Darkness Rising 1: Chained

by Ross Kitson

Chapter 1The Dead City

  Seedstide 1924

  Four years later

  Nature had reclaimed Erturia for herself. Through the granite buildings, windows rotted by the passage of two centuries, it snaked and wormed. Its green tendrils gripped the worn stone like a frightened child. The flagstones in the many courtyards of the Empire’s foremost city had been buckled as the bushes and trees erupted forth, splitting after decades of insidious pressure. The towers that crowned the rectangular halls and sober town houses were wrapped in thick green ivy, softening the harsh features of the Imperial architecture.

  Marthir padded through the weed-infested streets, marvelling at the overwhelming silence of the city. For the plants, as ever, had more bravado than their animal counterparts; it had been two hundred and twenty four years since the day time stopped in Erturia and no bird song had echoed around its walls since.

  Erturia: the dead city. The gigantic mausoleum was home now only to the foliage and to the deceased. Marthir’s animal instincts set her nerves on edge as she prowled into one of the city’s large squares, weaving between the black statues around her. She halted to sniff one out of curiosity and she smelt only charcoal.

  The city was populated now by the charred corpses of its citizens. Instantly incinerated they were now petrified eternally in their moment of death. Traders still argued silently, gesturing at some unseen event transpiring towards the centre of the city. Children still ran to their mothers, their tiny features now shiny black masks. Marthir saw five soldiers in mid-stride, their spears held aloft, moving towards the enemy soldiers. Enemy soldiers derived from their own kin. And as the civil war that tore apart the Empire had ended in one cataclysmic instant they had once more united—in death.

  There were so many black statues, thousands and thousands, and Marthir had wept when she had first seen them the prior day. She and her five companions had snuck across the Wastes, the barren land that surrounded the once magnificent city, avoiding patrols of black-armoured knights. Last night they had crept like thieves into the dead city, in awe of the ruined majesty of the famed outer walls. Yet within the walls came the real sight—a city populated by charcoal statues, lit by the sinister glow of the red and silver moons.

  Marthir could sense the restlessness of the dead around her as she crossed the square. A lichen-coated fountain sat in the centre of the square, its waters now thick with green slime. Balanced on the edge of the fountain was a young lady, smiling at one of the soldiers as he moved past. Once again Marthir paused and touched her paw gently on the shiny black leg. The charcoal was solid and robust, cold to the touch. What had the girl being smiling about as the city was torn apart by fighting? A secret lost now in time.

  Marthir became aware of a faint grating noise somewhere in the distance as she entered a broad street at the far end of the square. A moment of indecision held her; should she retrace her steps and fetch the others? After all she had agreed with Kervin that this would be just a quick scout ahead before the five others followed her. If there was trouble she could use Kervin’s skill in taming her wilder side as well as the fire magic of Ygris. Her acolyte Ebfir and the two warriors, Iogar and Ograk would also be an asset if she ran into any knights.

  Curiosity got the better of her, which was ironic given that she wore her feline form. She quickened to a run down the overgrown street. The main avenues of Erturia extended straight from the six gates, each arranged at the corner of the vast hexagonal outer wall. The street she journeyed down ran parallel to the Avenue of Iron, the main route from the south-western gate. The street continued over a weed choked bridge, the River Erturia bubbling beneath its chipped base, and turned after three hundred yards to join the main avenue. Marthir paused and examined it with interest; the foliage was crushed and shredded. It was evidence that some heavy traffic had passed this way recently.

  The noise was getting louder now. The grate of metal mixed with a continual hiss and dark smoke rose above the roofs to the north-east.

  Marthir took a run then leapt onto the remnants of a broken statue. Her powerful legs pushed and she sprang to a first floor balcony then across to a low flat roof. Her claws scraped on the tiles then with a scramble she was atop the roof. From here she bounded across from rooftop to rooftop, making a dizzying course over the skyline of the city.

  Within ten minutes she neared the centre of the city, the convergence of avenues that was the Imperial Circle. Here the magic that had incinerated the outer fringes of the city had been so intense that no carbon statues stood. In their stead were shadows seared on to the walls of the great structures.

  She moved across the rooftops of the opulent buildings. Marthir, though a creature of the woodlands and never one for the cold stone of cities, was nonetheless impressed by the grandiosity of the Empire’s finest architecture. Around the enormous central square she could see the legendary buildings: the Great Library, the Halls of Justice, the Treasury, the Mausoleum, the Temple of Egos and the Temple of Tindor, the twin gods of the Empire.

  Marthir looked down with astonishment to where the Emperor’s Palace stood, or rather once stood, at the south-eastern corner of the square. Its former magnificence had been shattered, the remnants of its marble and granite walls now like a crushed eggshell. Clouds of dust rose from the skeletal remains, drifting into the spring sunshine. At first Marthir thought some gigantic iron dragon sat within the devastation but as she looked closer she saw with consternation it was some huge machine.

  It stood about eighty feet high and was thirty feet square at its base. Its tarnished iron plates creaked and rasped in a hideous din, the rivets juddering as it laboriously excavated the rubble from its path. Steam hissed like an angry serpent, scorching any bare flesh around it, whereas at the rear of the machine black choking smoke belched forth. Marthir could see three or four trolls, large and muscular with cruel flat faces, whipping a line of slaves with zeal. The slaves seemed to be in two teams: the first pulled small boulders and stones from the tracks of the iron behemoth, the second shovelled black chunks of coal into a furnace in its belly.

  Atop the pinnacle of the machine were three dark-armoured knights, operating a large array of levers and wheels–Knights of Ebony Heart. Marthir spotted a long ladder that ran up the side of the metal plated structure. More knights stood at the periphery of the excavation and Marthir could see two in particular with different armour and helmets. The pair gesticulated to a small group who then saluted and strode to convey directions to the others.

  The noise was deafening, augmented by the keen hearing of her feline form. Marthir began to descend the rooftops and balconies. Solicitude at this affront to nature overwhelmed any sense of caution.

  She came to rest at a partly ruined terrace on the former Grand Auditorium. The white stone of the balustrade had worn smooth with age and the frescoes of heroes had faded like a long forgotten dream. Marthir noticed a dozen shadows emblazoned on the wall, next to the three doors leading to the theatre’s interior. She shivered at the horror of their poses, their moment of death etched forever in a city that no one ever saw.

  Her green eyes focused on the slaves shovelling charcoal bricks into the furnace. They were mostly men, tall and dishevelled, with long matted hair and braided beards. Perhaps they were barbarians or wild men from the bleak plains of Foom or even horse lords from Kanshar? Then she saw a slave stoop to break chunks of charcoal into smaller pieces before scooping it with a shovel. With a jolt she realised that it was the arm of a black statue; they were using the charred corpses of Erturia as fuel.

  It was time to return to the others and relay her findings. The mystery remained as to what the knights were trying to excavate from the foundations of the Emperor’s Palace but that could await investigation. Marthir turned to retrace her path across the rooftops. She could see the two senior knights walk away from the others and northwards across the rubble-strewn Square of Cordius. They passed an iron fenced park that formed the eastern border of the square and strod
e towards the buildings that occupied the northern perimeter. Marthir tracked them with her eyes as they advanced up the steps of the Great Library.

  She might not get another chance at spying on such senior knights—the Druid council would be impressed with such information.

  Within three minutes she was approaching the library. Her passage amongst the shattered bronze statues that once stood at the perimeter of the Square went unnoticed. She kept low, as if hunting, and checking the coast was clear, bounded up the steps to the enormous doors.

  The Great Library was an archetypal Artorian monument and neither time nor nature could diminish its pomposity. With the same spirit that had planned the precise hexagonal design of the city—with its wide tree lined avenues and its open airy squares—the Library was a geometrical dream. Its frontage soared with straight edges and sharp right angles, topped with triangular eaves and carvings in the stone. Its relative shelter from the erosive northern winds, behind the taller Halls of Justice, had preserved much of the design on its main aspect. The walls were carved with scenes of glory and military prowess; even this place of learning was touched by the pervasive military ethic of the Artorian Empire.

  Marthir paused in the foyer of the library, her nose seeking her prey. A surge of saliva came to her fangs as she got a sudden urge to eat man flesh. With great effort she suppressed the instinct; she had remained in this form overly long.

  The scents lead through the main corridor and to the western wing of the library. She noted that there was a wide marble staircase to the upper levels just to her right. The enormous library she now entered had two stories, with a balcony running around the entire perimeter of the room at the level of the first floor. Access was gained via ladders and via tight spiral staircases in the corners of the chamber, set back into the depths of the thick marble walls.

  The scents had passed through this room and there was another smell she had picked up: it was sour and pungent, the odour of death. A tingle of panic ran through her as her feline instincts told her to flee, but once again she suppressed the urge.

  Her golden body shimmered and warped as she moved across the room and in a heartbeat she was once more in her native form. Four years had made little difference to Marthir: she retained her vibrant glow and healthy curves, her wide full smile and the defiant glint in her eyes. The tattoos had been extended over her abdomen and down onto her hips and buttocks.

  A ray of sunlight crept through a near opaque window sited high on the walls. It felt warm on her bare skin. Marthir crept over to the wide table in the room’s centre atop which were half a dozen books. She swiftly pored over them, ignoring the thick coat of dust on the table top. They were books about the Emperor’s Palace, floor plans dating from four hundred years ago. She read down the pages of the adjacent tomes. They were histories of Erturia and of Artoria. They detailed how the Emperor’s Palace had been rebuilt after its collapse during some magical conflict. She had never heard of such an event in the many fireside stories of the Empire still told by travellers the country over. She tried to read more: some demonic catastrophe overtaking Erturia, the Empire in danger and the Empire’s strongest wizards battling.

  Loud voices almost made her knock a book from the table. Marthir whirled, melting once more into the shape of the mountain lion. Her powerful back legs propelled her towards the corner stairs and she slipped into cover just as the two knights entered the chamber in the company of another man.

  This third man was thin, with long black hair tied in a lank ponytail. His skin was chalk-white as if he were cast from the same stone as the gigantic library. His step was graceful, like that of a dancer, and he was attired in archaic robes: purple velvet trimmed with silver. It was as if he had been lifted from one of the books that sat on the table.

  Despite his gaunt features and porcelain complexion Marthir felt a strange attraction to this purple robed man. It was as if all the energy in the room was drawn towards him, as if light and sound soaked into his monochrome body. He halted before the desk and then turned to address the two knights.

  “I do understand your concerns, Darklord Jüt, but the plan is nearing its critical stage. The time for wavering passed some years ago,” he said in a soft voice.

  The taller knight was clearly agitated. “I understand what you tell me, Xirik. And I appreciate the seminal moment we now approach—yet we take a massive gamble on this action. How do we know he will accede to our wishes?”

  A cold humourless smile stretched Xirik’s skin taut.

  “We do not truly know anything, Jüt. My dear grandmother used to tell me that death was the only certainty. That shows what she knew!”

  “Nonetheless, Jüt has a point,” the second knight said. “We are warriors—we thrive on tactics and certainty. He will bring us neither if the books are anything to judge.”

  “Darklord Klir, you forget the seedlings of this whole endeavour. The vision was as clear as if Lady Nekra had carved it across my forehead. For five years my mages have laboured for this; even now they seep through the shadows, sewing the dark seeds that shall allow us total domination!”

  The two knights were silent and Marthir could see the reflection of Xirik’s white face in their black polished armour. She barely dared breathe.

  Finally one spoke, his voice sounding tinny and cold from beneath his black metal mask. “Accept our apology, oh dark one. It was not our intent to show disrespect for the will of the goddess. By your command we shall return to coordinate the more…militaristic aspects of the plan.”

  Xirik smiled and nodded then gestured and the air shimmered before his hand. A goblet appeared: a golden chalice with burning red rubies embedded in its swirls. The dark wizard sipped from the goblet as the two knights bowed and began to leave. A thick red liquid dribbled down his chin and Marthir’s keen nostrils flared as she scented blood.

  “My lord, I ask your pardon at the disturbance,” a voice said from the door of the room.

  Marthir chanced a glance around the corner of her hiding place and past the protrusions of a hundred books she saw a knight enter the room. The two Darklords stood by his side. His black metal mask was shaded within his hood; his boots were dusty from the excavation.

  “Speak swiftly, soldier, ‘ere I elect to quench my thirst with something a trifle warmer,” Xirik said.

  “Th-the perimeter patrol think they have discovered some intruders, my lord. Th-they are near to the south-west gate, just off the Avenue of Iron.”

  Xirik frowned and tapped the rim of the goblet against his teeth.

  “Why would anyone chose to sneak into the dead city? We shall need to take one of them alive or at least dead but still warm enough for me to interrogate him. I shall attend this personally.”

  “It would be my honour to do this for you, Xirik,” Darklord Klir said. “You are never your strongest in the sunlight.”

  Xirik’s face flashed with anger and Marthir held her breath. He turned with a flourish and threw his goblet against the bookshelf but twenty feet from Marthir. The blood splattered across the spines and trickled down towards the marble floor.

  “Take care, Klir. My dark powers are not to be underestimated even in the hateful glare of the warmest Pyrian summer. Sergeant, alert your patrol. I shall join them there shortly.”

  Xirik’s arms weaved and his purple velvet cloak billowed, the shadowy depths within spilling out like tar. His pale features shimmered and twisted and in three heartbeats he had transformed into a large black-hawk, its eyes a glowing red. He flew into the air, towards the higher floors and then out of sight.

  Marthir dug her claws into the stone steps as she endured the agonising wait for the three knights to exit the room, muttering dark plans between them. She bolted from the spiral corner staircase and out of the chamber. Her heart was pounding; she needed to make it back to the others before Xirik got there.