Dreams of Darkness Rising

by Kitson, Ross M.

  He smiled wryly at the thought of slaves undergoing the Choosing, for he theorised that their success would probably exceed that of the spoilt Eerian children. Of course this was mere speculation for both the Choosing and the Sorting were rituals that came at a cost and every four years the coffers of the already rich Order swelled obscenely. The Air-mages were no different to their three compatriot orders in this practice; in fact the Water-mages had continually brimming coffers, boosted by their magical ability to manipulate tides and their uncanny knack of locating salvage.

  Inkas-Tarr wondered whether Talis Ebon-Farr’s nephew was in the square today. His father, Lord Farvous—a dour noble if ever there was one—hoped for him to be a ferenge or a melange. Didn’t they all? Ferenges were the public’s ideal of a mage, leaping into magical conflicts, their lightning bolts sizzling. The merenges—mages focusing on large scale elemental manipulation—were slightly commoner in the Order and the source of most of the income. The rather dull reality was that over two thirds of the Order were accountants, bureaucrats, academics and researchers albeit with gems of power soldered into their flesh.

  Inkas-Tarr turned from the ornate window and strolled through his chamber of meditation. Its location at the apex of the tower earned it the nickname of the Eyrie by the lesser standings of the Order. The chamber was circular with no apparent entrance or exit, its floor a smooth marble and its walls polished metal clad over the exterior stones. The room was interspersed with small plinths over which floated a fascinating collection of objects accumulated throughout Inkas-Tarr’s long life of magical research. To the few visitors that had entered this sanctum it perhaps resembled a macabre exhibition.

  Inkas-Tarr paused at a plinth and took a small key from his pocket. Before him was an ornate brass model of a bird; its intricate wings were folded around its body. The Arch-mage inserted and twisted the key. A crackle of magical energy shimmered around the bird.

  “Bored again, Inkas? Aren’t your little rich brats entertaining you this year?” it said.

  The wizard rolled his eyes, replying in Old Azaguntan.

  “Thirteen hundred years haven’t helped your manners, Corffed. You should show me respect.”

  “Respect is earned, mortal. The Cabal were mages worth honouring with idle platitudes. Why have you awoken me?”

  “A question, Corffed, ideally suited to your archaic brain. The crystal I showed you several weeks ago. Was it a part of a prism?”

  The brass bird cackled horribly.

  “Lessons of the ages are so soon forgotten. What if it is, Inkas? What an era that was! A nation ruled by magic where experimentation and enchantment were nurtured and encouraged. The Cabal of Azagunta was so magnificent but oh so arrogant. Would you repeat their folly?”

  “They left us many a legacy.”

  “Of what? The Fall of Kevor that plummeted the wizards into civil war? A Codex, which binds your hands, so as to stop your foolish brethren ruling over your inferiors or even engaging in wars to further your agenda? Or do you speak of trinkets such as I or the witch skull you display like a pretty vase?”

  Inkas-Tarr bit his tongue and glanced at his treasures. The jewelled skull had been procured from a ruined tomb in the darkest inner region of Azagunta during his time as a palastar ferenge. Its ruby eyes glittered at his own pale blue ones, catching the light from the glow of the diamond embedded in his sternum.

  “You avoid my question with your well honed trickery.”

  “Allow me some fun, Inkas, I don’t get awoken as often these days. When first you unearthed me you wanted to talk to me all the time, to delve into the most ancient of Air-magic. Of course now you are Arch-mage and the simple days of wandering are over, you hardly bother. I can see your heart yearns for those halcyon days, not bogged down with the politics and expectations of the Order.”

  Inkas-Tarr sighed. Elementals were prone to verbosity.

  “Your mind is still incisive, Corffed. Quickly now for I expect company. Is it a part of a prism?”

  “I can-not tell. They are powerful items with a modicum of sentience. It will only be revealed if it so chooses.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That is all. Time for a rest. I am no longer a chick after all.”

  With a creak the bird folded its wings back and became still. Inkas-Tarr hurled the key across the floor with a clatter.

  Every logical part of his mind told him that it was not possible; the prisms were destroyed many years past. But history, like Corffed, had a way with trickery. The prisms were thought lost in the Mage Wars that ended in the Plague of Dust in Azagunta. Yet two had resurfaced in the hands of the Artorian Empire and had been used to devastating effect.

  Inkas-Tarr’s mind raced at the prospect of such powers, for even a part of a prism was a tool to greatly amplify a mage’s own mystic acumen. No longer would he be concerned about the petty machinations of the Order, long entrenched in bureaucracy and civil service. No longer would he be looking over his shoulder for the next challenge to authority by younger wizards. No longer would he be troubled by their continued naïve pressure to abandon the Codex. Did such rebels not realise it would mean conflict with the other three elemental Orders? And no longer would he be preoccupied by the need to seek out and punish the varistars—those of the Order who already rebelled against the Codex and gave their employ to armies and warfare. No he would be content in his total mastery of sorcery. He would be bestowed with the time to truly savour life and to gather yet more curios for his collection. Like that serving girl from Talis’s house: things of beauty, rare objects to treasure.

  In the precise centre of the chamber was a grey desk with a green leather mat atop it. Selections of griffon-feather quills were arranged with obsessive precision on the left side of the desk and scrolls in their cases on the right. A drinks cabinet made from the bones of a mountain giant was situated adjacent to the desk. Inkas-Tarr poured himself a goblet of white wine. Scowling at its slight warmth he muttered a few arcane words and crystals of ice formed on the exterior of the goblet, bringing the required chill to the Feldorian vintage.

  A cloud of blue smoke drifted through his open window, borne by the ever-present gale that buffeted his tower. He finished his wine and returned the goblet to the bone cabinet as the vapour coalesced into a human figure.

  “Ekra-Hurr, your arrival is most timely. Can I offer you a beverage?” Inkas asked.

  The wizard before him was younger by thirty years and well built, his toned muscles amply filling his grey robes. His bald head was dotted with sweat from his long journey to the Enclave and he delicately took a silk handkerchief from his brown sash and wiped his forehead.

  “Perhaps a touch of wine then, master. Your taste is usually most discerning,” Ekra-Hurr said.

  He politely took a goblet of wine from the Arch-mage and drank it thirstily. Inkas-Tarr waved his bony hand and a heavy mahogany chair drifted through the air and landed next to the young wizard.

  A short silence ensued as Ekra-Hurr visually explored the chamber’s treasures. The Arch-mage observed him keenly. Ekra was one of his most able young ferenge, a protégé who had ascended the ranks swiftly since his Bonding. His gem of power had been a particularly beautiful diamond that had returned to the Enclave on the death of Movor-Hirr, Inkas’s own mentor. The Archmage was convinced he could be trusted with the task at hand.

  “Master, may I enquire as to the reason for my somewhat secretive recall? I had been making some headway with the Netreptans against the Blood-gullet tribe in the mountains. I presume master Bardit-Urr had conveyed my reports to you?”

  The Arch-mage nodded, his pale eyes boring into the younger mage’s own. He had recalled Ekra from his assignment tackling a savage tribe of mountain giants that had been attacking the Netreptan settlements on the eastern edge of the Cloudtip Mountains. It had been a calculated risk to bring him back but his other brown sashes were either embroiled in the Choosing or on more vital missions in Eeria and beyond.
The gamble was whether the Netreptans would raise the sudden withdrawal with one of his silver sashes. Two he could trust, one was of uncertain integrity and the last, Bardit-Urr, was a viper in the Enclave.

  “Indeed he did, in a succinct manner. You should be congratulated on your victories there. I am sure our Netreptan neighbours will be delighted with the aid of the magic that was once solely their domain,” Inkas-Tarr said.

  The statement lingered in the air.

  “Yet still I am returned to the Enclave…”

  Inkas-Tarr stroked his beard. Blessed Torik, let me take this chance on the boy, he thought.

  “Your recall here is to remain a secret, Ekra. I wish you to undertake a task for me. It would be a great favour.”

  Ekra-Hurr leaned forward in his seat his eyes alive with curiosity.

  “I have been investigating an item of great interest to myself and the Order over the last few months and have been obliged, with the Ni-Faris being in our Order this autumn, to suspend my research. The item has returned to its owner, Lord Ebon-Farr, at the Keep and although he reassures me of its security I would feel… more satisfied were we to also provide some protection.”

  “Lord Ebon-Farr has consented to this?” Ekra asked in.

  “Not exactly...my old friend is set in his ways and rightly proud of the impregnable nature of his ancient halls. Talis would not accept help even if it were his own idea. This protection shall have to remain covert.”

  Ekra shifted with discomfort in his chair.

  “Master, the scandal if this should emerge. Your place on the council…”

  “Is hardly your concern Ekra,” the Arch-mage said. The boy was presumptuous; clearly the attitudes of the new generation of Air-mages—tainted by the modernism of Bardit-Urr—had eroded respect.

  The young mage flushed. “May I then enquire into the nature of this item you wish me to secretly protect?”

  Inkas-Tarr shook his head curtly. “Again you may not. Suffice it to say that your Arch-mage wishes Lord Ebon-Farr’s possessions to remain his own for the next few weeks.”

  Ekra-Hurr’s lips tightened with indignation. The Arch-mage continued to speak, his tone now more formal.

  “The room is located below his day chamber and is secured by two doors. The first is secured with a locking charm, the second locked with a key he keeps on his person. The items are further protected by a good quality Mirioth trap-chest.

  “Once you are rested sufficiently from your journey I wish you to take up your post. I have arranged an associate in the household to place food each evening at sunset in the parlour on the top floor, which I understand is now rarely used. Perhaps you should locate that first in vaporous form.”

  Ekra-Hurr listened attentively to his briefing, his strong fingers toying with the golden goblet. At its conclusion he rose stiffly and bowed.

  “As you wish.”

  His athletic form shimmered and seemed to fold in on itself, like a tower of cards collapsing, until a cloud of blue vapour remained. The thick mist then trailed rapidly like an ethereal snake through the large window.

  The Arch-mage watched him go and then grasped the wine bottle. Ice formed on its exterior as he stood lost in thought. He sighed and poured another glass of wine. Its crisp taste set his teeth on edge as he strolled once more to stare at the ruby-eyed skull. Great prizes demand great risks, he told himself, even if that risk was a long friendship.

  The brass bird seemed to be laughing at him as he solemnly returned to the window to watch the Choosing in the square below.

  Chapter 4 Dark Intentions

  Leafstide 1920.

  Two thousand miles west of Coonor drizzle was beginning to wane as the sky darkened towards sunset. The horizon was dominated by the jagged silhouette of the Khullian Mountains, a range that bisected the main body of the Nurolian continent. At its feet lay the South Wolds: vibrant green hills on the fringes of Artoria.

  A glistening horse slowed to a canter as the rain eased off. Her legs slipped slightly on the slick rocks that lay strewn almost carelessly about the hillside. The grass was short and springy, covering the terrain like a quilted cloak. The autumnal heathers conveyed a bruised quality to the landscape. The horse, a rich dappled brown mare, righted its footing and then slowed its step. It approached a stream that cascaded down the incline and it took deep gulps of the water.

  The horse glanced with curiosity up the slope. The gradient flattened out some three hundred yards above her as the heath reached the edge of forestland. The green of the pine trees appeared even more vivid with the glisten of the spent rain. The horse looked back down the hill as two riders approached, shaking their cloaks dry now the shower had ceased.

  Kervin, the forerunner, was a broad man dressed in a brown leather doublet and tanned soft leather trousers. His bow was secured to his saddle, with a quiver of arrows on the opposite side and strapped to his back was a broad sword in a black leather scabbard. His hair was a sandy brown and was tied in a ponytail. He wore a shaggy beard and had the look of the forest about him.

  His Pyrian companion, Ygris, was a strange vision in red and black robes, sat atop a gelding that appeared as gloomy as he did. His face was a rich light brown and his deep chocolate eyes peered from beneath enormous bushy eyebrows. Ygris’s beard was clipped and greased to a point and beaded with glittering gems and small gold rings. His shaved head was decorated with dark red tattoos.

  The pair slowed as they neared the riderless horse.

  “Has the rain muddied the trail, Marthir?” Kervin asked.

  The horse shook her head, water spattering from her mane. The air warped around her strong shoulders and the mare melted away, like a candle placed too close to a fire, to be replaced by a tanned woman.

  She stood five and half feet tall with light brown hair that was cropped short, like that of a boy. Her freckled face was round and her eyes a warm green. Her curvaceous body was naked and covered in tattoos that ran across her chest, abdomen and arms.

  “They’ve cut up the hill and into the woods,” she said.

  “That’s a fair change of direction. Do you think they know we’re on their trail?” Kervin asked. He tugged loose a dark green robe from his saddlebag.

  “It’s a fair bet. These two aren’t some dumb goblins scampering back to their dark hole in the hills. I suppose the question is when are they going to turn and tackle us?” Marthir said, stretching her smooth hairless legs.

  “By the smoking buttocks of Shurk!” Ygris said. “My clothes are more frigid than an Eerian lady’s britches. I would rather scoop out my tired orbs with spoons than endure another fell day skittering on the rock strewn arse skin of this soggy excuse for a country. And Marthir, my vision of inked glory, can you not put some clothes on? I fear your proud nipples will take my beady eye out if you turn too swiftly.”

  Kervin smiled to himself as he saw Marthir begin to bridle at the grumbling of their companion. He threw Marthir a green robe which she reluctantly began to slip on.

  “I’m afraid not all nations can be as baked and dusty as your own, Ygris,” Kervin said. “Perhaps on our next jaunt you should pack a satchel full of Pyrian sand and then spread it on your bed-roll each night to rest that heavy brain of yours. Or dazzle us with some pyrotechnics so I can dry my saddle sore rear before it becomes merged with the horse’s tack.”

  “The Fire-magic should not be mocked, my friend and ally Kervin,” Ygris said. “If I had but a copper for each time that the coursing magma that I command has enabled you to escape certain doom and a death more unbecoming than the demise of Fabian the Foolish who drowned in a vat of blood slugs whilst foraging in the wilds of Foom, then I should have enough malleable metal to create a statue a mile high.”

  Kervin laughed, a rich booming sound and slapped his comrade on the shoulder. Ygris shook his head and grumbled yet more. Kervin had heard once that the Pyrians, in an age past, had learnt the Imperial tongue from old works of Eerian literature. It would certainly explain t
heir lyrical turn of phrase.

  “I mean to say, Marthir, my damsel of the fertile forest, pray tell me yet again, why exactly are we stumbling up a hill in the rain to cavort on the tips of some rather well used blades like the wailing whores of El-Tuhor?”

  Marthir turned, her intense green eyes meeting those of Ygris. Kervin could see the flicker of rage on her face and the effort she was utilising to suppress the animalistic rages that often arose within her.

  “What they did was an evil, Ygris,” Marthir said. “The balance has to be restored. You know that’s what I think.”

  The hillside felt oddly silent, as if the birds that chirruped and called above had paused in curiosity at the druid’s comment.

  “The balance, the balance!” Ygris said. “It is with the matter of my banking balance I am truly concerned and I have saddlebags bulging with goblin gold to such a degree I fear they look like the belly of an Azaguntan trollop I once allowed erroneously to wriggle on my knee. Pray don’t get me wrong, those priests have my sympathy at their misfortune but, well really, Marthir, it’s not our problem is it? Friend Kervin, I should welcome your counsel, if you please.”

  Kervin looked between the druid and the mage and raised his eyebrows. If the truth be told he had never been able to refuse Marthir since they had first met eight years ago and that was before she got so irresistible and “druidish.” He reflected that he would sooner face a fire bolt from Ygris than the primeval wrath of Marthir.

  “I’m with Marthir I am afraid, Ygris. The priests at Sandar’s Beck housed me two or three times in the past and they didn’t deserve that fate,” he said softly.

  “Then the prospect of a bountiful winter at the halls of Sir Tinkek remains but a fantasy in the deviant mare that is my nocturnal imaginings,” Ygris said. “Are we to pursue these villains to the Wastes themselves before we accept that winter’s chill kiss may convey both them and ourselves a shivering fate? Would that the garrison of knights at Fort Niliot, but a week south of here, spend their days delivering justice to such villainy rather than empty words to innocent maidens. ”