Darkness Rising 1: Chained

by Ross Kitson

  ***

  Torm was waiting for her as she left the shrine. He hugged himself as she approached. His face carried a fresh bruise, purple and angry.

  “Good of you to come along, Torm,” Emelia said.

  “Least I can do,” Torm said. “It saves me an hour of slaps from him upstairs. He had a dark mood on him, what with the move to the Citadel being so close.”

  “Still, I’m sure Sandy would have appreciated it.”

  “Right. I never got much chance to know her. Some of the other lads were very fond of her I heard.”

  Emelia laughed, tears stinging her eyes.

  “Sorry – I didn’t mean to…”

  “No. It’s not that. It’s just – well, it’s a difficult thing…”

  “It always is. You were the last to see her. What did she say? I mean, did she hint at what she was going to do?”

  “No. No, it wasn’t like that. She said she had something to put to rest”

  “To what? To ‘put to rest’? What in the four moons does that mean?”

  Emelia rubbed her forehead in discomfort.

  “I – I’m not certain, Torm. She went off and then, then he…”

  “He? Who are you talking about? Was someone else there? What is it you know, Emelia?”

  Pain was throbbing in the rear of Emelia’s head. She wanted so much to tell Torm, but his knowing would put him in danger.

  Torm was blocking her way back to the kitchens, trying to meet her gaze. Realisation spread across his face. “Asha’s tears—she didn’t kill herself did she?”

  The lie congealed on her lips; she couldn’t deceive him.

  “No.”

  “Oh.... sweet Asha,” Torm said, his face a ghastly hue. “She was... murdered.”

  “Yes, I think so,” Emelia said, her arms shaking. “After she fell, I heard... him...”

  ”Him?”

  “Uthor... I heard Uthor.”

  For an awful second Emelia thought Torm was going to faint such was his pallor. He gripped the smooth stone of the wall; his knuckles were white.

  “Uthor,” he said, like saying the name slowly would exorcise the evil of his master from the Keep. “Curse him.”

  “Torm, calm down.”

  “How can I? Is it not enough that he treats me like the filth on his boot? He murdered Sandila.”

  “Keep your voice low, for Torik’s sake. Look, we can’t do anything about this. No-one will believe us.”

  “His face carries the evidence. The scratches, I saw them. I wondered how he’d got them.”

  “We need to slow down. Think some more before we say anything, before we consider confronting him.”

  “Think? Well, you ponder it, Emelia. Have one of your little daydreams about it. In the meantime I’ll sort things out with a little justice.”

  Torm held out his hand and in his palm sat a small sharp knife. A trickle of fear ran through Emelia’s chest. Her head was thumping now.

  “Torik save me! You’ll be thrown in prison for even carrying that near the Ebon-Farrs,” Emelia said. “Your life will be finished.”

  “And what life is this that we have now? What life for a child of the sea? We simply exist, entombed in this ancient fortress. We count down the days to the end of our service knowing almost all of us will end up trapped in another menial role in another noble house of arrogance. You feel the same as I do – I saw it within you on that day you ran off.”

  “I didn’t run off. It’s complicated.”

  “Well this is simple. It’s the only message he’ll understand. And when I stick this in his belly I’ll be sure to whisper Sandila’s name in his ear.”

  Torm pushed past Emelia and stormed down the corridor. Emelia sprinted after him, grabbing at his shoulder.

  “Just wait, Torm. This is madness.”

  “Well you’re the authority on that or so they say.”

  Emelia stumbled to a halt as Torm pushed through a door into the kitchens. Torm’s words were like a slap across the face. She had thought he was one who understood her; the one who had given her the benefit of the doubt when all others shunned her. A void of despair was expanding within her breast. Her head was agony.

  “Damn it. Wait,” she said.

  A wave of dizziness came over her and she clung onto the doorframe. A clatter of pots hitting the floor rang out from the kitchens and she heard Torm cry out. She entered the kitchen, battling through nausea.

  Several angry cooks were pulling Torm loose from under a half dozen pots. His ankle was swelling rapidly over the edge of his boot. Emelia saw the knife on the floor and swiftly kicked it away under a table.

  Torm’s eyes met hers as the cooks hoisted him free. His eyes displayed only confusion.

  You did tell him to wait, Emebaka commented, to which Emelia had no reply