Dreams of Darkness Rising (34 page)

Aldred gradually recaptured his lost breath and limping he returned to the passage. The door was closed and there was no apparent way of opening it from this side.

He was trapped in the lair of a necromancer.

***

Eight hours later and two hundred miles to the east the contrast to the silence of the crypt could not have been greater. The north Thetorian town of Silverton was in a riotous mood as the Spring Festival began in earnest. Thousands of lanterns twinkled in the streets of the mining town, lighting the hordes of revellers. The din of the drunk mixed with the pipes and horns of the street musicians.

The Silver Hills rose sharply above the town, a sombre brow frowning on the merriment. The eight thin towers of Baron Exiki’s castle could be seen on the horizon, lit by the blue light of the waning Aquatonian moon. The castle was a parody of a baron whose obesity was legendary and who only infrequently deigned to honour his chief town with his corpulent presence.

Droves of entertainers would nonetheless migrate the eight miles to the castle to seek a fraction of his wealth, a product of the rich iron, silver and even gold mines that populated the hills to the north.

Like a corpse would attract flies, the rich excesses of nobles compelled those with an eye for exploitation and money to Silverton and the merchant Kurgin Goldersen was no exception.

The dark figure who eased past the revellers that evening contemplated all this and more. He gravitated to the shadows, much of the time the only hint of his presence being his shaven head. He paused at a well in the square, observing eight drunken miners whose coarse songs were making a gaggle of girls blush and giggle.

Goldersen’s buildings ran along a lane two streets removed from the main road south out of Silverton. The seven buildings were a mixture of heights and sizes. The shuttered windows were barred, giving some clue as to the fact they were used for the storage of Goldersen’s vast stocks; not that any fool would seek to steal from a man whose influence ran from the world of commerce to the world of crime as smoothly as a river runs to the sea.

Yet the price for crime was that your opponents don’t play by the rules, considered the black clad man. He slipped into an alleyway then leapt to grab a handhold on the irregular stone of the building. He scuttled like a spider up the wall then pulled himself onto the slope of the one storey roof. A twinge came into his left elbow from an old wound, the memento from a card game gone wrong four years ago.

He bounded across the rooftops, leaping with ease from one to the next and landing with barely a sound. The clamour from the streets would allow him a large margin for error but he was a professional: this was his vocation, this was business.

He spotted the first guard as he peered over the edge of the two story roof he lay on. The guard was a big man, armoured in a chainmail hauberk and holding a spear. He stood alone at the edge of a small courtyard between three buildings. The dark man loosened a rope, threaded it through the eaves with a loop and then carefully lowered it.

The noose slipped around the guard’s neck and the dark man rolled from the roof and dropped. The guard shot upwards with a splutter, his legs kicking spasmodically. The dark man landed and then held tightly onto the rope, his left foot neatly catching the shaft of the spear as it toppled, before easing it to the ground. Within a minute the jerking on the rope stopped and with some effort the black garbed man lowered the dead guard to the ground. He rolled him quickly behind a collection of six barrels.

The guard had left a crossbow propped against the wall which the dark killer procured. Then he slowly opened the door and entered.

There was a small hallway beyond which then opened into a large warehouse, some two stories high and thirty feet by fifty feet across. The interior was a maze of barrels, sacks, chests and crates, stacked into columns, like a temple to commerce. Sounds of laughter drifted along the avenues between the containers. Light was scanty, provided by a few smouldering lanterns. This suited him perfectly.

The two guards at the door at the far end of the warehouse were chatting as he crept around the corner, discussing the finer points of the cathouse they were to attend later that night. Had he been a kinder man the idea that their last thought may be of such carnal pleasures may have given him some joy. But he had never been accused of kindness, even by the few he had ever called friend.

The first guard died silently as the crossbow bolt transfixed his head to the wall; the second managed a gasp as the dark man was upon him, slicing his blade across the guard’s neck. He crumpled to the floor with a grisly gurgle.

Wiping his blade on the cloth of the guard’s trousers the dark figure pushed open the door into the next room. It was a small chamber, with a door on the far side and dark mahogany furniture cluttering its interior. Its sole occupant was a short bearded man dressed in a crimson silk shirt and black silk trousers. His stumpy digits glittered with gold and jewels. He rooted through a pile of papers on his desk. He glanced in irritation at the interruption.

“Who in the Pale’s name are you?” Goldersen asked, his beady eyes glancing at his possible escape routes.

The dark man smiled, the pale scar on his face creasing. “But a thespian, treading the boards of the intricate saga of this life. A player. But a professional player, at that.”

 “Your visit surprises me then. I have only a ten-year old claret from the nether regions of Feldor to offer you.”

“Your hospitality is not in question, sir. Sadly I refrain from drinking whilst I work though it would please me immensely if you indulge yourself.”

Goldersen shrugged and poured a goblet of the blood red liquid.

“Surely you mock me with talk of theatricals?”

The dark man stepped forwards, his dark green eyes fixing Goldersen’s.

“Indeed not, sir. I have long subscribed to the philosophy that we merely act on the whims and designs of the many gods that direct us through this mortal charade. One day our scene may be as doting husband or furious father, yet on another we may stand alone in the tranquillity of a soliloquy, contemplating the purpose of our allotted time. For you I understand the higher purpose has been that of gold and as many men before you and after you, your desires have clashed with those far more devious.”

Goldersen was shaking as he sipped. “We are all slave to the seductive touch of wealth, for all it is a mistress. Do not pretend you do it for another purpose, assassin. I will triple what they are paying you.”

“Your final scene should perhaps be better spent recounting words that shall live beyond you, a condensation of a lifetime’s wisdom. Instead you bow out to misguided attempts to divert the inevitable. The long rest comes to all, merchant, and for you it is now. There is no honour amongst thieves it is said but there is a code amongst brothers of the Silent Knife.”

“Then tell me who? Who sent you so I may damn them with my last breath?”

“That is a far greater swan song! That’s the spirit! ‘I damn them as I die.’ That would be a great line. A touch of panache. A bit of venom. Sadly I’m not at liberty to reveal my guild’s client but you could narrow it down to one of perhaps twenty given your many indiscretions over the years. One of your six sons, greedy for their inheritance? Your grasping wife? Another merchant, eager for your stock? Perhaps the king, bored at court with the parade of powdered wigs and wanting the metallic smell of blood on his hands? Who can be sure? All have roles and all will have their own grand exit.”

“You sadist,” Goldersen said and flung the goblet at the assassin. He bolted for the door, his feet slipping on the stone flags. With a sigh the dark man drew back his arm and threw his knife. It struck with a thud into Goldersen’s spine; he floundered and then fell against the door.

The assassin strode forward as Goldersen lay twitching on the floor. He retrieved the goblet and filled it with wine then sipped with a surprising daintiness as he bent over the dying figure. He placed one gloved hand over Goldersen’s mouth, his strong fingers sealing the airway. Goldersen feebly scrabbled at the arm as the assassin looked into the fading light of his eyes.

“I know, I know. I don’t drink on the job. Yet it is festival night and the zenith of spring is upon us, the chill stroke of winter but a faded memory. No, don’t fret, kind sir, there is no dint in the armour of my legendary professionalism. For, to be fair, the job’s over. Please realise it was nothing personal. It was just business.”

A mist had begun to form in the street when, five minutes later, he emerged in a differing garb. Gone were the dark clothes and in their stead the brighter outfit of a circus man. He patted revellers on their backs, all smiles and laughs, entertaining passing girls with his dexterity and juggling.

Life was a charade indeed.

Chapter 7 Escape into the Mist

Blossomstide 1924

The mist was heavy on the hillside above Silverton. They had made camp after a hard day’s flight over the Silver Mountains and Sir Robert stood watch with a look of intense boredom on his face. Ekra-Hurr loitered at the fringes of Emelia’s vision, like an itch that could not be scratched.

Jem was regaling the pair with some dull details on the centuries old feuding between Goldoria and Thetoria. Despite her weariness, Emelia was nervous about sleeping as she feared a recurrence of the dark dreams.

“Although the nation was born through an alliance of tribes against the threat of the goblins, the ogres and their half-ogre mage leader, it was always going to lead to descendants that would evolve differing philosophies. I mean the split from Goldoria was sixteen centuries ago but the two countries have found an excuse to squabble ever since, like brothers arguing over a favourite toy. I suppose during the time of the Empires, when the silver and gold in the mountains was not strictly theirs to fight over they…”

Emelia jolted at Jem’s words. “Jem, hang on. Sorry to interrupt.”

Jem looked quizzically at Emelia.

“You mentioned a war with a half…ogre? Was that in Thetoria?”

“Yes. A half-ogre mage called Vildor raised an army of ogres and goblins that threatened the seven tribes. The tribes united under King Gilibrion, who became the first High King of what was then called Trimena. That was back in the Era of Legends.”

“He was a mage? But I thought humans did not have magic until...well, the Era of Magic, centuries after that?”

“Again that’s true. Ogres however are one of the races with intrinsic magical auras. Their magi have been wielding dark magic for centuries, well before human mages began to practice mysticism, whether elemental or dark. Why the curiosity about Dark-magic?”

“It’s because she’s a witch!” Ekra-Hurr called over.

Emelia scowled and lowered her voice. “It’s all a bit strange, Jem. Dreams, I’m not really sure. To be fair I have met a Dark-mage twice now.”

Both Jem and Hunor sat up at this.

“What do you mean you met a Dark-mage? When?” Hunor asked, looking at Jem with concern.

“The night that we got captured by the knights. I sort of bumped into one in a graveyard. I was alright though. I’d seen him before, years ago in Coonor, just before I met you two.”

Jem’s face was concerned. “That’s why you looked so dishevelled when you caught up with me going into the inn. Why in Mortis’s name did you not mention this to us?”

“Well to be fair, Jem, we were being battered around the tavern then hauled hundreds of miles away on the back of griffons. You were sulking and Hunor was busy not coming up with any way to get us out of this. Cap it all with the slightly worrying prospect of returning to servitude in shackles, hopefully still with my head, and you might appreciate why a tale of shadow slinging creeps might have slipped my mind.”

Jem began to splutter a retort when Sir Robert approached. The mist had condensed to form tiny beads of moisture on his plate armour.

“Enough jabber about black magic you three; you’ll bring a curse down on us. Thief,” he asked, gesturing at Hunor, “your sword intrigues me. Why is a Thetorian cutpurse carrying around a Shorvorian blade? I understood they were only wielded by the Hârdan.”

Hunor looked at the knight and Emelia noted a drawn look in his face, as if the memory was pained.

“I suppose you could say it was inherited, in a way. It’s Shorvorian steel and magnate alloy, folded a thousand times and tempered in the ancient forges of the lonely isle. An old friend and mentor bequeathed it to me. He was the one who taught me to fight.”

Sir Robert raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Magnate...god-silver...then it would be enchanted. So you say this Shorvorian taught you his fighting style also?”

Ekra-Hurr had wandered down the grassy slope and was stood by Hunor. He sneered and interrupted Hunor’s reply.

“Clearly he left out the part about winning during his lessons. Listen not to his prattle, Sir Robert; he probably stole it from the grave of some Shorvorian warrior. No honour amongst thieves.”

Emelia and Jem winced at the jibe, knowing Hunor’s sensitivity about his deceased mentor.

Hunor leapt to his feet smashing his head into the mage’s jaw. Ekra-Hurr staggered back, blood pouring from his torn lip as Hunor’s hands were suddenly free from his bonds. Sir Robert reached for his sword, which was propped against the rock. The thief shoved the knight with all his strength.

Sir Robert overbalanced on the slope and with a cry tumbled back down the hill. Hunor whirled and kicked the Air-mage in the stomach. Ekra-Hurr folded and Hunor followed the kick with a swift knee to the face and two punches to the side of the head.

Emelia watched in astonishment as Hunor grabbed the satchel off the Air Mage and, with a wink, ran off into the mist. The three other knights came crashing onto the scene. Ekra-Hurr was spluttering shattered teeth and blood onto the floor. Sir Robert’s shouts could be heard somewhere in the mists.

“In Torik’s name, I am surrounded by fools,” Lady Orla said. “Unhert, guard these two. If they as much as move then run them through. Minrik, get Robert and then pursue the thief. I shall attend to the mage.”