Dreams of Darkness Rising (56 page)

“Right,” Emelia said.

“Look, love, lets drop the surliness eh? You’ve a face like the arse of an Azaguntan rent boy. I’ve got Jem all morose on one side and Orla nagging me about the bloody blue stone on the other. I’ve got a continual bloody itch from the razor and an outfit that makes me walk like I was dropped repeatedly on my head as a baby. I’m sorry we’re in this mess, alright?”

“Damn it, Hunor, why didn’t you tell me Jem was married?”

“How in the Pale was I supposed to know we’d bump into Marthir all the way out here? I know, I know, we should have told you. But we’ve all got skeletons in the trunk, love, even you.”

 “That’s still not the point. You always go on about the three of us being a team yet I know next to nothing about you pair and you know almost everything about me. I felt so…so…stupid not knowing.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Look, it was Jem’s place to tell you not mine. At the end of the day it was part of his past he wanted buried. We were both very different back then and so was Marthir.”

“Kervin said that Jem and Marthir were married before she was a druid,” Emelia said. “Wasn’t she a tracker?”

“Aye, Jem and I were with Master Ten and Hü-Jen then. We’d gone over Artoria way to nose around for some goblin coin when we’d fallen into a bit of bother with a band of ogres. Anyhow long story short we met up with Marthir, Kervin and some others when we were tearing away across the mountains towards Keresh.

“Well it all worked out better that we stuck together as a big bunch and so we dotted around Artoria for a few years, between Keresh and Belgo. Marthir and Jem got especially close, if you get my meaning, and Jem being all Goldorian and honourable felt that they should get hitched because they’d been frisky under the bear skins.”

Emelia flushed and hoped the night masked her discomfort. This was not a subject she had wanted to wander onto, for she was naïve in such matters.

“Yet now they are estranged?” she asked, a tremor in her voice.

“True enough. It was good for a few years but then, well, the old gang sort of fell apart when my master died. Marthir took it bad, as hard as me in many ways. Then out of the blue she headed off to the Great Forest.”

Emelia looked at Hunor. She could see the discomfort Hunor put himself through to talk about that time. What had happened with Hü-Jen?

“I can see why Jem is in such a strange mood then,” Emelia said. “He’s hardly said two words to anyone. He’s biting people’s heads off for the tiniest thing. I’ll be frank—I don’t trust Marthir at all. She’s really twisting the knife in him.”

“I think it’s more than that, love. It’s being here again.”

“Goldoria? But we travelled through it a few weeks ago in Blossomstide. And the three of us did that church job the other year in Port Multir.”

“It’s not just Goldoria. It’s Parok. Where his parents were killed.”

“Another secret? Are you alright telling me this?”

Hunor nodded though glanced over at the slumbering companions before continuing.

“No, it’s fine. Jem told me one night when we were drunk on Artorian mead in Belgo. Anyhow, Jem was brought up in Parok. The city was always a wealthy place, from all those mines in the mountains. His old man was a clockmaker, one of the best in the city. Clocks are a big love of the Goldorians, you see.

“Jem’s father brought him up to take over the business. Jem delivered the clocks across the city for all the rich priests and bishops. This made his mother happy too, because—like most Goldorians—she spent her days learning passages from the Book of Trall. She was especially pleased when Jem got offered patronage by one of the bishops, some right hand man of the Archbishop who was high up in the running of the Godsarm.

“All went well until the dirty old bishop started getting a bit over-familiar with young Jem. I mean it happens in loads of places; the Pyrians are buggers for it if you’ll forgive the pun. But the Goldorian priesthood? Ooh no.

“As bad luck had it Jem had started to grow a few hairs on his chest and with the deeper voice along comes his magic,” Hunor said.

Emelia was transfixed by the tale. She could still recall the confusion when her own Wild-magic developed in the Keep.

“Well Jem was in the bishop’s chambers, trying to read some psalm about charity when the old goat starts getting a bit too close. He’d obviously decided to make his move. Well he moved alright. Jem sent him through a fifteen foot stained glass window without raising a hand.

“Jem was out of the chambers like a quarrel from a crossbow and he ran down to his father’s shop, all tears and panic. His parents were still arguing what to do when the Godsarm arrived to take him. Poor Jem knew that he’d be next star attraction at the monthly bonfire.”

“H—how did he get away from them?”

“Well it got ugly. The Godsarm started trashing the place. One of them stuck a spear through his poor father and Jem lost it. That spell you both do which sends ‘em flying? Well put years of fear and frustration behind that,” Hunor said.

I did Hunor, when I sent Uthor Ebon-Farr flying across the room, Emelia thought. My poor Jem.

“Well the whole shop came down upon them,” Hunor said. “A squad of Godsarm and his parents were under that rubble, though I think his father was nearly dead from the wound anyway. Jem got out, first time he’d done that passing wall thing, but he couldn’t stay in the city. He had the Godsarm on his heels and the Sacred Knife keeping their evil little peepers peeled for him. He fled Parok and into the country and I think not long after that he met Master Mek-ik-Ten.”

Emelia felt numb at the tragedy of the tale.

“So Master Ten would have known how upset Jem would be, returning to Parok for us to purchase supplies, equipment and, well, our disguises?”

“That’s right. When I’d told him back in the mountains that I thought it wasn’t the easiest idea he gave me one of his herb smoking phrases. ‘A man who bears the burdens of his past is like the tree with rotten roots, only by chopping free the rot may he yet grow’,” Hunor said.

Emelia rubbed her head, and then smiled wearily at Hunor.

“Accept my apology, my friend; I’ve been acting like a child these last few weeks. I’m just a bit confused about Jem, you know, and the prospect of Orla dragging me back to Coonor shook me more than I admitted.”

“You’re alright, love. None of us have been at our best. I’ll look out for us don’t worry. But I think we’ll have to accept Jem’s dead set on this mission of his and Master Ten’s.”

“And Lady Orla? There’s times when I see her, well—sneering at me. Is she going to be a problem?”

“No. No problem at all. I’ve reached an understanding with the good Lady Orla Farvous. I’m certain she’s not sneering at you either. I reckon as long as we keep our heads down, keep these bloody disguises up and watch out for the Sacred Knife we’ll be fine.”

“If you’re certain…”

“Yeah, dead certain. Now did I ever tell you the tale of the three legged troll, the fire weasel and me?”

Emelia laughed and indulged Hunor and his fantastical yarn. The watch went well after this and three hours later she stumbled to wake Jem and Orla for the final shift.

Jem straightened his grey tunic and neat hair, blinking sleep from his eyes.

Emelia leaned close and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Jem looked startled then regaining his composure nodded.

“Me too.”

The Goldorian looked uncomfortable, his gaze still not meeting Emelia’s, and then scuttled off to join Orla by the ruined wall.

Emelia slipped into her bedroll feeling less troubled, weariness coming upon her with such a weight she hardly noticed that ten feet away Kervin’s bedroll was empty.

Chapter 8    A Cold Future

Sunstide 1924

The warmth of the day had leached swiftly from the dented metal panels. Dusk smeared the surface a ruddy red, recalling the day months ago when the machine was spawned by the forge in the Ebony Tower.

Two knights stood guard, as immobile as the enormous excavator behind them. In contrast Vildor was a streak of motion, his robes rippling like liquid night.

Vildor came to a halt by a huge wheel, each of its broad spokes wider than his gaunt waist. He rested his head against the metal, as if he were listening to some sound deep inside the construct.

“You and I are so alike, my beauty,” Vildor said. “Your cold lifeless metal is unfeeling and uncaring. You have a singular purpose that none may oppose. Aah, how you suck warmth from the night air like a greedy babe. A mirror image to me, like the moon on the water at night.”

“It is the future, my lord,” said one of the knights.

Vildor slid his face along the wide panel, over the furrows and the rivets and the bolts. With a flourish he turned and paced towards the knight, whose demonic face remained as impassive as the machine he guarded.

“The future you say?” Vildor said. “In truth what know we of the future? I stood on this ground five hundred years ago. The Empire, whose head I had severed much as a farmer would a tasty chicken, was convinced of its own immortality. They genuinely thought they would last forever. And now? Now they are ash and dust, charcoal ghosts and memories on the breeze. A pair of fools—greed and ambition.”

“M—my lord, I meant no affront.”

“And none was taken. For this machine is like me in that respect. I am the future. From the dust-choked depths of antiquity I have risen and my future is as chill and mechanistic as this wonderful construct and oh so cold. So, so cold. An absence of heat and life so profound that millennia in the damp soil may not even compare. Mine is a future of ice and iron, of steam and smoke fed incessantly by the rape of this nature, this life force that irks me so.”

The knights bowed in awe and respect. Vildor turned to observe a knight and a girl walk through the desolation of the central square and around the excavated hole. In the distance the fires of the trolls’ camp threw a hellish glow against the grandiose buildings.

“Good evening to you, Darklord Jüt. I am flattered you find time to attend me personally,” Vildor said.

“The honour is mine, great one. I have selected this girl for your—ah, feast this eve.”

The girl was slim but powerfully built, her body taut like a coiled snake. Her brown hair was braided and her figure barely concealed by doe skin and furs. A spiral tattoo weaved like ivy up her arm and neck.

Vildor slowly approached her and touched her soft skin. She flinched at his touch.

“A barbarian girl and the braids would imply a high caste,” Vildor said.

“Indeed, great one. She is a young princess of the Garashi tribe. Fierce warriors and now productive slaves,” Jüt said. He tugged on the chain that bound her wrists.

Vildor tutted and gestured at the girl. The iron chains turned a dirty brown colour before crumbling into a shower of rust.

“You have chosen well. Barbarian has ever been a most succulent taste. Tell me my dear, do I repulse you?” Vildor asked.

The barbarian snarled at him and replied in her own coarse tongue.

Vildor touched the girl’s forehead. A tiny flicker of light illuminated her face.

“What—have—you done?” she asked.

“It’s so tedious being showered with tribal phlegm and not understanding a word,” Vildor said. “A tiny spell just so we’re singing from the same sheet, eh? Don’t look so surprised. Not all my spells invoke death, pain, disease or worse. Most of them do, but not all. That one draws on the Demon Duchess Sirgos. You can’t have abject terror without language after all.”

“Lord Vildor, I must excuse myself. I have matters to attend to in the Ebony Tower. Master Xirik wishes to speak with you,” Jüt said.

“He wishes to? Well, who am I to refuse my most treasured disciple eh? Inform Xirik I will see him in my chamber,” Vildor said, with a touch of irritation. “Now what do you make of this magnificent machine that your enslaved kin spend so long in the presence of, my dear?”

The barbarian girl curled her lip.   

“I think it an abomination, unnatural as you are, mage.”

Jüt went to strike her but halted as Vildor raised his slender hand. He chuckled, stroking back his long black hair then replied.

“Unnatural? Your words please me greatly, princess. I abhor nature. Never has a more fickle mistress been painted with such exuberant colours, never has such a whore as Nolir been inadvisably adored. She revels in death with every pulse of her foul heart. Feckless. Cruel. Only the strong survive her cruel pageants. A chain of devouring and consumption where no quarter is given to the weak and infirm. If that is nature then I bask in my unnatural form.”

“Your words are twisted and poisonous, wizard. You speak with the cunning of Abral, the snake god.”

“I speak with my own tongue, girl, and it is far from forked. You barbarians fascinate me. Such passion, such life. It flares like wood cast upon the fire, sears like the magma of Pyrios. Yet for all that vitality your race is stagnant.

“When I graced the younger lands of what would become Trimena, two and a half thousand years ago your barbarian ancestors trod the plains of Foom. They were like you in every way. Same garb, same tattoos, same defiance. Two millennia of squabbling like angry children and here you stand, an anachronism. A creature of yesterday. Widen your eyes, savage princess, and see the future of this land. It looms impassive and inspiring, its fires now still but eager to begin belching the destruction of your beloved earth once more. The future is hard and cold; steel not wood. Malleable and mighty, not brittle and rotting with the kiss of time.”

The barbarian princess, her face flushed, went to strike Vildor again. He casually caught her wrist and bent it back until she buckled with a whimper. His cloak opened out like a blooming black rose and the girl was swallowed by shadow.

***

Vildor and the barbarian princess stepped from the murky corner of the ghast’s chamber with a crack, like the sound of a flag in the wind. The room was vast. It had once been the old courtroom for the Empire’s Great Court and the furniture had been reorganised and rearranged to give the chamber some semblance of order.