Dreams of Darkness Rising (24 page)

As if to prove her point Marthir pressed her toes into the vambrace of the corpse’s armour. At the sound of a subtle click she pulled back her foot as four curved blades sprang from the metal.

She returned to her discussion with the knight’s helm.

“So, my vacant enemy, share your eternal wisdom with me. Every instinct tells me to slip from this dead place and return to Artoria proper. I have to report back to the Druid council—for it was they who sent me on this insane mission. Surely that is my real priority, at least according to that rarely tapped sensible part of my Artorian brain!

“But as I slid past you from this devastated drinking den I caught some scents. Faint, nearly washed clean from the stones, but none the less they still linger. They have my friends: Ygris, Ograk and dear Kervin. Each to a man would scream to leave them be. Well, Ygris wouldn’t, he’d say rescue me you lazy trollop of the trees. But the others… well, you get my point.

“But they are here because of me and the rewards promised them from the druids in the south. Well Ebfir and Iogar got their reward and then some. It’s down to me. What will your comrades do to the lads? Slavery? Sacrifice? Or something worse at the grave-tainted hands of that ghast? If I go now to the south it’s under the pretence of duty, a justification that will prove hollow when I lay safe in my cot under the mighty eaves of the Great Forest.”

Marthir stood and let the helmet drop to the ground; its clatter rang sharply in the night air. Her hair was soaked with the rain, but retained its natural spikiness. It ran in cooling rivulets down her skin. Damn this place, it had weakened her resolve and allowed despair to dent her confidence. Her friends needed her in all her untamed prowess. If they still lived she would rescue them and then flee into the mountains, where tracking them would be a challenge and the knights far fewer than on the two roads that ran from Erturia.

The lion’s courage pumped through her with every heartbeat and she let out a low snarl into the drizzle. This mission was far from over.  

Chapter 2    Trial by Fire

Blossomstide 1924

The three moons sent complicated shadows through the villa—perfect for Emelia’s needs. She paused at the foot of the stairs that lead to the second floor, waiting patiently for the guard above to pass. Once the coast was clear she ascended the tiled stairs crouched low, cat-like in her black garb.

On the upper landing Emelia slid behind a statue of the god Engin, whispering a quick prayer to her patron. She counted inside her head as the guard’s footsteps faded then reappeared as he completed his circuit of the villa’s west wing. A count of a hundred; that’s a nice round number, she thought.

The guard halted before the statue and yawned, looking down the stairwell. He was armoured in ring mail and carried a short spear, with a sword strapped to his side. Blue moonlight shone through a wide north-facing window in the hallway. It mingled with the muted light from four lanterns that spouted thick whale oil smoke into the air.

After ten minutes Emelia’s legs were beginning to cramp. Her patience was rewarded when the guard finally turned and resumed his stroll back down the west corridor, tapping his spear tip in a slow rhythm. Emelia counted ten then slipped out from the recess of the statue and padded down the corridor.

She was dressed in a black tunic and black leggings that in turn covered dark leather armour. Strapped to her slim back was a sword, its hilt and pommel gilded and shaped like the head of an eagle. Her face was covered with a black woollen balaclava, her blonde tresses braided tight and wrapped in a bun. She reached a door about halfway down the corridor as the guard disappeared from view around the corner.

Emelia eased against the door, noting instantly it was locked. In a flash she had a long pick in her hand, manipulating the brass mechanism. She calmly kept a steady count in her head as she worked. Sweat was starting to rise on her forehead under the itchy wool of the balaclava as she reached forty-five. With a click the lock released and quickly she slipped through the door and gently closed it behind her. She heard the returning step of the guard in the corridor outside as it shut; he was three seconds quicker this time. She listened as his footsteps passed.

Reassured of her continuing secrecy she moved into the room, her eyes evaluating its contents. She rolled up the balaclava to make a hat and wiped the sweat off her brow. The room was about twenty feet square with a window that allowed the light of the three moons to partly illuminate the interior. Its walls were decorated with paintings and small tapestries and two large maps of Azagunta. Three tall cabinets dominated the wall that the door occupied. A desk sat in the room’s centre with a high back red leather chair on its far side.

Emelia moved around the desk and to the window. It was barred, with the bolts and grill secured to the exterior of the wall. Through the gaps she could see the ornate gardens of Hegris Grach’s villa sprawling out towards the orchard and the perimeter wall.

The villa was in many ways a paradox. The shell of the building was old Azaguntan: stones had stood in this spot fifteen miles from the city of Bulia for a millennium. From this traditional core Grach’s family had added layer upon layer of superficiality and its latest incarnation had adopted the style of a villa akin to the fashionable residences in the sunny climes of Feldor. Yet the wide arches, tiled roofs, courtyards and balconies that leant themselves to basking in the sun and sipping wine were somewhat misplaced in the rain-soaked and fog-saturated slopes of Azagunta.

Hegris Grach was a thoroughbred Azaguntan: a medley of selfishness, arrogance, cunning and cruelty. His debonair appearance masked a festering soul that clawed money from every vice of Azaguntan society, from slavery to prostitution. He courted the corrupt ruling classes of the Isle of Thieves as readily as he arranged the murder of those who stood in his way in the seedy recesses of the cities of Bulia and Bomor.

Nothing like starting with a challenge, Emelia considered, as she checked under his desk. Her nimble fingers found the floor safe she sought, just where Hunor had said it would be. She smiled warmly at the thought of her friend and his endless planning of this burglary. Jem had continually reassured him of Emelia’s abilities yet she could see Hunor’s apprehension.

Emelia slid the floor panel back and felt the metal casing of the safe. It was too gloomy to make much out of the lock and it was sure to be trapped. She paused for an instant; was it worth risking light? She had no real choice. If she tripped the trap she would alert guards and be killed anyway.

Emelia lifted an unlit lantern off of its hook. She drew a tinderbox out of her pouch and lit the lantern, quickly dropping the hood cover to minimise the glow. The top of the sunken safe illuminated and she began to work on the lock.

Her eyes narrowed in concentration as she manipulated the mechanism with two picks. All of Hunor’s teachings of the last four years were focused on this moment, this instant, on the next twist and the next tweak. She paused, feeling an unusual pressure, and then slid a small blade to the side of her pick, pressing laterally. She felt an almost imperceptible release of tension as she cut the wire connected to the spring of the trap.

The lock opened and Emelia slowly lifted the safe lid. The flickering light revealed a tiny pair of needles in the lock mechanism, the poison glistening on their tips. She slid the darts out with a pair of forceps and flicked them onto the chair. A little surprise for Grach; Hunor would laugh at that trick.

Conscious of time Emelia reached into the safe, scooping out the contents: a bundle of papers, a small bag of gems, a sapphire ring and a glittering necklace. She popped the gems into her pocket then began rifling through the papers until she found the seal she was after. This was the document that their patron wished stolen: some incriminating letter, no doubt. She replaced the remainder of the papers, along with the ring and necklace. They were too traceable if she tried to fence them in Bulia.

Emelia closed the safe and locked it with a twist of her pick and then gently she eased the false floor panel back over it. She rolled the paper, popped it in a scroll case and secured it to her belt.

The door flew open and she froze as the yellow glow of the hallway lit the room up.

“Told you I seen a light, Vrhin,” a burly guard said as he entered the room, sword drawn. Two other guards entered with him, one of them the guard she had snuck past. The shortest carried a smoking lantern in his left hand and shone it at Emelia.

“Now here’s a treat. A wee girl thief and a shapely one at that. Thinks we can have our fun with her when she’s tied up boys,” the short guard said. Emelia placed her lantern on the table and tugged her balaclava down as they strode into the room.

“I’s thinks she likes masks an’ all,” Vrhin said with a snicker.

Emelia side-stepped from behind the desk and raised her hands. Her adrenaline was flowing and she felt the thrill of impending battle. She had to finish this quickly; Hegris Grach had flayed men to shreds for far less than this.

“Wouldn’t want to give you boys any bad dreams,” Emelia said.

The air shimmered around her hands as she muttered words of sorcery. Emelia felt the tension of the magical Web around her in the room; with her mind and then her hands she jerked the invisible strands.

The cabinet adjacent to the door toppled on top of the nearest guard. He screamed as the weight of the hundreds of papers and documents crushed him and splintered his thigh bones. His lantern shattered against the floor, spilling flaming oil into the room.

Vrhin gawped but his companion was less startled and lunged to attack. Emelia was poised and prepared, concentrating as Hunor had drilled into her on those endless days of practice. The motion of the guard seemed to slow as she stared. She observed his boots, the way he twisted his weight, the angle of his upper body and the momentum of his attack.

Emelia’s attack flowed like mercury and was every bit as lethal. The guard swung his long sword in a vicious arc. Emelia span and stepped inwards towards him. His slash hacked into the wood of the table as she drew her sword from its back-scabbard in one movement. It flashed in the glow of the erupting fire and sliced almost effortlessly through the ring mail armour on his shoulder. The blade bit deep into his chest and he spat blood as his lung and heart were spliced.

Emelia continued her spin, the sword emerging from the guard’s decimated chest as she pirouetted and then came to a stop, sword ready for Vrhin. The dead guard crashed into the table and his sword clattered uselessly to the floor.

Vrhin paused then roared and charged, swinging his long sword with two muscular arms. Emelia parried once, twice then a third time as she manoeuvred around the heat of the spreading fire. The guard had a good six inches and five stone on her but his strong attacks were panicked and sloppy. He thrust his sword forward, trying to take advantage of his reach. Emelia, on seeing his lunge, stepped back and parried, diverting the blow towards the escalating fire.

The glare of the fire flashed in Vrhin’s face and he faltered. The nimble thief took her chance, dropping under his guard. Her magnate blade cleaved a gaping furrow in his belly and he gasped in horror, his free hand desperately trying to keep his exposed entrails in check.

Emelia moved as Vrhin dropped, vaulting over the falling guard and through the door. Her mind was racing as she considered her escape options, schemata of the villa playing in her head.

Back the way we came
, Emebaka cried in her head,
better chance of getting to the orchard
.

She sprinted down the corridor, sword dripping blood as she ran. Within five seconds she was by the statue of Engin. Waste of a prayer that was, Emebaka growled.

Emelia began to descend the stairs when she heard the clatter of at least a dozen guards from below. Onor’s breath, she cursed, then turned and began ascending the stairs towards the roof two steps at a time.

The spiral stairs were broad and occupied a sandstone tower on the junction between the west and north wings. Emelia bounded up them like a mountain goat, her eyes scanning ahead for foes. Once more her keen hearing alerted her as two guards came thudding down the stairs from above. She ran low and swung her sword at their ankles as they descended. The forerunner screamed as the sword sliced clear through the bone and he toppled forward over the crouched Emelia, his foot still on the step. The second guard clumsily tried to slash down at her but already she had thrust her left hand out to cast her spell.

A wave of magical force slammed into his chest like a sledgehammer, launching him back against the staircase with a crash. The back of his head cracked with a wet thud on the edge of the tiled stair and he fell limp.

Emelia continued her ascent to the top of the stairs and out through the door onto the roof. Her head was pounding from the magic use; she was unused to casting spells at such a pace. She shook it clear in the night air and surveyed the scene around her.

The villa was shaped like a horseshoe with wings to the north, west and east and the hollow in its centre was occupied by gardens and a courtyard. Each wing had a clutter of levels, with roofs of two, three and four stories all variably tiled or flattened depending on the whim of the builder at that time.

Beyond the villa were a selection of stables, a forge, a barracks and some cottages for the groundsmen. The gardens lay to the south and had been designed once again in the Feldorian style with statues, fountains and endless concentric hedges. The driveway that rambled from the gates in the perimeter wall ran along the western edge of the main garden. On the far side of the garden there was a small pear orchard and then the estate walls.

Emelia re-sheathed her sword in its scabbard and took deep breaths. She had been in worse situations than this in the last year but always with the ingenuity of Hunor or the clarity of Jem’s thoughts at her side.