Darkness Rising 1: Chained

by Ross Kitson

  ***

  Blackstone Bridge, like the castle whose name it shared, had played host to many over the centuries it had stood. Its cobbles had rung to the hooves of the Artorian war machine and to the boots of the Eerian Empire alike. The winds of change that had buffeted Thetoria in the past fourteen centuries had worn those stones—first laid in the Era of Magic—to an almost glass-like smoothness.

  Hunor kept low as he crept across the ancient bridge. The blue moonlight had been partly obscured by a fortuitous cloud.

  “Predicting the weather is like predicting women. Come on, Engin, let’s have a good roll of the dice,” he muttered as he hugged the shadows.

  Professional sneakery. That was Jem’s phrase for his cutpurse activities. Hunor had tumbled into a life of thievery: it was the only way to clear debts that no honest man could pay. That had been the legacy of his father.

  In the early days he had been a poor thief. He had lacked the focus necessary for the profession. Then Hü-Jen had found him and had become his life. The name still wrenched his soul.

  Emelia’s sword was strapped to his side, a concession from the weary Lady Orla. He had met her gaze as he began his flit across the bridge; she feared the worst for her men.

  “I guess that’s why I’m not a leader,” he said softly to himself, to ease the tension. “Last time I tried someone died. No, Hunor old mate, let’s just look after you and Jem eh?”

  Ever so slowly Hunor came over the crest of the large bridge. He could see immediately that there was a small fire burning with perhaps a dozen men stood around it. The amber light glinted off chain mail hauberks and peaked helms.

  Onor’s spit! Where are the bloody knights? Hunor thought.

  The answer came as he slipped further towards the ensemble. On the near side of the fire were the soldiers’ skittish horses, tied to a tree stump. Beyond them, to the far side of the fire, he could see the recumbent shapes of the mighty griffons. They were all dead, crossbow bolts jutting from their bodies.

  He left the bridge and began skirting the fringes of the group. The soldiers were chatting loudly.

  “Jurged should have got back to the castle by now and told Quigor of our success,” the apparent captain said.

  “Let’s hope he’s not too bothered about the dead ‘uns then, Captain,” a huge Azaguntan soldier said.

  The captain laughed. “I’d say griffon feathers are probably top on the list for one of his vile recipes and they’re easier to collect when the monsters are dead.”

  Hunor flushed with anger; certainly his rear end regretted ever encountering a griffon as a means of transport, but the remainder of him had a respect and admiration for the creatures.

  The corpses of the griffons provided good concealment. Hunor deftly slipped a pack from the blood flecked saddle of the nearest and with a sense of relief saw his sword within.

  His foot caught against a metallic object on the grass. At his feet was the maimed corpse of Sir Robert, his sword held in his rigor-stiffened hand. A half-dozen crossbow bolts sprouted from his front and a ragged wound on his neck was the clear cause of his death. Hunor sighed softly; Robert had been half-decent as a jailor. He almost regretted shoving the big lunk down the slope the prior night.

  He secured his sword to his back, followed by the sizeable leather pack. He swiftly retraced his steps towards the unguarded bridge, his keen eyes searching for the second knight. The horses provided natural cover as he eased behind them, peering through the small gaps between the chestnut animals.

  With a jolt he spotted him. Sir Unhert’s proximity to the fire and the armoured men had obscured him from Hunor’s view until the last moment. The knight was bloodied but alive, his arms tied behind him.

  Rotting craven breath, Hunor thought. What am I going to do now?

  The sound of hooves echoed on the road from the castle to the bridge. Twenty armoured riders approached, carrying spears and shields. The game was up; the alarm from the castle had obviously been sounded.

  What in the name of the Pale? Hunor thought as his blood ran cold.

  Atop a black stallion, his face pale and sinister, was the bearded figure of Baron Enfarson.

  Oh, Jem mate! There’s some serious black magic going on this side of the river.

  “Captain Thrisk, have you sighted the intruders? I assume you have posted guards all around this area lest they return to seek their steeds?” Baron Enfarson asked.

  “My lord, my apologies. I had only been instructed by master Quigor to secure the griffons and capture the knights. We have one here,” Thirsk said.

  Enfarson shook his head in dismay. “So clearly it is too much to ask for some initiative from your thick Azaguntan skull? One of Quigor’s many mistakes—depleting my stock of good Thetorians.”

  “My lord,” Thirsk said, “is master Quigor to join the search for these escapees?”

  “Quigor is dead, captain, along with a dozen others slain by the treachery of the Eerian assassins and their compatriots. I alone survived the massacre.”

  Thirsk looked stunned, then quickly said, “Then the gods are still wise to have spared you, my lord. Perhaps the prisoner may assist in our search?”

  He gestured towards Sir Unhert who glared venomously at the baron.

  “Were I even to entertain your ludicrous fantasy,” Unhert said, his moustache bristling. “I would of course rather die a thousand deaths before I betrayed my fellow knights.”

  “It is no dream, you insolent dog,” Baron Enfarson said. “Your fellow knights, a wizard and those supposed captives slaughtered Lord Jerstis and many good men before stealing from me.”

  Unhert, to his credit, showed no acknowledgement of the story.

  “You are insane, Thetorian! The knights bathe in the honour and glory of a thousand years standing. My capture and the death of Sir Robert and our steeds will cost you dearly when your king has to answer to the Eerian council’s incredulity.”

  “You assume that the king will hear of this, knight. Yet even should his Majesty be troubled by the knowledge, the evidence is clear—your colleagues were murderers and thieves.”

  Unhert flushed a dark red. “You shall pay for that slander and dishonour! By my ancestors, you shall pay.”

  Enfarson leant forwards in his saddle and smirked.

  “And you shall cool off in the very same dungeons that your ancestors were good enough to build in my castle.”

  Hunor was torn with indecision. There was no feasible way he could rescue Unhert: there were thirty armed soldiers here. The knight was doomed and there was no sense going down with him. Hunor’s main concern was what to tell Orla when she asked about the two knights? From what he knew of the haughty Orla her main concern would be to free Unhert, either with some fool rescue now or some attempt to get back into the blasted castle they’d spent an hour getting out of. Worse, she could think about going to King Dulkar’s court to plead their case. Hunor was certain that they’d end up floating face down under one of the hundred bridges before they set foot in the marbled halls; Enfarson would not let them get that far.

  The thief slipped around the horses to the foot of the bridge. The cloud treacherously slid away from the moon and a cool blue light bathed the river bank. A glint of metal in Hunor’s pack caught the baron’s eye and he stared straight at him.

  Hunor moved first, his sword flashing from his back. The razor sharp edge slit a dozen reins in one swoop and the ends flicked from the tree stump to the spongy grass. The thief vaulted forward, his foot finding a stirrup and he mounted the nearest horse in a blur.

  Enfarson roared and the foot soldiers scrabbled for their crossbows. The mounted troop with him began to surge forward, cursing the disorganised warriors who blocked their path.

  Hunor galloped onto the bridge, digging his heels into the horse’s flanks. The freed horses cantered aimlessly in every direction, several following his lead. Hunor cast one last look back at Sir Unhert and with a pang of regret left him to his fate.
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  The hooves of his horse clattered on the bridge as he charged across.

  “Jem! Emelia! Get moving, we’ve got company,” he shouted.

  Hunor thundered over the bridge, his head low as crossbow bolts hissed like angry wasps past him. He saw Jem and Emelia in the moonlight stood casting spells and Lady Orla running towards the bridge. A rider was ten feet behind him, his spear glittering in the blue moonlight. Behind him by about thirty feet were a dozen more.

  Orla sidestepped as he galloped past and with a battle cry swung her longsword at the pursuing rider. His spear grated off her shield with a crash whilst her sword sliced through his waist. In a spray of blood he tumbled from his horse and before he had chance to rise Orla plunged her sword through his mailed chest.

  Hunor slowed and turned, ready to face the wave of soldiers pouring across the bridge. For a moment he considered scooping up Jem and Emelia and getting out of here, leaving the knight to cover their escape. After all, this was all her doing.

  Emelia was shaking as she cast a spell and Hunor swore. She did not have the reserve for sorcery at the moment; her wound was deep and she had lost a fair amount of blood. He saw the ripple of the air around her slim body and then a duplicate shimmer on the bridge in front of the riders.

  The first three riders crashed full tilt into the invisible wall of magic with such force that their horses necks splintered like dried twigs. The riders screamed as they were trapped under their tumbling steeds. Six further riders smashed into the thrashing bodies of the fallen horses, crushing all beneath. Emelia wobbled with the effort of maintaining the magical barrier; sweat matted her brow.

  Jem was as immobile as a statue in the blue moonlight, his pinched face focused in complete concentration. His mouth spoke harsh mystical incantations as the magic swirled around him like the waters of a whirlpool. The energy became denser and denser as it accumulated; building like the pressure in a kettle until with a yell he unleashed a surge of arcane power at the bridge. It struck the stones with the violence of a raging mountain giant. The nearest abutment cracked with an explosion of dust then collapsed into the frothy waters below.

  With a chorus of human and animal screams the near end of Blackstone Bridge crashed into the River Eviks.

  “By Beeros’s drool cup, Jem,” Hunor said. “I used to trot over that bridge when I was a nipper.”

  Jem caught Emelia as she fainted. She was deathly pale and her wound was damp with blood. Her lathered face looked dopily at his and he was overcome by a sudden awareness of her beauty.

  Orla had caught and reined the loose horse and ran to Jem’s side. “I’ll carry her on this horse with me. We shall need to tend that wound urgently, lest it festers.”

  Jem held on to her tightly, his mind numbed by both exhaustion and his own confused feelings. Orla pried the unconscious girl from his grip. Hunor cantered up and she glanced hopefully at him.

  “I’m sorry, Orla, the griffons and your knights are dead, slain by the baron’s men. There’s nothing more we can do here.”

  “Thank you for the brave risk you took in checking,” Orla said. “Their deaths will not go unavenged if it takes me to my final breath in this world. Where are we to seek sanctuary to recover and attend our wounded? ”

  Hunor, guilt gnawing at his belly, glanced at Jem as the weary mage mounted behind him. The mage nodded.

  “We shall ride due north towards Evik’s Pass. A score of miles from there resides an old friend whose skills we sorely require,” Hunor said.

  Lady Orla, a slumped Emelia behind her, turned her horse and galloped away from the river along the trail bound for the hills. Hunor followed with Jem, his nimble mind already pondering what in Mortis’s name they were going to do with this blue crystal that had cost them so dearly.