Dreams of Darkness Rising (57 page)

Vildor strode to a purple velvet chair, procured from the Grand Auditorium across the square. He slid into it then gestured to the barbarian. To her horror she found herself drawn to him, his power like a magnet.

She stood trembling whilst he ran his hand over her waist. His touch was like an icicle on her skin.

“I am so cold, young one.”

He rose and slipped around her, his breath in her ear.

“I am as cold as the damp earth. It’s like an emptiness, a void. It aches, deep inside me, like a gnawing tumour. Oh, and the thirst. The thirst is so powerful that even I, the master of both the ghasts and the vampyrs, a prince of the undead, can hardly stymie its command.

“And inches away I can scent your warmth. It pulses in your body, driven by that heart of fury and pride. That burning scalding liquid of life. My only source of heat in this frigid half light that I inhabit.”

His teeth brushed against her neck and a strange desire began to wash over the princess.

Another figure materialised in the room, forming from the shadows. He was much like Vildor, but his face was more angular and sharp, like the edge of a knife.

“My apologies, master, I did not know you were about to dine,” Xirik said.

“None are necessary; you are ever welcome at my table. You have always been my most faithful disciple. Please, take a chair.”

Vildor waved a hand and a second chair formed from the deep gloom of the room.

Xirik sat and eyed the paralysed barbarian with hunger.

“Spies in Goldoria have found those we seek. They travel on the road from Parok to Goldoria City in disguise. We have yet to confirm the presence of the blue crystal.”

“Then it was as I said. They have avoided travel in Northern Thetoria and head towards Goldoria City for a ship. All credit to them—it is a bold strategy. Clearly, though, we can’t have the Goldorians getting their ignorant little digits on the crystal. We must ensure they reach the city undisturbed and unawares then spring our trap. Who do we have in the vicinity?”

Xirik reached for a goblet and poured thick red liquid from a decanter.

“Well—Utrok is the closest, across the border in Thetoria with Ligor, recovering from an injury.”

“Utrok? This one is not known to me. He is not one of the Gifted.”

“No, master, he is not. Though he covets the Gift he has yet to prove himself worthy. He has gained the ability to nourish his powers by drawing on the souls of his vanquished foes. Indeed he has shown skill and dedication to our cause. He has almost single-handedly seeded both Eeria and Azagunta, whereas others such as Garin, Livor and Ajacre are easily distracted by other matters.”

“Indeed, Xirik, indeed. Garin interests me in a manner which would not please him if he knew. His inertia, albeit born from ignorance of our plans, has allowed the blue crystal to slip into the hands of these freebooters. Very well, if Utrok is recovered then he may regard this as a test of his mettle. How soon can he be there?”

“I shall contact him using the Deadspeech. He is adept at shadow-walking and could be there within two nights,” Xirik said, toying with the goblet in his slender hands.

“Something yet troubles you, Xirik. Speak, we have no secrets.”

“Apologies, master. Given the importance could we not dispatch one of the three remaining humours to fetch the crystal? Or even myself? I would gladly shadow-walk to the Gates of the Pale for you.”

“I know this. You are my most trusted and precious ally, Xirik. We underestimated these vagabonds once. We should move only minor pieces in the game at present. The demons draw heavily on my magic and I yet recover from my resurrection. Besides sending demons into the halls of righteousness, replete with Pure Water and null-blades could be construed as foolish. No we will send Utrok and inform him firmly that the girl is to be captured and not harmed.”

“As you command. But I could recover the crystal for you—why manoeuvre the minor pieces?” Xirik said, with a trace of indignation.

“Take care, disciple, you begin to irritate. The simple reason is that I have a far more vital task for you. The game with the crystals is just afoot and I require your presence with the army in the southern mountains.”

“W—what? With the ogres and goblins? Master, they have their command. And we also have Garin performing his tasks.”

“I am aware of our plans, Xirik!” Vildor shouted.

The air rippled with dark forces and the barbarian princess recoiled.

Xirik’s face contorted in fear. “Forgive my impertinence, master. I have been tasked with the plan for such a long time alone I forget my place.”

“Indeed you do. I am not ungenerous. I recognise all you have achieved in my name: the formation of the knights, the scheme you have hatched and the armageddon you have devised. It brings something nearing pride to my undead heart. You are much as a son to me, Xirik, and yet more. But the child must obey the father without question. Are we clear?” Vildor said slowly, his deep voice laced with menace.

“I beg your forgiveness. I did not contemplate we would require a prism for the spell.”

“How could you? My legend is vivid but as with many tales of yore somewhat…exaggerated. I am undoubtedly the most powerful sorcerer ever to tread the world, for none have achieved immortality in such a manner before me. Yet I doff my hat to the Azaguntan Cabal, the black arts of Kevor and the might of the prisms. Without the crystals the spell we plan would consume me and my eternal soul. And where would be the fun in that, eh, Xirik? Forced to rule alone?”

“It would be an eternity of agony. I shall depart soon for the southern camp, once I have finished the enchantments of the Stormships,” Xirik said.

“That’s the spirit, Xirik. Before you go I will need you to select perhaps a half-dozen of our dark sorcerers to attend me here in Etruria. None of them are to be of the Gifted. And find that liberated Fire-mage also whilst you are down in the south.”

He rose and strode to the mahogany desk by the side of the quivering barbarian princess. It was strewn with maps and scrolls, books and letters. In the centre lay a silver bowl, inscribed with runes and a slender knife, its hilt carved to resemble a serpent.

“As you command,” Xirik said.

He rose and made to slip into the shadows. He paused then turned.

“Master, this girl, whose dreams you share. She is beyond your control?”

“Yes, it is both fascinating and a little frustrating. She has gained a new discipline of mind. I am certain she is the key to our finding the other facets of the prism. But her thoughts are most intriguing, even intoxicating to experience. Why?”

“No reason, master,” Xirik said sulkily.

Vildor laughed and gestured for Xirik to approach. He reached out as Xirik neared him and touched his cheek.

“Is this the gnawing grasp of jealousy, Xirik? Ease your green demon, my faithful friend. I care only for the flesh of womankind as the wolf cares for the sheep. My tastes are far more esoteric,” he said.

Vildor grasped Xirik firmly and kissed him, his flesh sliding corpse-like over the other wizards. Their passion was fierce and cruel as they grasped each other’s cadaverous bodies hungrily.

The barbarian girl abruptly felt an easing of the enchantment that held her still. In hatred and disgust she lunged for the knife on the table. Grasping it with both hands she plunged it into Vildor’s spine to the hilt.

Vildor broke his embrace from Xirik, his mouth wet and leering. The knife jutted from his upper back harmlessly. With a sigh he grabbed the barbarian’s head and twisted forcibly. With a loud crack her neck splintered and she slumped dead on the desk.

The dark sorcerer turned to Xirik, his eyes twinkling in lust.

“Will you join me for supper? Quickly, before it gets cold.”

And the two tore into the still warm flesh of the barbarian princess, their dark robes flowing like tar.

Chapter 9    A Low Profile

Sunstide 1924

To describe the ambience inside a Goldorian inn as sombre was akin to describing the Mirioth as partial to a coin or two. The southern region of Goldoria was regarded as liberal by their northern brethren primarily because they permitted consumption of alcoholic beverages—in moderation.

The selection was restrictive and poor, as the companions found much to their chagrin. Goldoria was too mild for the vineyards of its Trimenal cousins to the south and ale had never gained a foothold except during the years of Artorian occupation.

The miserable innkeeper poured small measures out into the beakers on the table where the companions sat. Marthir politely raised her hand, her freckled face framed by a grey headscarf. Kervin, Jem and Hunor each nodded acquiescence and Jem gingerly sipped the vodka as the innkeeper sloped off.

“Onor’s spit—I’ve just sacrificed the lining of my gut to this stuff. Don’t put it near an open flame,” Hunor said, with a cough.

“Explains why Goldorians are so easy to batter into subservience though,” Kervin said with a shudder. “Must threaten ‘em with this crap.”

Jem raised an eyebrow and glanced out the window. Flecks of rain patterned the glass.

“Orla needs to be back before that storm rolls in,” Kervin said.

“She will, she will,” Hunor said. “She just needed some release. I don’t think pretence is in her usual skill set.”

“Some pretence,” Marthir said, downing the vodka in one swift gulp. “She’s being a knight. I mean if she pretended to be a happy knight—that would be worth seeing.”

“Back off, love,” Hunor said. “We need to keep everything nice and calm to get through this without that shapely backside of yours roasting on a fire. She struggles with intimidating the peasants in the style of a Goldorian knight, that’s all.”

Jem began to interject then froze as the door opened with a clatter and a troop of six Godsarm entered. Hunor flicked his eyes down to his lap to indicate to Jem his sword rested on his knees.

The Godsarm brushed the droplets of rain from their purple and gold uniforms and cast their grim stares over the denizens of the inn. The Goldorians in the room stared at their drinks and a small party of foreigners in the far corner—three Mirioth merchants—began rooting in their burkes for their papers.

The captain approached the companions, looking Jem up and down as he rose.

“Permits—for your companions, sir.”

Jem touched his heart with one hand and raised the other in a traditional greeting.

“May the light of the Father shine upon our meeting. Some of our party are absent but here are our permits.”

The Godsarm captain scanned the small scrolls then looked at Jem. “Parok office, I see. Is…ah, Morfari the one still in charge there?”

Jem met his gaze without flinching. “No. Don’t think I’ve ever heard of a Morfari in Parok.”

“No, no, me neither,” the captain said, returning the scrolls. “Forgive me, these are difficult times. I see your associates are Artorian merchants…and your other companion…?”

“From Goldoria City. We are jewel importers, travelling with an Eerian knight and a Galvorian expert. Are you certain you don’t want me to fetch them?”

“No—you’re fine. We’re from Oldor ourselves. There’s been a death in the town just west of here. You must have passed the town on the road. Unnatural it was—stinks of witchcraft. Heard tell there’s been sighting of a bone collector down from the mountains. But this death…Mortis protect us, was different. Like an animal, but with all the blood drained from it…”

“Father preserve us. Please, captain—you’ll scare the woman…”

“My apologies. I would counsel that you keep your Eerian knight close at hand,” the captain said. He turned to leave pulling his purple cloak up tight. “A word of warning. Stay on the road. The peasants are agitated…scared. They will see foreigners and, well, they won’t pause to check your papers.”

With a nod the captain and his squad turned and left the inn. The companions exchanged glances and kept their voices low and to themselves.

***

Taking the horse for a canter in the lands south of the Gods Highway was a necessary respite. Although Orla’s steed was weary, as was she, the mare was enjoying a change in terrain and happily vaulted the streams and low walls.

Orla was a half hour’s ride from the roadside coaching inn, eight miles short of the town of Oldor. She had caught some suspicious glances from Jem, Emelia and Marthir as she rode off but she cared not. After nine days of travelling with them her skin was becoming as tough as her magnate armour.

Her armour had provided a useful deterrent to attention as they journeyed east. The swarms of peasants who tended the fields of wheat, corn and barley would tremble and avoid even looking at her.

In Eeria she had always considered the lower rural class as having a content life: after all they had an important role in sustaining the middle and upper classes in their more vital functions in society. Yet these peasants seemed cowed and broken, like the weight of servitude had drained from them some vitality. Perhaps, she reflected, Hunor was correct when he said too much faith was an ill thing.

Hunor: she still seethed when she thought about his wiliness. In truth the suspicious looks from her companions were misplaced. There was little chance she would betray them. The night they had decided to leave Mek-ik-Ten’s sanctuary Hunor had approached her. He had brought up the subject of her debt to him and then made her swear an oath that she would not endanger or double-cross them in any way as they travelled to the port at Goldoria City. It was an oath sworn on her honour. Torik’s winds take him, for he knew that she would not consider breaking such a vow, even for the lingering orders of the High Commander.

A cry jolted her from her daydream. She spurred on her tired mount and approached the wailing sound, loosening her sword in readiness. The sky was darkening with each hoof fall on the path.

Two men lay on the path that ran by the corn field. Both wore surcoats of gold and green, emblazoned with the sigil of a sun and a spear. One was wounded, blood running from his macerated shoulder. The second was pale and slumped in the dirt. With a sense of distaste Orla saw he lacked legs, his waist ending in stumps of mangled flesh and bone.