Dreams of Darkness Rising (58 page)

Orla reined in her horse and dismounted. She slowly approached the wounded man and addressed him in Imperial.

“What evil has befallen you? Bandits perchance?”

The moaning man rolled to face her, knocking his dead companion to the side.

“Oh, thank the Father! M’lady knight, our master, Sir Krem Listerthwaite, pursues the creature. Yet I fear its terror may surpass even his near mythical prowess.”

Orla shoved the reins to the wounded squire and ran into the corn field, following the clamour of skirmish ahead. So much for a low profile, she winced.

The corn was tall, the green and gold stems slapping against her armour as she forced through the field. The rustle of the corn in the breeze distorted the sounds of battle ahead and for a moment she lost her bearings. She heard a steady thump of hooves and leapt aside as a panicked horse crashed past her. Blood streamed from a large gash in its side.

Orla began running again, following the trail of horse blood through the maze of corn. A staccato patter of rain began, the drops coalescing on her armoured chest. The sounds of conflict came closer until abruptly she entered a small clearing in the field.

In the clearing two figures slowly circled one another. The ground beneath them was trampled and Orla noticed a spear laying at the edge of the clearing. Its owner wore plate armour, decorated ornately with golden emblems and he fought with a bloodied long sword.

His opponent was a creature distilled from nightmare. It stood eight feet tall with a cylindrical torso, covered in what seemed to be armour made from bone. Each motion sent a dry horrible clack from the grisly vest. Its arms were skeletally thin with long talons. A snake-like neck twisted and writhed, culminating in a lizard’s head, a mouth full of deadly teeth and a single evil eye.

“Succumb to thy fate, knight, and I shall kill thee quickly, resist and I shall wear thy vertebrae as a medal of honour,” the monster said.

“Decadent spawn of chaos! Bone collector, waste not your fetid breath on witticism. You shall terrorise this land no longer...for the Father’s justice awaits you,” the knight said.

The bone collector lunged with a hiss, its claws gouging a furrow in the shield. The knight slashed and cut a chunk from the long powerful arms. The creature leapt back with a roar of pain, its eye flaring like fire. Orla gasped as a beam of green flame cascaded from the eye towards the knight. At the last instant he raised his shield and the inferno blasted against it, the painted sun and spear blackening and bubbling. The flames hissed as the rain became torrential.

The impact had sent the knight staggering and his boot slid on the slick corn stems. The beast pressed its attack with a screech of delight and Orla was propelled into action.

“For Coonor, for Eeria, for Torik!”

The bone collector’s serpentine neck swivelled to stare at her in shock as she plunged her shimmering long sword into its side. The bones shattered like a vase thrown against a wall and black blood gushed from the wound. The stench was overpowering.

Orla ripped her sword free and brought it up to parry the ferocious blow from the creature’s huge arm. The impact knocked the wind from her and lifted her from her feet. She crashed to the ground, the jolt making her feel sick.

“Another full set for mine collection. Thy ribs will repair the hole thee made in mine armour. Now stay where thee are,” the bone collector said.

The flaming eye crackled again but this time rather than flames a fluorescent green light shot forth. It struck Orla, flowing around her chest like liquid. In seconds she was encircled in a band of green light which then solidified. Orla strained against the mystical bonds. They were as strong as iron.

The bone collector’s head began snaking towards her, drool pouring from its ghastly mouth. Orla desperately looked for some escape from the monster’s maw.

The Goldorian knight was before her, spear in hand. The monster had little chance to dodge as the knight plunged the spear tip through the flaming eye. The monster’s scream was shrill, like a scalded cat and it thrashed back, snapping the shaft of the weapon.

The Goldorian turned swiftly and drew a slender dagger, its pommel carved to resemble a lion’s head. Lady Orla was astounded to see the knife slice through the magical bonds as if they were pastry. Her arms free, Orla raised her sword ready and at her side the knight retrieved his from where he had stuck it in the ground. No words passed between them as they charged forwards at the blinded creature.

Flame splashed like water from a pail as the creature swung its serpentine neck in a frenzy of pain, rage and fear. She heard the knight grunt in pain as the creature’s claw nicked the rear of his thigh, where the mail was exposed at the edge of the plate cuisse. The Goldorian punched the long arm away then hacked down with his sword at its wrist. Black blood spattered from the blow and as the monster swivelled to direct its flailing attack at the Goldorian, Orla seized her chance. With a gasp of effort she thrust her long sword two handed into the base of the monster’s neck.

Black blood poured from the wound and both knights staggered back as the creature gurgled then toppled dead onto the ground.

The knight tossed his helm to the ground, coughing and spitting. His face was reddened and slick with sweat and Orla saw him to be a good ten years her senior, with greying closely cropped hair and a smoothly shaved face. He stared with disbelief at the Eerian knight.

“By the brightest light of the Father, you’re a woman!”

“Indeed, Sir Knight. I trust you have them in Goldoria as we do in Eeria?” Orla said, panting after the exertion.

He looked stunned then burst into a booming laughter.

“Indeed, indeed, Lady Knight of Eeria, though it fair to say none are as formidable in beauty and battle as you. Come let us retreat to the inn and celebrate our allegiance and victory in a manner most raucous!”

The Goldorian slapped her roughly on the shoulder, the metal grating noisily. A raucous celebration: this was not going to be received at all well by her companions.

***

The bedroom at the inn was sparse but functional, with a neatness that reminded Emelia of Jem. She and Master Mek-ik-Ten had pushed back the four beds in the room to the periphery to clear a space in the centre in which they sat.

On the wooden floorboards between them lay the blue crystal. It was faintly lit by the same internal glow that Emelia had seen those years ago at the Keep in Coonor.

They had left the others down in the inn’s common room, keeping to the fringes. She had seen the concern in Jem’s eyes as Master Ten had led her upstairs. Was doubt there as well? Was she capable of doing this? A sudden weight of expectation pressed down on her and she felt the tight twist of panic in her belly.

They all think you’ll fail, maybe we should just slip off
, Emebaka commented slyly.

Ignoring the voice Emelia turned to Master Ten.

“Is it time, master?”

“Not quite yet, my child. Doubt clouds your mind like poison in a well. You must vanquish the voice of uncertainty: you have strength enough for this task.”

Emelia nodded and silencing Emebaka’s twitter she calmed her breathing down, relaxing her mind, feeling the strands of the Web around her in the room. The edge of her shell pendant pressed against her chest, tucked under the tight neobalt.

“As you use the loretouch be aware that the blue crystal acts like an amplifier to your magic. Ride the feeling of its sorcery like a wild horse; rein it in, calm it, do not let it gallop away with you.”

“Are we really certain this is part of a prism, master? What were they, to be craved so avidly?”

“The very fact it is coveted by Vildor convinces me of its true nature. The prisms were always intricately shielded from spells to determine their power. They were created by brash sorcery: fusing together a dozen gems of power to form each crystal. They were the pinnacle of old Azaguntan magic and instrumental in the rise of that nation and its ruling Cabal.”

“Weren’t the Cabal a force for good, master?”

Emelia saw a single grey tear trickle down his cheek.

“As with all good men who cherish power, their noble intentions turned sour,” Mek-ik-Ten said. “The prisms, seven in number, were awesome weapons in the hands of the magi. Each comprised of four crystals which when linked created a fifth face of immense power.

“Three fell into the possession of the nation of Kevor and the dark wizards that hid behind the scenes like puppet masters corrupted the crystals with their own fifth face, that of the black crystal. This was a crystal that was formed by foulest sorcery, the magic of the demons, the essence of Nekra and her nobility of the Pale. They were used over many years for crimes too hideous to recall.”

“By Vildor?” Emelia asked. The sound of his name was oddly exciting to her.

“In a later era. The prisms were thought destroyed in the Mage Wars: during the Fall of Kevor and the Azaguntan civil war. Yet like a bad coin they re-emerged again in the time of the Second Empire, first we think, in the hands of Vildor during the coup that killed Stelfan II and then hundreds of years later during the fall of the Empire.”

Emelia trembled briefly then, angry at herself, steadied the shaking. She thought of those with faith in her: Jem, Hunor, perhaps even Kervin. She thought of Sandila and warm nights all huddled in the tiny dormitory and the trust her friend had in her. One day I’ll avenge your death, she promised, when all this is done.

“Peace is within you now, Emelia. There is a sense of tranquillity and warmth, like the first sun of spring that bathes the bluebells in the glade. Touch this crystal and let your mind ease into it.”

Emelia placed her fingers on the crystal. A tingle ran through them. In her mouth was a metallic taste, like she had bit her lip.

Then the power surged through her like a torrent. It was as if every nerve in her body was suddenly alight, flaming and flashing. The room melted around her, vibrant colours painting over the drabness of the furniture, ethereal fluorescent vapour trails drifting like eels through the air. Lightning flashed at the window, leaving a white scar in the air—a pale slice through reality.

She could feel the Web taut and pulsing around her body. From each strand she could sense the motions of everyone in the inn; her companions downstairs, chatting and drinking; the innkeeper lifting bottles of vodka from the wonky shelves; a half dozen Goldorians with their pipes; two squires awaiting their master, one impatient and striding off to prepare his room up the stairs; two lovers, just three rooms away, wrapped in the heat of their passion. She could sense their thoughts, their feelings. She could read their thoughts like a book.

Emelia, focus on the crystal, you are wandering, Mek-ik-Ten’s voice echoed in her mind.

With a great effort she pulled her expanding consciousness back. Images began to tumble into her mind as she focused on the crystal. Centuries of memory poured into her. Calm the tide—she thought—try and make sense of it all.

A magnificent city, soaring towers and splendid palaces. Magic swirling like water, the tangible optimism of good. Innovative minds unlike any before. A creator, harnessing the magic power of a great sorcerer, the gem of power in his sternum amplified immeasurably by the prism.

Then later the thrill of battle. A new side: a dark side. Magic blasting like a tidal wave: the writhing bodies of soldiers tossed in the air like leaves kicked by a child in autumn. Fire magic magnified to the devastating intensity of a volcano, charring all before it.

Then darkness for an instant or is it a millennium, a heartbeat or a lifetime? Alive once more, the ache of desire for the power to surge through it once again. So briefly returned, clashing with a long lost sister, the magic exploding outwards. The other fragments: is that what awaits me? Our fifth side—the dark sibling—taken by a minion of the Pale and hid in the forgotten shadows.

Finally a short sleep, the dust of the rubble like a blanket. In the hands of one who fears, who knows not of our power. We awaken that madness within him, a sickness like our lost fifth side. Our sister, our once weaker four-sided sister who we have not seen since the purple skies and the civilisation that became dust, challenges us.

And she wins, sealing our fate with her own destruction. We are torn apart, our remaining four faces—faces of such beauty—sundered and spread. Scattered by the magic explosion that slays a city and ends an Empire. Yet we may never be truly apart for threads so thin as to be the hair of a sprite run between us.

A place of ruin, the stinking waters of the swamp streaking their slime near our edge. Black and silver pillars, obsidian and marble, aged and decayed. Ancient carvings of snakes and dragons. A mammoth statue stands above a pit of ancient evil. A lizard headed demon.

The blazing heat of lava, the chanting of a hundred voices. The past now in the present…

A forest so vast it coats the earth like a carpet. Gnats swirl in the sunbeams as they slice through the dense green canopy. Hidden and safe, a long kept secret.

And our black side, the darkest face, the first to be lost to us. You are hidden in the depths of the mountains, concealed behind devices born from insanity, a demon exiled for its treachery. A cold white hand is still searching. He awaits us, an old friend. He wants us together.

Emelia.

He wants you.

Panic erupted like an explosion in her chest. Oh Torik help me, there is too much power, she thought. This crystal, it thinks, it lives in some horrible way—it craves dominance again. She had to be free of it, the energy was too much and she could feel it spilling over from her body.

Once again her consciousness surged out, like the waves of the sea. Her mind rippled down the strands of the Web. A frustrated squire strode down the corridor, dislike for his arrogant master in his thoughts. The lovers writhed, in the searing heat of their lovemaking. Emelia had never sensed such pleasure, such abandonment before. In the inn below she could hear her friends’ thoughts, tumbling out of their heads into the smoky air.