Dreams of Darkness Rising (48 page)

Is this some sorcery of Jem’s? No, Orla focus past the pain. Its got limbs and robes and eyes. Like twin droplets of night. Focus past the pain.

The craven’s sword slash halted in mid-air as the small figure caught the blade between its two craggy brown hands. The creature’s stunned expression turned to pain as the small rock man released the sword, grabbed its wrist and pivoted with remarkable grace. The crack of the bone was like a whip as the wrist developed a grotesque tenting of the skin.

The craven slashed at the small figure with its remaining sword but he evaded the clumsy blow and kicked the monster in the knee.

By the gods he’s shattered its knee. Now Orla, here is your chance. While it staggers back, strike.

She plunged her blade into the craven’s chest and twisted. The keen sword slid up to the hilt and the monster gasped as black blood poured from its wolven mouth.

Orla staggered back from the crumpling body, a sudden weariness upon her. She could see Hunor approaching the last knight, who bled from a series of gashes in his armour. The mountain lion now circled him. Kervin was on his feet, leaning against the wall of the ravine for support.

Her small rock-skinned saviour was already running with surprising speed towards them. The horses were cringing at the far end of the ravine. Ignoring the crunch of her collar bone, Orla began to jog across the ravine after the short figure.

“Time to put the sword down, matey. You’ve less chance of winning than me finding a beardless woman in Kir,” Hunor said. The lion snarled, its fangs already wet with blood.

“Surrender is for the weak. My death will be my honour,” the knight said. He grabbed a small sphere from his belt and threw it. Hunor brought his hand up to shield his face.

The sphere exploded mere inches from the knight’s gauntlet as a crossbow bolt struck it. The white hot flare illuminated the knight as the phosphorus rained upon him like snow. The metal hissed as the white balls of heat melted into the armour and the knight screamed.

Orla came beside Hunor as the small brown figure reached Jem. The knight was on his knees and the lion slowly moved towards him. The wounded tracker she had heard called Kervin slumped against the rock, a crossbow falling from his hands.

“He must be allowed surrender and parley by the code of conduct that I adhere to, Hunor,” Orla said.

Before Hunor could reply the dark knight began wailing. Orla saw smoke billowing from the joins in his armour and the eye holes of his helm. His body convulsed and twitched in agony before he tumbled to the floor, liquid flesh running through the holes.

“That is no honourable way to die. How sickening,” Orla said, covering her mouth with her hand.

“Acid mechanism in the armour. One more from their bag of bloody tricks.”

Orla turned and with amazement saw, in the place of the mountain lion, a short woman with cropped hair and a flushed freckled face. To Orla’s absolute horror she saw the woman wore no clothes; her curvaceous figure was covered in tattoos, running over her breasts, abdomen and arms.

“By Torik—you’re naked.”

“Observant isn’t she? New play pal of yours, Hunor?” Marthir asked.

“Ha! Nice…err, tats there, love,” Hunor said with a grin.

“Thank you—they were hard earned.”

“Outrageous…this is outrageous. Give her something to cover up with, Hunor—now!” Orla said, averting her eyes.

Hunor pulled forth a red handkerchief from his belt and handed it to Marthir. Jem came to Orla’s side, his eyes watering and red. The short brown figure whom Orla now saw to be a Galvorian walked with him. His coal black eyes regarded her with some interest.

Jem passed his cloak to the druid with a sigh. “Lady Orla, it’s my uncertain pleasure to introduce you to Marthir, a druid of Artoria.”

Marthir came striding up to Jem and gave him a passionate hug then a warm wet kiss. Orla’s jaw dropped.

“And not to mention, his wife,” Marthir said, her green eyes flashing with mirth.

Chapter 4 The Barrowlands

Sunstide 1924

The immediate period after a downpour was always Aldred’s favourite. He shook the loose water from his travel cloak and savoured the distinct post rain scents: the stark odour of the damp soil, the freshness of wet grass, the tang of the still moist air as it hit the back of the throat. His horse splashed through the puddles on the rutted road and he heard the bird songs erupt once more. It was as if they had waited during the brisk shower with baited breath and were now catching up on lost time.

In a sense he felt similar. This simple trip south was like a lungful of much needed air after too long struggling in the turgidity of his life.

“Let us hope the rain holds off for the Spring Fayre, Otius. I think the town had its fair share of misery with the girl’s murder,” Aldred said.

“As you say, m’lord. Master Poris will no doubt have himself a fine time. It’s a credit to us Thetorians that we rise above such darkness. I understand the baron has recovered well enough to attend it,” Otius said.

“Aye. It got me off the hook for hosting it, which I am most heartedly relieved about.”

Aldred had been dreading the prospect of hosting the event whilst the image of Arlien Smithson lying pale and bloodless was emblazoned in both his waking and sleeping mind. He was not the only one. He had approached Guntir Hawkson the following day to gain directions to Lord Markson’s former estate. The normally stoic captain looked drawn and distant as he gave Aldred the instructions.

Guntir could not know why Aldred sought Hunor, possible son of Lord Markson. In all truth Aldred was also a little uncertain, beyond it being the dying words of Holbek and the fact he had made a vow to his widow. In any event he had charged the attentions of his friend, Livor Korianson, to assist in the investigations of Arlien’s macabre death in his absence.

His escort came level with him as his horse splashed through the mud. They were two soldiers from the group who had accompanied Poris Longshanks to Eviksburg. The pair were less than impressed with the prospect of leaving the inns of Eviksburg at the onset of the Fayre to be Aldred’s bodyguards for the journey but Poris had insisted. The lantern jawed Otius and the hook nosed Relium were placated by the bag of silver coins that Aldred had given them and the promise that they would be back before the end of the Fayre.

“I’ll warrant the baron was aided in his recovery by the prospect of seeing those lovely young maidens parading on the stage,” Relium said.

“Perhaps. I suspect my father remains more concerned about the death of Smithson’s daughter.”

“As you say, m’lord.”

Aldred glanced at the soldier whose face was impassive. Did he suspect the baron’s utter indifference? His father had dismissed the tragedy with a bored look and said Guntir may have whatever he required for capturing the creature responsible. Aldred had suggested perhaps a mage, one of the lower sash ones that frequented the courts in Thetoria City, could be hired but his father had tonelessly said he wouldn’t want the king to be troubled and then promptly ignored his son in favour of a yellowing book.

“Turning chilly for this time o’ year,” Otius said.

“I’m not certain it’s just the weather.” Aldred said. “Shall we quicken the pace?”

“Aye, m’lord. Best not be in the Barrowlands at night.”

Aldred suppressed a shudder. They were on the second day of the journey south of Eviksburg. The road was an old Thetorian road lacking the straight well designed quality of a good Imperial highway. It had suffered centuries of trade vehicles on its winding course from Benscastle in the centre of Baron Benrich’s lands to the crossroads twelve miles east of Eviksburg.

The north of Benrich’s barony was wild and mainly used for grazing by shepherds and their flocks. Twenty to twenty five miles south of the crossroads the lands rose to a hillier terrain. A ridge of highland ran from Oldston nearly a hundred miles to the west—and in Baron Enfarson’s lands—to eighty miles east of where Aldred rode now. The name of the hills had been lost in time for now they were known only as the Barrowlands, after the ancient burial mounds of the first tribesmen of the area.

The mounds were scattered amongst the hills, interspersed with stone circles and dolmens. The ancient stones had given rise to many a folk tale in Northern Thetoria, used to scare errant children and occasionally even adults. Although Aldred had never scared easily, the events of the last few weeks had taught him fresh respect for sorcery and the dead.

“M’lord, pardon me asking but will we be making journey end before dark?” Otius said. The huge warrior licked sweat off his lip.

“By Guntir’s estimate it’s about another thirty miles, so barring any heavy showers we should be fine. Why? Don’t you fancy a night with spirits for company in your bed roll?”

Otius smiled thinly whilst Relium chuckled and said, “He’s had much worse than that in his bed roll, m’lord. An’ that’s not countin’ his missus.”

Aldred grinned at Relium. The tall Thetorian was the less superstitious of the two guards but none the less had spent the trip offering every theory as to the recent death of Smithson’s daughter in Eviksburg.

“No, m’lord, we’re best off out of your town if you ask me,” Relium said. “Times like this they’ll be grabbing every cross eyed lad with funny eye brows or a curious birth mark. Course it stands to reason that the creature what done her is a hound of the Pale.”

“Can you not be quiet of such things in this place,” Otius said. “You’ll bring a curse down on us from one of the barrows.”

Aldred felt a chill run the length of his spine.

“Yes, come on, Relium, let’s offer a bit of respect. The lords of old were buried in these hills in the Era of Legends. What a land it must have been. The great nation of Trimena, running from the top of Goldoria all the way to the southern straits of Feldor. Imagine that! All of us countrymen.”

“Well if there’s kin of the bloody Goldorians buried here then I can see why you’d want to be silent. Maybe they come and haunt you if you skip your ten prayers a day.”

“Enough, Rel. I’m serious,” Otius said. “Don’t mess about here. And you can stop on about Nekra’s dogs too.”

Relium pulled a face at Aldred who laughed despite himself. Otius trotted ahead, pulled his helm tightly down on his head and then fiddled with his chainmail hauberk.

The hills were flecked with daffodils and tulips yet the colour did little to take the hint of menace off the slopes. The trio sped their horses up along the muddy road. They maintained this pace for another three hours until the horses tired and Relium indicated that it was time for rest.

Otius tied the horses on a small tree at the roadside. They had ascended a reasonable height and the lands of Northern Thetoria fell away to the north and south of them. Aldred could just make out the River Eviks some fifty miles to the north with the gentle hills of Eviks Moor beyond it. To the south the planes were interspersed with woods and farmlands all the way to the horizon where he assumed Benscastle, the home of Baron Benrich, would be.

Aldred felt the urge to urinate and strode away from his guards and over a small rise. He was certain they would be rolling their eyes at his need for privacy: the lower classes tended to happily make water whilst chatting away in front of each other.

He soon found himself behind a large mound and began loosening his sword belt and leather leggings. The steam rose from the grass before him whilst his eyes wandered along the turf.  He saw a freshly disturbed patch of soil near his feet. Tying his leggings he leaned over to examine it more closely.

The soil was damp and dark, perhaps dug within the last few months. The mound that rose above it was, on reflection, likely a barrow and Aldred cursed himself for his casual voiding on the ancient grave. He drew his sword and began poking the tip into the soil. To his astonishment he felt a metallic clunk.

Aldred re-sheathed his sword then bent over and scraped the dirt from a tiny coffer in the soil. It was fashioned from ornate black wood with silvery décor. He grasped it and felt a strange coolness.

He prised open the lid slowly.

The next thing Aldred knew he was sprinting back to Relium and Otius. His heart pounded so fiercely he feared it would burst from his chest. He slammed into Relium as the soldier was jogging up the hill to find him and the two slipped then skidded down the damp grass. Aldred scrabbled to his feet. His guts were aching and he thought he may lose his continence such was the fear that wracked his mind.

Relium slapped him across the face. The sting of the blow on his cheek jolted Aldred out of his terror. He heaved and vomited onto the grass.

“M’lord? What’s wrong? Have you seen them?”

Aldred spat onto the hillside and rose.

“Who?”

“We think there are some bandits up here. Otius just found some ashes from a fire and he found this.”

In his palm was a filthy copper coin. The ragged edges and design were goblin in nature.

“We need to go now,” Aldred said, sweat running down his back. He hastened towards the horses.

Twenty minutes later they had slowed their gallop down the hillside road. Otius turned to Aldred, his brown eyes squinting from under his helm.

“M’lord? What did you see over in the barrow?” Otius asked.

Aldred’s voice quaked as he recalled.

“A stone. A bloody stone. Black opal. And I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

***

They reached the gate to the estate as dusk was spreading over the land. A light drizzle had begun, augmenting the chill they each felt from their time in the Barrowlands. The road had branched about five miles before, the other trail winding off through fields towards a small village signposted Weavers Beck.

The gate was bent and rusted; its paint flaked like the flesh of a leper. Despite the browned hinges it opened easily and the three dismounted and led their horses through.

The gate stood as part of a pale stone wall. It was about the height of a man and its top was adorned with blunted spikes. Time had smoothed the stones to the point where they merged into one continuous piece of masonry. A driveway ran from the gate through a copse of oaks, birches and elms. Small tufts of weeds broke through the surface of the path.