Dreams of Darkness Rising (41 page)

That’s my son; now push your hand to the left.

He felt the click.

The door slid open and cold air washed over his face like the waters of baptism. He stumbled forwards gasping, dragging the air into his aching lungs.

For five minutes he could do little other than cough yet they were the best five minutes of his life. He savoured every breath as if it were his last. Through the blotchiness of his vision he caught sight of his mother’s statue. Just for an instant he fancied he saw a white luminescence around its head.

“Mortis be praised,” he said. His voice echoed in the gloomy crypt. “How in the Pale did I get out of that one?”

A fit of giggles overcame him and then a few tears before he stood and wiped the soot from his face.

“Now, master Quigor, let us hear your declarations of innocence as I shove a sword through your black heart.”

He took the stairs two at a time. Vengeance powered his limbs as he ascended to the main castle.

Aldred emerged onto the ground floor close to the barracks. He paused by a grand archway that was flanked by two suits of vintage Artorian armour. Aldred pulled loose the shield and sword.

It wasn’t until he reached a set of stairs that lead to the first floor and his father’s hall that the red mist began to dissipate. He paused halfway up the stairs.

Certainly I must face Quigor; after all the mage has vowed my death, he thought. The Azaguntan is evil—a necromancer—and all will surely see that, though most of the proof is now ash. But what of my father? Quigor said my father knew of his dark secrets. Surely that was all lies? And even if there were some truth to it, and I accept dark magic is terrible, my father would never condone my murder.

Wracked by indecision he was almost knocked over by five guards running up the stairs.

“Lord Aldred, thank Mortis you are here. There is battle afoot in the great hall. My lord, it’s your father, and Lord Jerstis.”

“Damn it, man, why do you stand jabbering to me? Let us go to their aide,” Aldred said, gesturing with his sword.

He tore up the stairs and into the corridor leading to the great hall. A dozen castle guards were smashing a statue against the huge doors as a makeshift battering ram. A captain, one of the few older soldiers that Aldred still knew, saw him and turned to explain.

“We could hear screams and sounds of fighting, my lord. Not twenty minutes ago some visitors came: knights from Eeria and other folk. The baron and Lord Jerstis received them and then the screaming started. The doors are blocked by something so we’re trying to smash it down.”

Aldred nodded then asked, “And Quigor?”

“Well I expect he’s in with your father, as always. Why?”

“I can guarantee any mischief will be down to him, captain, and whatever friends he’s chosen to bring for his malign purpose.”

The captain looked stunned at the venom in Aldred’s voice. “Pardon me asking, m’lord, but are you feeling all right? You look a bit pale.”

Aldred’s reply was lost in a splinter of wood as the statue annihilated a section of door. The soldiers’ cheers were immediately stifled as three corpses tumbled though the rent, their flesh hanging in bloody strips.

“Pull them out of the way so we can get through. Hurry, we must get to the baron,” the captain said.

Most of the guards began tugging the corpses through the hole as two others began widening the gap with their swords. Within seconds the jagged wood edges were dripping in blood.

One by one they pulled the bodies through until towards ten were extracted and enough room was made for the guards to get through. Aldred felt a hand pulling his leg and he glanced down.

One of the mutilated men was still alive, albeit barely. Huge wounds decorated his chest and his chainmail was tattered. Aldred recognised him as Holbek Gartson, one of the longest serving guards at the castle. He was near death.

Aldred knelt by the dying soldier and rested his bloodied head on his lap.

“Holbek? It’s me, Aldred Enfarson. Don’t move—we’ll get some help.”

Little bubbles came from Holbek’s lips and a faint mumble. Aldred realised the guard was trying to tell him something. He leant closer.

“Too…late…m’lord. All dead.”

Tears stung Aldred’s eyes: his father must be dead.

“Holbek, tell me. Tell me what happened. Who did this?”

Holbek coughed and dark blood ran from his mouth. With supreme effort he replied, “Demon. Quigor. Murdered… baron. Black…magic. Blue….crystal. Hunor. Hunor…came when a boy…barrowlands.”

The guard’s head slumped back onto Aldred’s lap as a look of peace came over his face. Aldred gently moved Holbek’s head then stood. He took a deep breath in anticipation of the scene he was to face and ducked through the gap and into the hall.

Chapter 11 Blackstone Bridge

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 can not 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 can not. 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 loosing 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, Emelia. 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.”