For an instant Emelia considered Jem may have pushed the mage too far and then she saw a flicker on his face that made her think that Jem’s astute observations had cut deep. He turned and stalked off from the three then sat brooding by the campfire.
Sir Robert who had watched the debate with interest, smiled to himself. “Your tongue is as sharp as any sword, mage. Perhaps we should have bound that as well. Take care. Ekra-Hurr has been as of the storms these last few years. You and your friend left him with scars both obvious and concealed and it has turned him from a reasonable man to the one you see today. If he chose to kill you it would not be within my ability to stop him, mission or no.”
“With all due respect, Sir Robert, it would be my judgement that it is he who should take care,” Jem said. “This land you travel through, the land of my kin, would soon see his tattooed head on a pike, stormy temper or no. As I pointed out I am a clockmaker’s son and Emelia a former servant; who would ever know we were magi?”
Robert shrugged and returned his attention to sharpening his sword edge. He had removed his vambraces exposing his chainmail-covered arms and had also removed the coif, sweaty from a long day’s flight. He had already redressed Jem’s burn that eve.
Hunor was grinning after Jem’s tirade and Emelia could see the atmosphere between them relax as it inevitably did following their arguments. That was as well. For the dangers they were encountering were mounting by the day: Dark-mages in cemeteries, Air-mages with grudges, knights who planned to take them to lifelong incarceration and now a nation full of witch burners.
If Hunor didn’t come up with a master plan soon she very much doubted they would get back to Coonor.
Chapter 5 Defiance
Blossomstide 1924
“It’s remarkable how quickly you get used to this,” Emelia said as she leant against Sir Unhert’s armoured back.
The patchwork fields of Goldoria rolled past, far below them. Peasants worked industriously, like tiny ants.
“I’m not certain I ever could,” Unhert replied. “It’ll never lose its thrill for me—seeing the world laid below me, peaceful and neat.”
“I used to dream about this—about flying—when I was at the Keep. I’d watch the dawn patrol every morning and dream of being atop a griffon.”
“Well, here you are, although not under the circumstances I imagined you dreamt of.”
“No. That’s true,” Emelia said, eyes pricking. “The dreams usually missed another point too.”
“What was that?”
“The prospect of falling.”
Unhert laughed and returned his attention to the flight. Emelia blinked back the tears. She could feel despair pushing continually at her heart, like a spectre hovering just out of sight.
Her mind drifted back to the Keep and the night of her escape—now that was falling. In her mind’s eye she could still see the void below her as Hunor and Jem had pulled her through the shattered window. She could still hear the screams of Lady Ebon-Farr fading into the roar of the wind as she had plummeted to certain death. It had been a whole minute before she had taken a breath and by then her fall had inexplicably slowed. She descended gently, holding her companions hands. At that instant she would have given anything for Mother Gresham and Captain Ris to have been staring out of the window when she had hurtled past at the beginning of the descent. But she knew, that despite the hubbub she had left in her wake, that dear old Gresham would have been snoring like a drunken yarkel in her bed.
The current day’s travel had begun in a westerly direction, but after an hour the four griffins banked south. Emelia heard Lady Orla and Sir Minrik discuss the wide berth of a monastery at White Rock, situated south of Anor’s Delta. It was the seat of a powerful Archbishop and Orla felt that they would risk too much attention flying close.
Below them the vast expanse of the Goldorian eastern farmlands rolled to the horizon. The land was a patchwork of rectangular fields separated by pale dry-stone walls. The fields were a rich brown and Emelia saw dozens of peasants dragging their snorting horses across the lands, rusted harrows carving furrows into the fields. Between the farmlands were small woodlands, trees erupting with spring blossom. They painted the land pink and white. The uncultivated grasslands were flecked with flowers: dandelions and honeysuckle, daisies and buttercups. Emelia dreamt transiently about running through the long grasses, clouds of seeds rising like vapour around her. It was one more dream that would not come true.
Fifty feet to her right she could see Hunor secured to Lady Orla’s saddle. Sir Minrik’s griffon had strained a muscle in its wing and the knight had felt it safer not to have the additional burden of a fidgety thief on his steed. Emelia couldn’t quite visualise something as grand and powerful as a griffon with a sprained muscle; she wondered whether truthfully Minrik had finally tired of Hunor’s babble.
“The serfs in this land seem well equipped for their toil,” Sir Unhert said.
“I think because of the Goldorian’s hatred of magic they’ve invested far more time in developing machinery. It puts the Azaguntan efforts to shame,” Emelia said.
“I’d dare say they outshine the Eerians also. Remarkably civilised.”
“I’m uncertain if burning witches at the stake fits into my idea of civilisation, Sir Unhert. Mind you, neither does slavery.”
Sir Unhert did not reply.
They landed for lunch by the side of a small stream. Sir Robert took his short bow and shot three wild deer for consumption by the griffons and the knights. The three prisoners sat on the banks of the stream, enjoying the warmth of the sun on their necks and the relief from the constant gripping of the saddle with their thighs.
Emelia felt grubby and unclean and looked longingly at the cool water of the beck.
“I’d give anything for a dip in the water,” Emelia said.
“I thought you couldn’t swim?” Hunor said.
“Oh I’m certain you’d save me.”
Hunor winked at her then turned to Jem.
“How are you coping with the griminess of our current predicament, mate?”
Jem was sullen, staring at the glittering stream, his mind evidently preoccupied.
***
The two children had almost entered the temporary camp before Sir Unhert spotted them. He leapt to his feet and called Lady Orla, as Ekra-Hurr pulled his hood tighter and eased under the cover of a riverside tree.
The children were perhaps eight and six and dressed in muddied clothes. They both had fair hair with bulbous noses and ruddy cheeks. The eldest child was a girl and she looked with awe at the tall Sir Unhert and began to speak to him.
Unhert looked bewildered and turned to Minrik and Orla, who approached. “Captain, they are speaking some bizarre dialect.”
“There was I thinking that all Nurolia spoke Imperial,” Minrik said. “Perhaps only the civilised parts eh, peasant?”
The girl smiled warily at him. Her younger companion clutched a bundle to his chest.
Orla tried to smile at the two children. “Let us try to be amiable, Sir Minrik. We don’t want to draw any unwelcome attention to our passage. Last thing we need is a running battle with the Goldorian Inquisition.”
“As you wish,” Minrik said.
The miserable knight sighed and turned to the children. Rolling his eyes he spoke slowly and very loudly. “Hel-lo, I am a kn-ight fr-om ov-er the blue sea. Can you un-der-stand me litt-le peasant?”
The girl smiled nervously and replied once more in her own language.
Minrik went a light purple and reached for the bundle the small boy carried. The child immediately burst into tears and began to wail. Orla scowled at Minrik and turned to Unhert, who shrugged. It was then she noticed that on the far bank of the river there was an audience of perhaps twenty farmers, stood impassively observing them. They carried a range of heavy farming tools.
The knights exchanged concerned glances.
“They are speaking to you in Old Goldorian. The girl has as
ked ‘where are you from?’ and introduced her and her brother,” Jem said.
The three knights looked at him in surprise. Orla paused for a second to contemplate then asked, “Can you speak their tongue then?”
Jem arose awkwardly from the riverbank, his hands bound behind his back.
“Quite obviously I do, Lady Orla. If I were to use my Wild-magic then I could ensure you could also understand but clearly that is not an option. However, I fear if you allow your Eerian specialist in tact and diplomacy to harass these children further you may find two dozen angry farmers trying to toast the sheen off your exquisite armour.”
“The day a dozen peasants even breath on my armour will be the day my soul ascends to Torik!” Minrik said. “Captain, you cannot be seriously thinking of allowing the Wild-mage to talk to these urchins? He’ll have the entire of Goldoria on our party before nightfall.”
“Oh cease thine wining prattle, Minrik,” Hunor said. “I hardly think it’s in anyone’s interests to have the Godsarm stoking the fires with both our arses tied to a stake.”
Minrik began to retort when Orla raised her gauntlet for silence. She indicated for Jem to continue.
“They speak the native tongue that was here before your Empire occupied the country,” Jem said. “The educated castes speak Imperial but as I’m sure you have ascertained we are somewhat in the wilderness here.”
Jem knelt to address the wary children at the same level smiling at the girl.
“May the light of Mortis warm you through the dark days! What may we do for you little one?”
“My name is Jelian, sir. My father tasked us with giving you our luncheon bread. As a boon, so we don’t…”
Jem held his hand up and interrupted her.
“Give the gift to the lady knight. It will be well received and thank your father as a true son of Mortis. We shall not be taking Lord’s shelter with you this day, much to my regret.”
Jelian smiled then asked, “What are those creatures? I have not seen their like.”
“They are griffons, Jelian. Half eagle and half lion. They are ridden by the knights that accompany me from the far away lands of Eeria.”
“They are not talked of in the Great Book of Trall nor the sermons,” Jelian said warily.
“Would that Mortis share all his knowledge with us then we would be cups brimming over. No man may feast on every seed, it is written.”
The girl seemed content with this answer.
“Are you sorcerers?” the little brother asked. “Uncle Baba says Papa should go to the Godsarm.”
Jelian hissed in annoyance and cuffed her brother across the head.
“No. We are travellers from a far away land crossing on a holy mission bestowed by the Archbishop of the Delta.”
“And your hands?” Jelian asked.
“I am in penance with the knights. I took something that once belonged to them and thus I must earn their trust once more.”
“And may I ask your name, kind sir?”
“I am Jemiris Halderskin, son of Urios the Clockmaker of Parok,” Jem said without hesitation. “Go in peace now for the prayer time is almost upon us.”
The girl bowed to the knights before taking her brother’s hand and skipping off down the bank of the stream. The knights stared after her and then turned to question Jem.
“Why on earth send a child with a loaf of bread? Are the serfs here so disrespectful of rank?” Minrik asked.
“The lower caste of Goldoria holds children in great respect,” Jem said. “They regard them as the purest of souls. Indeed the honesty of children is most refreshing in this duplicitous world.”
“Well dishonesty would be your favourite topic, Wild-mage,” Minrik said. “Pray what did the children’s father think would be achieved by offering us a loaf of bread? I’d expect a nice fat cow to roast at the very least.”
“The serfs hold to an ancient tradition. If and when they meet a knight or one of a higher caste, such as a priest, they are obliged to take them into their home and offer them all their possessions freely. They call it the ‘Lord’s shelter’. They’ve technically avoided the need to offer it by sending the children to talk to us in their stead.”
“Cheeky peasants!” Minrik said with a splutter of disgust. “Not that one of noble Eerian stock would sully his armour on the muck from their hovel, but to evade their obligations in such a manner.”
“Sir Minrik, that’s more than enough,” Orla said. “You have my gratitude, Wild-mage. Your familiarity with the local dialect has saved us drawing more attention to our mission than is necessary. It will weigh in your favour.
“And Sir Minrik, you would do well to remember that the courtesy of the Knights of the Air extends to all less fortunate than they, not simply our own peasants. Gifts no matter how small should be accepted with gratitude and respect. It is the mark of the noble soul. Am I clear?”
The colour of Minrik’s face was like chalk as he stood to attention. “Yes, Captain. Of course you also have my gratitude, mage.”
Jem smiled thinly and returned to Emelia and Hunor, who was suppressing his laughter in anticipation of a punch to the face from Sir Minrik.
“You wouldn’t think he was so good with kids, would you, love?” Hunor said.
Jem shot him a withering glance then sat back down at the side of the stream, watching the farmers shuffle away to their prayers.
***
The warmth of the Goldorian sun was a welcome companion that afternoon as they flew southwest over the Great Eastern Plain. The northern half of Goldoria was bisected diagonally by the north border road that ran from Goldoria City—far down the east coast of the land—to the city of Keson in the north west of the land.
The four griffons diverted to avoid the market town of Valikshall, a place famed for its many bakers and its huge variety of breads.
The border road was an old Imperial highway laid with white pebble and it crossed the land like an old scar. Hunor noted the abrupt change from the patchwork farmlands to its northeast and the vast grasslands to its south. Herds of sheep and goats were evident far below and it took some skill from the knights to rein in their griffons from swooping and carrying off a mid-afternoon snack.
Minrik flew point. He had remained silent since his admonishment from Lady Orla. Ekra-Hurr flew close by, hoping that the large griffon would distract any observer below from his presence. Hunor was enjoying his least painful day in the air yet, his bonds secured with only a minor degree of pain and not one slap across his face as yet. It also gave him ample opportunity to evaluate the finer points of Lady Orla’s moulded armour.
The thief’s mind was active, constantly barraged with thoughts. He had considered and rejected two-dozen plans for escape since their capture; the variables flitted across his brain like moths at a campfire. The bonds were not a major problem, he had worked on his daily and knew he could slip them if the opportunity presented. The period on the ground was the only time to escape; the two younger knights were getting more relaxed with them, so it would be on their watch. The Air-mage remained the biggest uncertainty; whereas the knights were honour bound to keep them alive Hunor could see a murderous glint in the wizard’s eyes.
With regards his friends, the effect of the Goldorian Pure Water was restricting Jem and Emelia’s magic. The elixir seemed to require nightly dosing to maintain its effect. For all three of them to escape they would need either Wild-magic or their weapons, tucked away in the saddle bags near his legs.
They would get one chance and it was his role to precipitate it. After all, Emelia was still effectively their apprentice and Jem, well Jem seemed preoccupied somehow. He urgently needed the mage to focus on their predicament.
He returned his attention to Lady Orla. The knight was a strange fish indeed: a rigid vassal of inhibition and arrogance, ingrained with the snobbery of Eerian breeding. Clearly she needed the right chap to unleash her inner rogue, though this would be a challenge even for his famed charm.
Orla glanced back at her passenger as if sensing his thoughts. Hunor grinned and winked at the knight. Lady Orla shot him an icy stare through the eye slits in her visor. She tugged on the reins of her griffon and the creature dropped a hundred feet in altitude. A flash of panic rushed through Hunor as his stomach was left behind and he squeezed his legs into the saddle with all his might to stop himself tipping off.
They made camp that evening in a small dip in the undulating landscape and Sir Robert soon had a fire crackling in its centre. It was a mild night, with a breeze that rustled the grasses of the plain and sent flecks of pollen to irritate the nose.
Sir Minrik tended to the weary griffons whilst Orla conversed with Ekra-Hurr, leaving Unhert to watch over them. He broke lumps of bread from the loaf that the peasant children had given them and fed them methodically to the prisoners, having chosen not to untie Hunor this evening.
“Have you travelled in these lands before, Sir Unhert?” Emelia asked, as way of conversation.
“Erm...no. No, I haven’t. I’ve been a knight seven years now and most of that I’ve spent around the Citadel in Coonor, apart from one tour to take battle to the mountain giants that were threatening the Vale of Girios.”
“Why would giants threaten the Vale?”
“Who knows the workings of the evil creatures’ minds? I will tell you, though, that it’s a test of a knight’s mettle charging down a roaring mountain giant, as he stands forty feet high, brandishing a club the size of a tree!”
“More noble work than this, I’ll bet,” Emelia said. “What exactly will happen to us when you return us to Coonor?”
Unhert shifted his gaze towards the fire. “It is...not really my place as a knight to know. If I was in your position I would try not to dwell on the matter.”
Dreams of Darkness Rising Page 24
