Darkness Rising 1: Chained

by Ross Kitson

  ***

  Emelia woke from her brief slumber, the clamour of the city drifting in with the spring breeze through her open window. Scattered images of a dream lingered in her mind—she’d been running through a purple city of danger. For an instant she had an urge to return to sleep and seek out one of her favoured dreams: perhaps the one where she wove through the azure waters of her homeland like a dolphin.

  She rolled out of her bed, stretched her aching limbs, and stumbled over to the bowl in the corner. The water was chill and jolted her to wakefulness; she dried her face on her nightgown.

  She wandered to the window, scratching her tangle of blonde hair and gazed out on the bustle of the street below. It was market day and the grocers were pulling their carts of produce along the muddy lanes to the large square three streets away. Small children darted between the creaking wheels playing some imaginary game. A pie man strode by the side of two rotund merchants, the inviting scents of his wares making Emelia’s stomach rumble.

  Emelia rested her head against the window frame and smiled to herself. For most of her life her only view had been one of the most stunning panoramas in any of the lands. Yet she would swap a hundred such views for this one: a filthy street in a filthy city on the Isle of Thieves. For this scene was one that could be observed with all the time in the world and with the clarity and colour that freedom had given her. Four years ago she had to dream about living free. Now her life was a dream that had come true.

  The griping returned to her belly and heeding its call she crossed the room and opened her cabinet. She donned her undergarments and then slipped on her leather armour: a toughened black leather breastplate, adapted to provide a tight fitting flexibility. Her fingers drifted over the nicks and furrows on the surface reminding her of the times it had saved her from knife thrusts and sword slashes. On top of this she dressed in a black cotton tunic, short black trousers and woollen tights. She gently tucked in her shell pendant under the leather armour. Finally she slipped her black leather boots on and strapped her belt across her waist, checking her pouches and dagger.

  Emelia ambled towards the door of her small room then paused in indecision. She returned to her bed and brought out her sword. The light twinkled off the ornate pommel as she secured it with her back scabbard and baldric. She could see the grey clouds that perpetually hung over Azagunta through her window. Emelia pulled a black cloak over her back and tightened it with a silver brooch.

  The street was teeming when she descended from her rooms above the Black Lamb Tavern. Each morning she would glance at the sign that swung above the door to the inn and spare a thought for Sandila, the Azaguntan maid whose death had propelled her along this course in life. One day, she vowed, there would be justice for her friend.

  Emelia joined the throng that flowed down the filthy street, immersing herself in the vibrancy of the city. She purchased a hot pie from the red-faced vendor on the corner. The middle of the road was an open sewer and so she kept to the periphery of the crowd. She chuckled with the memory of her first encounter with the filthy channels of Azaguntan streets—a contrast to even the poorest areas of Coonor. It had taken days to get the stench from her foot.

  She turned right into Park Lane and strolled towards the common that sat adjacent to the wide brown river that traversed Bulia. As a city Bulia could not be more different to Coonor if one had planned it. Emelia often thought that the gods must have taken a city from the skies, crushed it in their mighty hands and then dropped it from a great height. Bulia was a scrap heap of a place. Layer upon confusing layer had been built, ruined, re-built and then allowed to decay. Winding streets seemed to go nowhere, abruptly stopping in some wall or at one of the small streams that snaked out from the stinking waters of the River Dun. The irregular rooftops jutted at impossible angles, crowning a collection of wooden, stone and brick buildings. It was chaos personified, a manifestation of some absinth induced hallucination.

  The heart of the city was the Marshtown, a reclaimed area where at least one had the vague impression of the history of the place. Marshtown was built from the pale stones that characterised the architectural preferences of the Azaguntan nation fourteen hundred years before. In that era it had been a small outpost on the southern tip of Azagunta. Emelia recalled, from long discussions about history with Jem, that when the Plague of Dust had struck the Azaguntans the exodus from the stricken cities in central Azagunta had overwhelmed the small town.

  Emelia shuddered at the thought of the refugee camps that must have accumulated in the boggy lands around the town. They must have covered the flatlands like a sea of human misery, rife with disease and pestilence and famine. Such was the cost of irresponsible use of magic, Jem had said; the civil war amongst the magi that had begun with the fall of Kevor had ended in the dust of Azaguntan decline.

  That dust had turned to mud and grime in the streets of this sprawling city. The old Azagunta, a place of magical wonder and beauty ruled by the Cabal of wizards, had degenerated into a nation of desperation and trickery. The rot of corruption pervaded every echelon of society. When they had first arrived here on a merchant ship three years ago Hunor had explained that everyone in Azagunta was on the take. It had been the third city she had ever seen and it contrasted sharply with both Coonor and with Kâlastan where they had spent the prior winter.

  Bordering the filthy river was the King’s Common, a large stretch of grassland offering some relief from the stink of the city, providing the wind was blowing favourably. A collection of townhouses sat on the edge of the common, painted with refreshing bright colours and boasting well maintained shutters and small hedges at their fronts. Emelia cut across the grass of the common, coming to the steps of one of the row’s neatest residences and rapped on the door.

  The red wooden door creaked open of its own accord and Emelia entered, wiping her boots with vigour on the mat in the hallway. She called a greeting and then walked through into the main ground floor room.

  The room was meticulously neat and organised. An entire wall was dedicated to bookshelves with tome after tome of leather bound books, all ordered very precisely. The stone walls were decorated sparsely with an occasional small tapestry. The furniture was arranged at right angles and placed very specifically within the room; the main oaken table was waxed and covered in small cloths, gleaming white in their cleanliness.

  In the room’s centre sat Jem, neatly dressed as usual in a dark green and gold tunic with voluminous sleeves and brown trousers belted at the waist. He was hunched over a small clock, his dexterous fingers inserting a tiny cog. Clocks at various stages of construction were arranged in a neat line on the table. Cogs and springs lay on the white pieces of cloth.

  “You’ll give yourself a headache doing that, Jem,” Emelia said.

  Jem was silent as he completed inserting the cog and then sat upright. “My father managed to make these all his days without a single headache or eye strain. I’ll admit I’ve been tempted to use magic for some of the finer work, but I know in my heart that’s cheating.”

  “It got me out of some trouble last night. Have you heard from Hunor this morning?”

  Jem gestured at a pot in the corner of the room by the glowing fire and it lifted from the hearth, pouring steaming liquid into two mugs. The two beverages floated across the room and drifted to a stop on the table before the pair.

  “No I haven’t had the pleasure this morning, I’m afraid. I recall he planned to go deliver the papers to the client in Marshtown and then meet us this evening in the Black Lamb,” Jem said.

  Emelia nodded, blowing over her mint tea to cool it.

  “Jem, can I ask you something?” Emelia asked. “It may sound a little... strange.”

  “Believe me, after most of a decade with Hunor it won’t. What is it?”

  “Do you dream?”

  “Do I...? Well, yes, I dream of many things,” Jem replied.

  “Like what?”

  “I dream... I dream of a higher purp
ose than this. I dream of my life having an impact on the world, a value beyond the lightening of money chests and general larceny.”

  “No, those are aspirations—I mean dreams, images, scenes played out in your mind at night.”

  Jem stroked his moustache in thought.

  “Well, of course, but I don’t think they are anything other than my mind sifting through the detritus of the day. The Goldorians were always taught that dreams were cryptic messages sent by Mortis—but I think, given my general lack of faith, that the messages He might send me are best left obscure.”

  “Ha, I’m sure—it’s just the last few months I’ve been having the strangest dreams—ones where I am running through a city I’ve never ever seen. It’s a city of purple stone. Do you ever get those odd dreams? I’ve had them since I was a girl.”

  “No, not really. I wouldn’t hold much stock by them—the only purple stone city I’ve known is a city best avoided by our kind.”

  “I see,” Emelia said. She fiddled with a loose strand of hair, eyes darting about the room. “Could it be the Wild-magic... giving me these dreams?”

  Jem’s eyes dropped to table, narrowed and serious.

  “No, I’m sure not. Our minds guide the Wild-magic, through our manipulation of the Web—not the other way around.”

  “But could it...”

  “Emelia, don’t dwell on the subject. Wild-magic can only be mastered if you focus your mind past distractions. That was my teaching and how I have chosen to teach you. Now, shall we use the time today constructively and meditate together?”

  Emelia nodded, undoing the brooch that held her cloak. “Jem? Did I manage all right last night? I mean, was I good enough?”

  Jem paused and met her gaze, his hazel eyes shining. Emelia felt an unusual feeling within her, almost a discomfort and nervousness at awaiting his reply. He put his hand awkwardly on top of her own; it burned with peculiar warmth on her skin.

  “You did excellently,” Jem said. “You’ve learnt well.”

  The moment between them lingered and Emelia had an odd knot in her gut as Jem realised he still had hold of her hand and flushed slightly before averting his gaze. The two stood a little too abruptly and began to prepare for meditation.