her head, then why send such a small group of Eerians? And why the mixture of knights and mage? Three air mages would be a more subtle and effective force.”

Hunor stretched his arms against the ropes and shifted to get comfortable. The two knights were still chatting.

“Well perhaps when they set out they were uncertain where they would end up. Three baldy wizards are sod all use if the crystal was tucked away in an Archbishop’s cupboard in Goldoria.”

“Indeed,” Jem said. “With the talk of treaties and so forth I wonder whether this crystal is of such value that they do not want the rulers of whichever nation it has ended up in to be aware of its presence.”

“So this is a covert mission? Jem, you’ve got the eyesight of the much feared mole demon of darkest Foom, a creature so visually ignorant as to lose its way in its own infernal burrow. They’re Knights of the Air—they wear plate armour and ride griffons.”

“Pyrian witticisms aside, I do agree to a point,” Jem said tartly. “But the griffons allow them to travel at a rate that only magic can emulate. They can snatch the crystal and make good their escape without being long enough in a nation for an international incident.”

“Aye, I see that now. The diplomats can then spin some choice yarn and smooth over the snatch in keeping with whatever treaty is in place. And whoever had the crystal—assuming the knights don’t kill ‘em—would be most unlikely to make a fuss over something they’ve stolen in the first place.”

“Indeed. This mixture of mage and knight indicates some compromise in evidence at the higher levels of Eerian politics. I don’t sense they are content bedfellows either.”

“All good for us then, mate.”

Jem was silent for a minute. The distant flicker of the knights’ fire twinkled in his eyes. Unhert had finished his food and was returning to his duty.

“We can not underestimate them again, Hunor. They are extremely well equipped. Goldorian Pure Water comes at a significant price. We are clearly vital to their mission but let us not overplay that hand.”

“Well we are. Emelia doesn’t seem to enjoy the same privilege.”

“Her safety is essential to me,” Jem said, his voice rising. “That’s a given.”

Hunor looked past Jem’s shoulder, his gaze flitting like an excited moth.

“Emelia can’t replace her, Jem. You do realise that?”

Jem stiffened in surprise. “That is an outrageous thing to say. I am the girl’s tutor and her mentor. Dragging your mind away from the sort of women you entertain for just an instant would allow you a realisation that that is not how it works. Not for a teacher and pupil.”

“How would you know that though? Exactly?”

“I’m not sure I follow your odd line of thought,” Jem sighed.

“Well your mentor and tutor was a four foot Galvorian monk currently living in a cave in the Silver Mountains. That’s not quite the same as a six foot blonde protégé is it?”

Jem flushed a deep scarlet. “Damn it, Hunor, you are totally off the mark here. For a start he doesn’t live in a cave. And for another thing perhaps you should focus on one of your famed escape plans rather than idiotic speculation about what you think, erroneously I shall emphasise a last time, is going on in my patronage of Emelia.”

Hunor began to reply then hesitated, seeing the steely glint in Jem’s eyes.

“We will not have this talk again. Am I clear on that?” Jem said, glancing at both Sir Unhert and Emelia. Hunor nodded in acknowledgement and then turned to try get some rest, shading his eyes from the glare of the camp fire behind a moss-coated stone.

***

Emelia swam through a turbid sea of darkness, thick like oil, its black depths infinite. It engulfed her, its weight pushing against her eyes, her mouth and her nose: a cloying, stifling totality. She screamed, but no noise came forth, for the ebony sea greedily soaked up the sound. In her mind she sought for the cynical reassurances of Emebaka but she was not there. Emelia was alone and that feeling terrified her far more than the liquid night that she floated within.

She became aware of a tiny dot of light; her mind tried to assess whether it was a speck of red light inches before her eyes or a gigantic fireball a million miles away. The speck flickered and then a second appeared followed by a third. In an instant there were hundreds of them, all around her, twinkling bright in the void.

The night coalesced into cavorting shapes and figures. Sound struck her all of a sudden, like a punch to the face, a primordial clamour that seared her ears like the hottest sun.

She was being dragged through a mass of hideous creatures, chained with rusted links to a half-dozen warriors. They were armoured in scale mail, sown to worn leather armour. Their muscular arms were tattooed with spirals and circles and their hair was a rich brown colour, braided and hanging down their broad backs. A glance at her own body indicated she wore the same armour and bore similar tattoos.

Emelia looked beyond the screaming hordes that surrounded her and she could see hills and mountains looming in the distance, snow adorning their hazy summits. The plane that she marched across was a filthy mire of mud and waste, its epic expanse trampled and torn by the clawed feet of the army that now occupied it.

It was a goblin army. Their dark green faces and burning red eyes were contorted with hatred. Crooked noses dripped with mucous and rotted mouths drooled stinking saliva. Their raggedy armour and spiked shields were decorated with arcane symbols, daubed in crimson paint. They teemed like cockroaches as the prisoners were led forth, flowing back and forth like the edge of the sea.

Their jailors were stranger creatures, the servants of chaos named cravens. Emelia was uncertain how she knew this or indeed how she had recognised goblins.  She had the sense she had always known about the creatures. She could almost recall the first time she had felt goblin blood pouring down her sword, thick and green.

The cravens were seven foot tall monsters, boasting four powerful arms and the head of a black wolf. They bore two serrated long swords strapped to their backs. They tugged with irritation at the line of prisoners and Emelia stumbled, her knees spattering into the thick ooze. Panic surged in her as she desperately tried to regain her feet. She twisted on her chained hands as she was dragged through the foul mire. It ran into her mouth and she gagged and coughed, fighting for breath.

The dragging stopped and she looked up. The scene rippled and flowed like molten glass and she was stood in a wide tent, the filth cleaned off her.

The interior was opulent yet garish; the drapes that hung from the apex of the tent were scarlet cloth weaved with gold in macabre patterns. Six braziers lit the room with a hellish luminescence, belching forth thick smoke, making the already warm air of the tent stifling. A suit of armour stood in the corner beside a wide rack of weapons: an assortment of swords, maces and morning stars. The plate armour was huge, its enamelled breastplate fashioned in the likeness of a leering devil.

Emelia felt a mixture of terror and excitement as she observed the figure sat on the chair before them. She sensed three others with her and their fear was palpable. Sweat ran in rivers down their rippling torsos.

Although sat it was evident that when stood he would be perhaps seven foot tall. The ogre blood that flowed within his veins had conferred him a dark blue skin tone though not nearly as dark as the four ogres that stood guard at his side. The human blood had served to tame the harsher ogre features. His eyes were less slanted and wider; his mouth narrower and his teeth less sharp; he had a nose, unlike the two reptilian slits that adorned the faces of his guards. Despite being a foot shorter than his guards he radiated the menace and power of a coiled cobra. Magic oozed from his pores like sweat.

He stood and approached the captives. With an odd jolt Emelia realised she watched the scene now from above, as if she was part of the drapes.

“You are warriors of Gondland I see,” he said, his voice rich and seductive. “You are brave fighters, no doubt, and have bathed in the blood of goblin and ogre for many a year. Perhaps you are the bravest of the seven nation army that strives to halt the advance of my brethren. Yet Mortis is a fickle deity and he cannot help you now. Tell me why Gilibrion trusts the other kings to lead his people and why he does not ride the fields against me?”

The warrior furthest from Emelia spat in the face of the half-ogre. “Gilibrion will return to dance on your bones, half-breed.”

The huge half-ogre laughed. He grasped the Gondlander with his huge hands and whispered arcane words. Emelia looked in horror as the warrior erupted into green flames. His screams echoed in the confines of the pavilion as he shuddered and died.

He turned and spread his arms out in a wide shrug as if performing at the theatre and laughed to the four impassive ogres. “My brothers! To you I am half-human, to them half-ogre. It is evident why my upbringing was so traumatic.”

He gestured at another captive and the warrior jerked as if he had received an electric shock. Wisps of a grey mist began flowing like water from his nose, mouth and eyes through the air towards the half-ogre. Emelia had a strange feeling of watching the events simultaneously from the ceiling of the tent and through the eyes of the female warrior standing at the side of the jerking prisoner.

The smoke thickened and pooled in the half-ogre’s hand. Emelia could see within its swirling depths the face of her comrade. There was a look of terror on the ethereal features. The half-ogre brought the cloud of smoke to his face and seemed to lap it up like a cat would with milk. Then he wrinkled his nose and shook his head before clapping his hands; the ball of mist dissipated and the warrior to Emelia’s right gurgled and collapsed on the floor of the tent.

“He knows nothing. Well obviously he knows nothing now, as his brain is as desolate as the deserts of Pyrios. To be precise he knows nothing about King Gilibrion. Take them for target practice or supper or for whatever the goblins fancy. Don’t let the cravens wear their bits as jewellery though; I’m not a monster after all.”

A black armoured ogre began to pull them out of the tent. The half-ogre raised his hand and pointed at Emelia. “Wait. Leave the girl. There’s something curious about her.”

With a sudden wrench Emelia was within the female warrior’s body again. She now felt acutely aware of every sensation, whereas before all the occurrences seemed almost abstract and unreal to her. Get a hold of yourself Emelia, this is just a dream, she thought with a tingle of uncertainty.

She was sat on an expanse of cushions. Her armour was gone and she was dressed in a black satin gown. Her hair was pinned up with three golden pins. The half-ogre was sat next to her and it was apparent that something about the dream had changed; he was looking at her in a very curious manner.

“Do I repulse you, girl?”

Up close his dark blue skin had a velvety quality to it and Emelia had a strange urge to stroke it, to feel the smoothness. His features were bulky and crude, as if he had been carved from marble by an inexpert sculptor. Yet his eyes crackled with intellect and with menace, burning with a pale blue fire. Emelia felt a perverse pang of attraction to the demonic countenance.

“No. Not exactly,” Emelia said. “Rather the things you and your troops have done to this land repulse me.” The words seemed a mixture of her volition and a script that she was reading.

“You are different to the other Kisarti that your king places so much faith in. There is some aberrant quality to you that I am unable to ascertain. Would you care for a drink?”