

Darkness Rising

Book One- Chained

Ross M Kitson

Copyright © 2012 Ross M Kitson

Published by Ross M Kitson at Smashwords.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the author or publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations, or persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.

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The Prism Series

Darkness Rising

Book One- Chained

Book Two- Quest

Book Three- Secrets

Book Four- Loss

Book Five- Broken

Book Six- Redemption

Contact us at http://www.myrddinpublishing.com

Editor: Danielle Raver

Cover: Ceri Clark

Find more about the world of Nurolia at http://sites.google.com/site/worldofnurolia/home

Acknowledgements

Firstly I would like to thank my family for all their support in the creation of this trilogy. Amanda, Charlie, Evelyn and Henry—I love you loads.

Secondly a big cheers to Nik, Giles and Dan for reading the drafts. It wouldn't be half the book without your input
Prism Volume 1 Darkness Rising

Book One - Chained

Table of contents

Map of North-Western Nurolia. c 1920

Map of South-Western Nurolia. c1920.

Map of North-eastern Nurolia c1920.

Map of South-Eastern Nurolia c1920.

Map of South Goldoria and North Thetoria c1920

Dramatis personae

I The City of Mists

Prologue The House of Preparation

Chapter 1 The Air Mage

Chapter 2 Kirit's Eye

Chapter 3 The Carnival

Chapter 4 Dark Intentions

Chapter 5 The Lamb

Chapter 6 Funerals and Forts

Chapter 7 Cutting the Cord

II Chained

Chapter 1 The Dead City

Chapter 2 Trial by Fire

Chapter 3 An Unexpected Reunion

Chapter 4 The Half-Ogre

Chapter 5 Defiance

Chapter 6 The Crypt

Chapter 7 Escape into the Mist

Chapter 8 Darkness Rising

Chapter 9 The Necromancer

Chapter 10 The Feast of Blood

Chapter 11 Blackstone Bridge

Epilogue Dreams of Darkness

Glossary

i. Map of North-Western Nurolia. c 1920  
ii. Map of South-Western Nurolia. c1920. 
iii. Map of North-eastern Nurolia c1920.

iv. Map of South-Eastern Nurolia c1920.

v. Map of South Goldoria and North Thetoria c1920

Prism: dramatis personae

The house staff of the Keep.

Emelia—kitchenmaid

Sandila—her close friend. Housemaid. Azaguntan.

Abila—another friend from the Isles. Scullerymaid

Gelia—maid at the Keep

Annre—maid at the Keep

Tarn—maid at the Keep

Gedre—maid at the Keep

Quellik—maid at the Keep

Mother Gresham—housekeeper at the Keep

Halgar—maid at the Keep

Torm—footman at the Keep

Captain Ris—Captain in the Garrison of Coonor

Sarik—a guard in the Keep

The inhabitants of Eeria

Herfen—chief valet & butler to Lord Ebon-Farr

Tremen—head of Greypeak preparatory house

Talis Ebon-Farr—Lower Lord of the Eerian council and Warden of the Garrisons

Heler Ebon-Farr—his wife (born of the Farvous house)

Jular Farvous—nephew to Talis and son of the Farvouses (by Heler's brother)

Elik Farvous—head of the Farvous family and Orla's father

Hulgor Farvous—eldest son of Elik Farvous

Karak Ebon-Farr—eldest son of the Ebon-Farrs

Geldir Ebon-Farr—second eldest son, to join the Priesthood

Uthor Ebon-Farr—third son. To join the Knights

Erica Ebon-Farr—daughter to the Ebon-Farrs

Inkas-Tarr—Arch-mage of Air (gold sash)

Ekra-Hurr—Air-mage (brown sash)

Bardit-Urr—Air-mage (silver)

Lady Orla Farvous—Knight of the Air (captain: 3rd lance. Silver wing)

Highlord Cranston—Highlord of the Eerian council

High Cmmdr Taros—Commander of the Knights of Air

Sir Risstan Helminth—Knight of the Air (sergeant: 4th Lance. Silver wing)

Lord Hinteron—Lower lord on the council and mining magnate

Shkris—Netreptan envoy on the council

The Denizens of Kir

Jurges Innsman—proprietor of the Rose Tavern in Kir

Alfra'Te—merchant from Kâlastan

Olix—an Azaguntan assassin from Kir

Jelbettio—a Feldorian mercenary

Malik—apprentice assassin in Kir

Hunor—a thief and adventurer. Thetorian

Jem—his friend. Goldorian. A Wild-mage

Linkon Arikson—Guildmaster of thieves in Kir

Scarseye—thief and enforcer in the Kirian guild (West Avenue Boys)

Thintor Lemon-bite—Wild-mage in the employ of the West Avenue boys

The Denizens of Bulia

Igred—Northridge Guildmaster in Bulia, Azagunta

Hegris Grach—Azaguntan merchant and criminal

Olthik Slanteye—Inn keeper of the Lamb Inn

Varix Aol—East side guild master in Bulia

Vrhin—a guard at Grach's villa

The Knights of the Air

Sir Ronen Unhert

Sir Robert

Sir Iyri Minrik

In Artoria

Marthir—a druid hailing from Artoria

Kervin—a tracker also from Artoria

Ygris—Fire-mage from Pyrios

Sir Tinkek—a former Artorian Knight

Ograk—a Feldorian warrior

Master Hü-Jen—deceased Shorvorian mentor to Hunor

Ebfir—acolyte druid to Marthir

Iogar—an Artorian warrior

Darklord Jüt—commander of the Knights of Ebony Heart

Darklord Klir—sub-commander of the Knights of Ebony Heart

Xirik—a dark wizard

Garin—a dark wizard

Vildor—The Darkmaster. The master of the Ghasts

In Thetoria

Aldred Enfarson—son of Baron Enfarson

Argon Enfarson—Baron of Thetoria

Livor Korianson—Aldred's friend.

Hinkir—a stable boy at Blackstone Castle

Jirdin—Aldred's servant

Quigor—advisor to Baron Enfarson. An Azaguntan

Kerdir Almsman—physician to Baron Enfarson

Holbek Gartson—a captain of the guard at Blackstone Castle

Arlana Gartson—his wife

Thrisk—a soldier of Baron Enfarson; Azaguntan in origin

Lord Jerstis—one of the Lords sworn to Baron Enfarson. Nr Greenford

Poris Longshanks—lordling from Enfarson's Barony

Orlo Smithson—burghmaster of Eviksburg

Urgon Tannerson—Innkeeper of the Traveler's Rest

Pastor Burker—priest of Mortis

Guntir Hawkskin—captain of the town guard in Eviksburg

Kindar Hawkskin—brother to Guntir. Soldier to Baron Benrich the Younger

Aargil Markson—(deceased) Lord to Baron Benrich the Elder

Inger Markson—widow to Lord Aargil

Hela Markson—daughter to Lord Markson

Orgar Markson—(deceased) son of Lord Markson

Uhurk Wangstane—a merchant from Kokis

Ekris—a mysterious troubadour and thespian

Urenst Enfarson—cousin to Baron Enfarson. Lord of Oldston

Argas Enfarson—cousin to Baron Enfarson. Called "the runt"

Ligor—dark wizard in Thetoria city

Ajacre—dark wizard in Nolir, South Thetoria

Jaan—a farmer in Nth Thetoria

Loral—his wife

Hinfer—their eldest son

Mek-ik-Ten—Galvorian monk and mentor to Jem

In Goldoria

Sir Krem Listerthwaite—a Goldorian knight of good standing

Gilert—a squire of mean disposition

Utrok—a dark wizard

Elbek-Trall—a Pyrian merchant docked in Goldoria

Darkness Rising

Book One

I The City of Mists

Prologue The House of Preparation

Sunstide 1911

Emelia dreamt of dark things. She stumbled down the expansive beach, the sands sticky beneath her bare feet. The waves thundered and the trees bordering the sand bent like old men as the storm whipped up. Rain lashed against her as she saw the lone figure knelt ahead. His sobs ripped through her chest like a knife.

"Papa? Papa, why are you crying?" she asked.

Her gaunt father made no reply but rather turned and with horror Emelia saw his eyes were two gold coins. Terror gripped her heart as she staggered back. The gold began to run, pouring in molten tears down his cadaverous cheeks, steaming in the driving rain.

Emelia screamed but the sound was flattened under the crash of immense waves. Her father dug his fingers into his smoldering cheeks and wrenched, tearing the skin off as if breaking open a crab. No blood ran as he shredded the flaps of flesh away but rather Emelia saw a grey hue beneath, like rock.

With a final wrench her father ripped apart the skin and a man made of stone remained. He regarded Emelia and then slowly began moving towards her, his sockets gaping voids.

Emelia scrabbled backwards in the sand but her legs felt like lead. Then she looked down and she saw: saw the sand become stone; saw the stone become dark and saw the darkness harden across the pale sands of the beach like a giant shadow. All around her, the island surrendered its colour, slipping beneath the featureless dark. Then the stone came for her too, began spreading up her legs, closing tightly about her chest, sealing up her mouth, her nose, her eyes with cold, uncaring rock.

***

The dormitory was pitch-black. The terror stayed with her as her sleep-caked eyes adjusted to the gloom. Emelia was shivering uncontrollably. She bit her lip hard, to stop her teeth chattering.

Had she woken the other girls? She cautiously lifted her head from her bed and checked. No—they all slept despite the chill of the room. Her hand slid beneath her single sheet and her heart skipped a beat as she realised she had wet the bed in her fear.

Hot tears flowed from her eyes. She would get the birch for sure. But even that would be as nothing compared to the taunts of the other girls. The Azaguntan girls particularly would seize on this as a sign of weakness.

A dozen fantasies ran through her six-year-old mind. She lay there wracked with indecision for half an hour, the cooling wetness of the urine feeling like a blanket of snow on her body.

Emelia rolled quietly from her bed and then carefully removed the wet sheet. She bundled it up then crept across the flagstoned dormitory. The other girls did not stir, lost in their own private dreaming.

Emelia stepped out into the corridor. Light from the blue Aquatonian moon, her moon, shone through the frost-painted window. Emelia shivered from cold and fear as she scuttled down the corridor. The stone walls of the servants' quarters were a featureless grey and harsh to the touch.

She passed into the grand entrance hall. Warmth flickered from lanterns set in the ornate brass hooks which studded the oak-paneling. Dour faces of the still living and the long-time dead glared down at her from the portraits on the walls. Emelia forced her eyes downward as if to look back at one of those fearsome portraits would set them screaming an alert.

The linen room was adjacent to the entrance hall. She passed a huge tapestry, its threads as thin as the grease the servants spread on their bread in the mornings.

Emelia eased the linen room door open. In the safety of the dark room she stripped her nightdress off and threw it with her sheet into the large basket. Her skin became taut with the cold as she hurriedly donned a fresh dress and felt in the darkness for the pile of starched sheets.

Her task complete, Emelia stepped out into the hallway and returned to the entrance hall. A rush of terror erupted in her throat as she heard voices outside the main door.

The door began to open.

Her eyes darted between the stairs and the door back to the dormitory corridor. By Asha, she would not make it across the length of the hall.

Emelia ran for the stairs, taking two at a time. Each creak of the oak stairs seemed to peal like thunder in her ears. She achieved the upper landing and crouched, her heart pounding.

The three men were ascending the stairs.

Emelia scampered along the upper hallway, seeking a niche to hide within. She saw a small recess between a cabinet and the edge of an alcove and squeezed into the dark gap.

The voices were loud and unfamiliar. They spoke Eerian, the Imperial language. After five months of birch across the knuckles every time she spoke her own dialect instead of the master's, she had learnt Eerian soon enough. The owners strode into a room ten feet from her hiding place.

She knew she should return to the dormitory but then a tiny voice deep down bubbled to the surface: a naughty voice, a voice of rebellion.

Heart in her mouth, she snuck along the paneled corridor towards the voices. She could see three figures through the crack of the door: one tall, one young and one fat. The tallest she recognised as Master Tremen, the head of the preparatory house. His scanty grey hair covered his wrinkled scalp like dust.

The other two were sat in the room, sipping at what Emelia guessed must have been smoking wine. One was a young man, his nose angled like the beak of a large bird. He had the arrogance that came with wealth and power. The second was a short man with cheeks so flushed that it made Emelia think of a fat robin. His grey hair was pasted to his head with lacquer. Emelia began to concentrate, picking her way through the clipped tones.

"... suggest with this unseasonable snow that you take the opportunity to indulge my hospitality and stay the next few nights, Herfen," Master Tremen said, sipping his wine. "It will give you an opportunity to select the appropriate girls for Lord Ebon-Farr."

"You are kind as ever, Tremen, though I would speculate you have a fair idea what girls we require anyway," Herfen said. "None the less it will allow Lord Karak here to further his education."

Emelia stared in wonder. The fat robin had called him Tremen, not Master Tremen, but no blow or birch had followed.

Master Tremen turned to regard the younger man. "I am still uncertain as to why your father felt it pertinent to send you with Herfen to my house, though of course it is an honour."

The young man drained his wine. "Father seeks to dispatch me to study the Rolls in three years, as he was chosen to by his father. I suggested it would be of benefit for me to see first-hand how the Statute of Servitude works in reality. Some of the chaps at school jest it is simply slavery for the faint-hearted."

Master Tremen laughed and reached for a small gilded box from one of the bookshelves in the study. He offered the contents to his guests.

"Please indulge in a touch of non-liberal snuff. I think you'll find what we and the eight other prep houses participate in is anything but slavery, Lord Karak. I mean of course there is a place for slavery in Eeria—after all who else would build our roads?"

The two guests both took pinches of the snuff and snorted it, concluding the act with a tiny shudder.

"In fact the slaves come on the same trade route as this delectable weed. Huge chaps, skin as dark as onyx and muscles like a mountain giant. But so, so primitive—they even worship the spirits of their ancestors."

"The Galvorians and the Shorvorians both respect the spirits of ancestors, Tremen, so that's hardly an indication of being primitive," the one called Lord Karak said, wiping his beaked nose.

"No, no indeed—you would make a fine Lawlord, m'lord. I think my point is that they are far better off working as slaves in civilisation—it is a far better life they have. And that in itself was good enough for not just us now, but also for the Pyrians and the Artorians in their time."

"Until the Statute came into being," Herfen said. "It's a charitable act, m'lord. We take these girls from their disadvantaged childhoods, give the parents a very reasonable sum of gold and allow them to work in some of our finest houses. And most choose to remain in service after they achieve their twenty-first year."

"The same faint-hearted chaps back in Coonor would say that's because most of them have no idea how to get back to where we bought them from," Lord Karak said with a smirk.

An icy terror was seeping through Emelia's body as she eavesdropped. She could hardly follow all these grown-up words. Did they mean she wouldn't be able to find Papa?

"We keep reasonable records, not least for the legality of the contract of servitude," Master Tremen said with a shrug. "I am certain any could return. Very few do."

"As you say," Lord Karak said. "Father is interested in purchasing some Islanders and we hear you have some in... training."

"Indeed," Master Tremen said brightly. "Ten years ago they were a rarity, m'lord. Now we have had an influx. I hear that there is a famine in the Scattered Isles."

Emelia started at the sudden mention of her homeland.

"Aye, I heard as much too," Herfen said. "Juton in the Clifftop House was speculating it was due to the dearth of fish in the Islands. Word has it that the Water-mages have been altering the currents for the Corinthian fleet."

"Their loss, our gain," Master Tremen said, snorting another pinch of snuff. "The Island girls are far better value than the Azaguntans. They are hard workers, physically superior and most..." he paused for a moment as his mouth widened into something not altogether unlike a smile. "... beautiful."

"And obedient?"

"Oh... of course, of course." The mouth narrowed. "All our girls are obedient at this house. We are most rigorous with the discipline—they are fluent in Eerian by the time we sell them on and versed in the etiquette of the grand houses. I have one at the moment who is most delightful to the eye—she has remarkable grey eyes. I shall show you her now in fact—Emelia is her name."

The chairs scraped as the visitors stood. Emelia's mouth was dry. These men were here to take her away! These men were coming to see her in the dormitory now!

Emelia grasped the sheets and flew down the corridor. She took the stairs two at a time, images of skipping across the rocks of her beach-side home flashing across her mind. The clatter of boots were echoing down the first floor corridor as she twisted around the base of the stairwell and hurtled through the door and into the corridor.

She slowed as she reached the dormitory door and chanced a look back. She would be flayed alive if she were caught out of bed at this hour. She opened the heavy door, wincing at the slight creak and eased her way into the dormitory.

Emelia flung the fresh sheet over the bed and dove under it. Twenty seconds later, as her heart still pounded in her ears, a chink of gold lantern light invaded the room. The three figures clumped across the dormitory.

"This is her. She's been with us five months now, so ready to start as soon as you need."

Emelia lay as still as she could whilst Tremen's hand grasped her shoulder.

"Open your eyes, girl, there are men here to see you."

Emelia rolled over, blinking her eyes in a befuddled manner then squinting at the lantern light. Master Tremen tugged her into a sitting position then pulled her chin to look up. Her whole body was trembling as she met Lord Karak and Herfen's stares.

"Hmm, yes I see," Herfen said. "Lord Ebon-Farr will be satisfied."

"As will Mother," Lord Karak said. "All her friends have Islanders now. I'm uncertain about Gresham though."

"Ha. That's my concern, young master," Herfen said. "Right, Tremen, some more wine before we retire perchance? It's not often I am allowed a break from the Keep."

The three strode from the dormitory leaving Emelia feeling stunned and terrified. The other girls peered from their beds but not one said a word. She rubbed her chin furiously where Tremen had grasped it: she could still smell the pungent fragrance of the snuff on her skin.

She lay there in the dark of the room, listening as the undulation of the girls' slumber resumed.

Sleep had left her. And besides, had she wanted to sleep the nightmare would be there, waiting for her as it did every night. As it had done ever since she had left the island on that dark ship.

Asha, why have you let the evil people take me from Papa and Mama?

The sea goddess made no reply.

How am I going live? Asha help me... help me please.

Don't be daft, a voice replied.

It was a girl's voice. A naughty voice—the one that had tempted her into listening upstairs. Yet there was no-one close to her and the other girls were asleep.

Are you a ghost?

Don't be silly, Emelia. I am the other voice—I've always been with you.

Emelia felt icy fear seeping through her. What was happening?

Who are you then?

I am a friend, like no other could ever be.

Oh. Can you... can you help me? Look after me? Stop the darkness in the night coming for me?

I can, Emelia, yes I can. All I need is your trust and your belief. I can help you escape to wherever you want to.

How?

Just by shutting your eyes. Your dreams will be your refuge and I shall be your guardian.

But you don't know... bad things happen in my sleep.

Ah but I do know... you mustn't worry, I can show you how to find good dreams. I can show you how dreams can help you see. Even the worst dreams, even they can show you secrets. You just have to know how to look.

But -

Shush! The voice laughed hard, almost hysterically, then continued. Sshh! Dreams are a game. You just have to know how to play them. Now close your eyes, stupid!

Emelia trembled. She tentatively closed her eyes.

That's it, that's it. Now relax your mind and come with me!

Emelia emptied her thoughts. In moments, she was asleep. And with that sleep soft deep breaths arrived. Presently, she smiled.

Chapter 1 The Air Mage

Harvestide 1920

Nine years later

The first glow of dawn shone off the knight's armour as he banked towards the Citadel. Far below Emelia peered up at him through the slit-like window of her dormitory. To her, it was as if the knight and his griffon were cast from molten gold.

She saw them sweep down out of the sky and come to perch atop the Citadel of Air, on Coonor's highest plateau. Emelia stared longingly at the tiny glinting figure and then stepped down from the window and back into the shadows of chamber that she shared with the other servants.

The other girls, seven in number, were still sleeping. The morning light was not yet intense enough to break their slumber. Emelia had been awake an hour already, watching the evolution of dark to light in the tiny chamber. Mother Gresham always teased that she should have been born with her eyes on stalks because of the amount of time she spent peering through the windows of the Keep.

Yet, what a view it commanded. The world seemed to roll effortlessly away from the eye. The Keep perched on the edge of Coonor, City of the Mists, and had been the residence to the House of Ebon-Farr for a millennium. Emelia fancied that the mountains fell away from the precipitous city like the billowing skirts of some Eerian lady, rippling as they became hills and settling finally on the smooth farmlands that edged to the horizon. Somewhere beyond was the sea, and across the sea the island of her birth.

Her bare feet curled away from the cold flags of the dormitory as she crossed the room towards the bowl in the corner. She allowed herself a moment of fantasy as she imagined the sensation of diving, of slipping unclothed into the warm sea of her early childhood, the taste of brine nipping her throat. How would it feel to twist and spin without ground beneath her, to swim in water like the knights flew on their griffons through the air?

The cold water sliced through the daydream as she washed away the night sweat. Emelia's nights were tempestuous and laden with vivid dreams. Whilst her fellow maids shivered under the rough yarkel-wool blankets, she would sweat the night through, abruptly wakening into the dense blackness.

Only fragments of her dream now remained, like the smell of a pipe after the smoke has cleared. Emelia was certain that she had been some kind of animal, perhaps a lamb or sheep. She recalled wandering through the higher corridors, squinting at faded tapestries and dusty shields. The focus of her mind's eye had swirled like draining water in a bath. Then she had been on top of the Keep. Fear had risen within her as she looked to either side. The world dropped away from the ancient edges of the roof. On one side she could plummet without ever hitting the bottom. On the other she could see the cobbled streets that ran from the gatehouse; the invitation of a quicker death.

She dried her face with a threadbare towel and slipped quickly from her night shirt, goose flesh appearing in an instant. She tugged on a brown yarkel-wool tunic and skirt. Emelia felt the reassuring presence of her shell pendant, the only remnant of a distant childhood.

The next detail of the dream was vague. There had been a wolf or a wild dog on the roof with her. Had she seen him or heard him? Or had she felt him? Had she sensed his fur pressing close to her woolly side and his hot breath on her neck?

Her feet had skittered underneath her and then she had that curious appreciation of weightlessness and the cobbles rushed towards her. She always woke up as she fell. A shudder slid up her body.

Several moans arose in the cramped dormitory as the other girls began to stir. Emelia began tidying her curly blonde hair. She dipped a wooden comb into a pot of grease and ash and scraped it through her tresses, wincing in discomfort. Fingers still numb from the frigid air of the dormitory, she secured it in a bun before washing her grey hands. The Ebon-Farrs preferred a traditional appearance for their house staff. She returned to her bed to straighten her sheets. Her cot was situated between those of Sandila and Abila—friends as close as sisters.

Emelia smiled as Abila tumbled from bed and scurried to the bowl. Abila was small and chubby, her body carrying puppy fat that was yet to dwindle with maturity. Like Emelia she was a Scattered Islander. They shared the same blonde hair and pale skin of the Islanders yet in height and build they were poles apart.

Sandila rolled in bed and yanked the covers over her head. She was the night to Abila's day. Sandila, an Azaguntan, enjoyed big hips and big bosoms and had a brashness that made Emelia blush almost perpetually. Her impudent smile and flashing eyes acted like a sprite's song to the men of the garrison stationed above them. A small part of Emelia's mind emulated Sandila, a little voice that spoke inside her head when embarrassment threatened to paralyse her. Emelia had named her Emebaka: it meant the 'light of dreams' in the Island dialect.

"How are you always first to the bowl, Emelia?" Abila asked, shivering as she slipped on her skirt.

"You get the best views of the patrol at this time. Well you do if you're a foot taller than I am."

Sandila's muffled voice was griping. "More like little Miss Star Eyes wants to get the warmest milk from big Momma Gresham's teat."

The room erupted in laughter at this and Emelia kicked playfully at Sandila's covered form. The copper haired girl sat up chuckling. The colour drained from her face as she came upright. Emelia instinctively stepped back as Sandila coughed and then vomited over the pale stone floor.

The acrid stench assailed the slave girls' nostrils and they all began whining and yelling. Emelia side-stepped past the pool of vomit then moved towards Sandila. An unexpected hush came upon the room as Sandila lay back down, wiping her mouth.

Annre and Abila had clambered out of their beds, bleary-eyed, their hair emulating haystacks. The two exchanged looks and then sprinted for the bowl. The room erupted into frenzied activity as they all realised that the last one in the dormitory with Sandila would be the one Mother Gresham would make clear it up.

***

The manner in which Mother Gresham dominated her area of the kitchen went beyond her physical presence, which was formidable enough. Her corpulent bulk seemed to expand to occupy all available space. Rolls of fat cascaded from her face, giving the appearance of a gigantic candle that had melted. Her arms had swinging flaps of skin that Sandila joked could lift her enormous bulk over the upper city's walls and into the void beyond, should a wind catch her unawares.

Yet there was a shrewd glint in Gresham's eyes, borne from the strength of mind that had elevated the Mother from her beginnings as a scullerymaid to the matriarch of the lower floors.

She waddled the short distance to the robust bench on the periphery of the huge bustling kitchen. Emelia observed, over the top of the bread roll she ate, that Mother's breathing had that peculiar wheeze of the gargantuan.

Mother Gresham took a mouthful of the alcas bread and scratched one of her chins in thought. She turned to address the six girls who squatted against the kitchen wall eating their breakfast. The peppery seeds of the bread gave her face an extra flush.

"Sandila's left us in a bit of a fix, my girls," she said. She spoke Imperial with a strong Azaguntan accent.

"Not as much of a fix as poor Gelia's in now," Emelia said to Abila with a whisper. Gelia, the slowest of the maids, was still scrubbing vomit in the adjacent dormitory.

"Sandila was to be taking up Lord Ebon-Farr's breakfast early today. He always insists on her when he has guests," Gresham said.

"I wonder why," Abila said to Emelia. She tried not to laugh back, biting hard into her alcas bread.

Mother Gresham fixed her steely gaze on Emelia.

"Which I suppose means we'll have to unleash you on them today, Emelia."

Emelia blushed as the girls all stared at her. A trickle of dread rose from her belly and her mouth began to dry despite the moistness of the bread.

"B-but, Mother, surely Annre is better to..." Emelia said.

Mother shook her head, her jowls wobbling. "Annre, Abila and Tarn are to attend Lady Ebon-Farr for her dressing. M'lady has an engagement with Lady Farvous in Northside. I think we all remember your last experience of dressing."

Emelia cringed at the reminder. Two years ago she had helped dress Lady Ebon-Farr in her many rich skirts and had torn the fabric on a loose nail. Mother had been obliged to cane her and she had sobbed herself to sleep for a week afterwards.

If she wasn't such an ignorant crone, continually moving as you tried to fix her skirts, it wouldn't have happened, Emebaka observed acidly. Emelia shut the voice out and tried to think of another excuse.

Mother interjected before Emelia could speak.

"Gedre and Quellik are needed in the kitchen today for the baking. The garrison is working full tilt with the Ni-Faris festival coming up. And besides they are both too young to be acting as parlourmaid."

Gedre and Quellik both began to protest, but a glare from Mother Gresham brought them to a halt. Gresham had a temper to match her flaming hair.

A rich voice rose above the din from the kitchen as Captain Ris came in, and sat beside Mother on the already strained timber bench.

"It is a fair comment, lass. The lads are busting a gut and a hungry soldier is a mutinous one. Besides, it'll give the lads a treat to see those eyes of yours in the upper Keep."

The other girls all laughed. Emelia blushed again, feeling suddenly awkward and uncomfortable.

Ris's pale blue eyes met hers as he peered down his hawkish nose. Like most Eerians he was tall and slim, with the grey hair that grew on them all from manhood. He had a clipped beard that gave his jaw a commanding edge.

"It seems only the other day these lasses were brought on the stagecoach from Greypeak, all doe-eyed and smelling of starch. You've done a fine job with them, Mother, what with Mister Hirfen moving to the Lord's estate in Lower Eeria."

Mother clucked at the praise.

"You're too generous, Captain. Merciful Torik knows that girls can be a challenge, but they've each got good in them if you can just ferret it out."

"The lads'd ferret it out of the Azaguntan lass, that's for sure—shame she's taken a fever," Ris said with a chuckle. "Young Emelia's diamond eyes might yet put a smile on his Lordship's face today. He's got some serious company it would seem, to be rising as early as the likes of us."

Emelia sighed in defeat and rose.

***

Emelia straightened the pressed pinafore she had put on top of her tunic and skirt, still feeling self-conscious as she ascended the final flight of steps. It had been several months since she had journeyed so high in the Keep. Most of Emelia's days as a maid were spent in the lowest floors: in the kitchens, the cellars and the sewing rooms. On occasional days she was sent to attend to some minor task amongst the city garrison. The garrison was stationed on the three floors of the Keep that rose from street level. The bawdy welcome that female servants received meant Mother Gresham usually dispatched the more robust girls, like Gellia or Sandila. So it was with some trepidation that Emelia had embarked on her errand.

Predictably the journey through the garrison's floors had been replete with teasing. Most comments revolved around crude observations that Emelia had changed from a gawky adolescent to a young woman in what seemed only a few months.

Emelia turned the corner of the stairwell and was startled to see a hunched figure on the stairs ahead. He was a broad lad, although two or three years younger than her. Soft sobs echoed against the hard stone.

She made to approach him then hesitated. It was unforgivable to dally on the way to serve the lord. Yet the lad was new and she felt a surge of pity in her heart.

"Are you all right?"

The boy jumped, drying his eyes.

"Are you crying?"

"No!" he said. He stood to leave. Emelia saw his scalp had a reddened area and his long blond hair was patchy.

"All right, sorry. Are you hurt then? My name's Emelia. I'm one of the kitchenmaids."

The boy stopped and looked at her. He was fair and very well built.

"Are you of the people of Asha?" he asked.

"Well I was before I got brought here, an Islander that is," Emelia said nodding. "Now I think I'd faint if I ever saw the sea. You?"

"I came from Clifftop House near Port Helien four days ago. I can still smell the brine on my skin."

"Hold onto your memories whilst you can. So 'Island Boy', why are you sitting in the stairwell? Shouldn't you be down in the kitchens or in the scullery?"

"I was sent up to attend Lord Uthor but I got... waylaid by the soldiers," he said. Leaning forward, hesitantly, he showed his bloodied scalp.

"They cut it with a knife?"

"They said footmen with long hair carry lice."

Emelia looked away, shaking her head. The pair stood in silence for a minute.

"C-can I ask, are you the one they call Star Eyes?" Emelia started as he switched to their native tongue to speak her other name. It was risky speaking anything other than Eerian.

The lad stared at his feet as he spoke.

It had not been until her ninth year that Emelia had seen herself in a mirror. She had accompanied a chambermaid named Halgar to the rooms of Lady Erica, the Ebon-Farr's daughter. Erica's vast chambers, located on the floor above her parents, were jammed with mirrors to such a degree that it felt as if you were in but one of an endless row of rooms that stretched away to infinity.

Emelia had looked with fear at the looking glasses as Erica was dressed and pampered by Halgar. It had been a moment of discovery as she gazed upon her face and in it saw a pair of glittering eyes, quite unlike those of anyone she knew.

"Yes, that's right. Star Eyes," she said in Eerian. "What else do the boys say?"

"I- I wouldn't know. I don't listen. They are different to me—they are from other lands... lands like the Isle of Thieves."

"Probably best not to listen anyway."

"Yes. Look, I'm sorry; I didn't mean anything by it. I think they're... well they're beautiful. They're like a mermaid's eyes."

That day in the mirror she had seen eyes of the palest blue, so diluted as to be near white. She had turned her face and they glittered like the frost of the winter's dawn.

"So it would seem. Mother Gresham told me one night that one of my ancestors must have lain with a Subaquan. If I'd inherited something useful such as the ability to swim away from the Preparatory House when I was six I'd have been happier.

"Anyway, I really need to get to the upper Keep or I'll be caned senseless. Look, come with me, won't you? I'll make sure you don't get de-loused on the way to Lord Uthor this time."

The boy laughed in spite of himself, before setting off after Emelia as she moved up the stairs.

They reached the lord's corridor. To the right the stairs continued upwards for another two stories until they emerged in one of the four turrets on the roof. The boy hesitated for a moment. A lone soldier stood guard on the landing. His chainmail was well oiled and covered partly by a dark red tunic. The silver emblem of the eagle, symbol of the Coonor city guard, adorned its front. He held a spear. A slim sword was strapped to his side. Emelia glanced at the boy, nodding that he should keep going.

Emelia smiled at the soldier and he nodded gruffly in return. She thought his name was Sarik and she recalled that Gedre was sweet on him. The boy and she slipped past and down the long corridor towards the lord's chambers.

Daylight streamed into the corridor through a large window at the far end. Tapestries, old shields and swords adorned the walls. The Keep had stood in some form or another for a thousand years and with that came an endless source of antiques and tarnished weapons for the servants to dust and polish. Adjacent to the door to the lord's chamber was a narrow sideboard and a small alcove—the opening of one of the numerous dumb waiters that ascended in the stone of the Keep.

"The door you need is at the bottom on the right," Emelia said. "Just be careful. Lord Uthor can be..."

"I have heard. 'The Jackal.' Thank you. You won't say anything about me... crying?"

"No. We all need our secrets in this place. Something that's just ours."

The boy nodded and slouched off down the corridor. He neared the door, turned and whispered hoarsely.

"I'm Torm, by the way," he said, then added in the Island tongue. "From Ruby Isle."

Emelia smiled and her hand drifted to the rough texture of her shell pendant; it was one of her nervous habits. Her scalp was itching with the ash and grease.

In an attempt to ease her nerves her gaze drifted to the tapestry above the sideboard. It was faded like most of the Keep, its once bright colours leached by the sunlight to match the depressing hue of the stone. Emelia could make it out as a battle scene, maybe from the time of the Eerian Empire. A dominant figure to the right was commanding a vast army of conquering Eerians. Above him flew a dozen griffon-borne knights and overlooking the scene was the great god Merciful Torik and to his side, the elemental race of the air, the feathered Netreptans.

Emelia's mind wandered back to nights full of tales in the kitchen as Mother Gresham had regaled them with stories of knights, Netreptan archers and handsome bards. She had recounted fables of dashing princes of faraway lands, who cowered before the short lived might of the first Empire. She had told of sun-kissed Feldor, of the splendid Knights of Artoria and of gallant Thetoria with its duelling barons. Magical lands that she would never see, save in her dreams.

Emelia savoured every instant of dreaming, for in her dreams she could sometimes find freedom instead of fear. In these dreams, she was a dancing princess, entrancing a handsome traveller who would inevitably turn out to be a brave prince. There were castles in the clouds and griffons that would fly them to the four moons and back. In her dreams she was a magnificent and regal lady, not a housemaid sold by her parents in the Scattered Isles with nothing but a pair of freakish eyes.

The clatter of the arriving tray jolted her from her daydream. The platter was laden with alcas bread, jams, butter, sweetmeats and tongue. Her stomach rumbled and then tightened. The odours swam in her head and for a moment she feared her nerves might make her vomit. Emelia took several slow deep breaths and rapped on the door before lifting the tray. She paused for a moment and looked down the corridor— the boy, Torm, was long gone. Emelia grinned to herself and pushed open the oak door. She'd definitely got the better deal of the pair.

***

Lord Talis Ebon-Farr's day chamber was long and thin, much like the noble himself. The grand windows afforded astounding views over Lower Eeria. On the far left of the room were two doors that led to the study and the bedroom respectively. The chamber was warmed by a crackling fire that jutted into the room. A huge mirror loomed above the fireplace, its borders carved in the likeness of soaring eagles.

In the centre of the chamber were a selection of plush chairs and tables made of the finest wood from the second Eerian city of Tosnor. In two of the chairs sat Lord Ebon-Farr and his early morning guest.

Lord Talis Ebon-Farr could trace his lineage back to the time of the Eerian Empire some eleven hundred years ago. In the centuries since then, the intermarriages of the Eerian nobility had assured that almost all of the great houses had some association, though not necessarily cordial, with one another. Lord Ebon-Farr sat on the Eerian council, one of the nine lower-lords, and it was through this that his friendship with his guest had come.

Lord Ebon-Farr displayed the pure bred features of an Eerian noble. His swept back grey hair crowned a thin face, made sharper by a hooked nose. It was as if living at such an altitude in a city famed for its arrogance and aloofness had warped the Coonorians—the residents of Eeria's capitol Coonor—into a resemblance of their avian neighbours, the Netreptans.

Talis was chattering as Emelia approached. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor; one did not meet the gaze of the masters. Her entire will was focused on balancing the awkward tray.

"I'm sure that my nephew, Jular, will pass Ni-Faris. I know my wife's brother is especially eager for his career in the magi to begin early. He is a most generous chap. Have I introduced you, Inkas?"

The other man shook his head politely. Emelia's heart leapt into her mouth as she heard the name and she chanced a swift glance at him.

Arch-mage Inkas-Tarr was a strange sight to those unaccustomed to the attire of the Air-mages. His grey robes rippled like mercury around his slim frame, held in check by a golden sash that denoted his elevated rank. His long fingernails scratched in boredom at a trimmed beard that contrasted with his tattooed scalp. Runes and symbols of power were etched in blue ink on the shining head. Yet what caught Emelia's gaze was the glow that emanated from his chest. It was the bright blue light of a mystic diamond, the source of the wizard's magical power. The slave girl recalled Sandila telling her in hushed tones that the gems were embedded into the flesh of the magi, soldered there until death came upon them.

Inkas-Tarr spoke softly. His power was such that the air around him seemed thickened and distorted.

"I am afraid I haven't had the pleasure, Talis. The Ni-Faris—the Choosing—is always a hectic time and I lose track of all the applicants."

"Oh, certainly, I am sure, I am sure," Talis said. He had still not acknowledged Emelia's presence and she stood hovering on the edge of their discussion, trapped in the grip of uncertainty.

"I know that my brother-in-law hopes for him to be a ferenge or melange," Talis said.

"Ah, the exuberance of youth," Inkas-Tarr said. "Of course all applicants hope for the more glamorous disciplines. The sombre reality is that most, even after success and Bonding, will fulfill roles of administration and research. More sedate... but vital to the modern Order."

"Oh, I'm certain. You've still got to allow the lad his dreams, Inkas," Talis said. "You were a ferenge in your day."

"Ha! Indeed, and a melange. One of the few to cross the disciplines. But enough of my convoluted past... your sons, Talis, what paths have the gods decreed for them?"

"It's amusing that you say that, Inkas. Geldir, my second, is entering the Priesthood next summer. Karak, my eldest, is a man of letters like his father. He is studying the Rolls at the Great Library and Halls of Justice. Perhaps then he will enjoy a career at my side and on the council. And Uthor...yes...Uthor."

Emelia felt a twinge at the sound of the name, as if mention of the son would conjure him like a spirit.

"Uthor hopes to calm his wilder side with a career in the knights under the patronage of his cousin Orla."

"He hopes to tame it?" Inkas-Tarr said, with a wry smile. "Are you certain the knighthood is the correct place for your son? Its discipline is legendary, my good friend."

Talis sighed then noticed Emelia for the first time. He indicated for her to place the breakfast platter on the table that stood between the two men. Emelia kept her eyes on the floor in deference as she moved forward. She could feel the power radiating from the wizard as if it was the heat of the summer sun.

The Arch-mage watched her with curiosity as she trembled next to him.

"What a fascinating girl you have, Talis."

"Ehm yes, Inkas, indeed. Not one of my usual girls are you, young one?"

Emelia's throat was dry. She could think of a hundred places she'd rather be than here. Even clearing up Sandila's vomit was preferable to this.

"No, m'lord."

Inkas-Tarr leaned forward and touched her face. His pale skin was burning hot on her chin. He turned her face to look at him.

The wizard's eyes were pale blue, like a winter's sky. They spoke of arrogance and might, boring into her own like a termite. Emelia began to look down, intimidated by his gaze, then a compulsion from deep within her made her meet his stare. Emebaka hissed in her mind, meet his look, Emelia, be proud of who you are inside. A surge of excitement and rebellion tingled through her chest.

If the Arch-mage was startled he did not show it.

"She has a fascinating look, Talis. Those eyes... has she a Subaquan in her, I wonder?"

Lord Talis looked uncomfortable.

"Erm, I'm not certain. I think we purchased the contract a decade ago, from one of Ulgor Barias's houses near Port Helien. I got a good deal on a few of them, as I recall, via a karabister called Elstin. Gresham looks after them down in the kitchens."

"Indeed, indeed," the Arch-mage said. "I should welcome the opportunity to study her in... greater detail. Perhaps after the Choosing is concluded?"

A trickle of ice ran down Emelia's spine. She continued to meet the mage's eyes whilst every fibre of her being willed Lord Ebon-Farr to refuse the request.

"You may take her today if you wish, Inkas," Talis said with a shrug. "Keep her at the Enclave for the next few weeks until Ni-Faris is done. I'll get my advisors to sort out the transfer of contract over the next day or two."

Inkas hesitated, as if he was pondering the offer.

"No, no. It can wait—it is only a curiosity after all. She seems a special little thing."

He released Emelia's face and she stumbled back. Every ounce of strength in her body was required to stop her shaking and crying. Damn them! Emebaka cried. Damn Lord Talis! We are not some trinket to be bartered and exchanged.

He didn't even bother to barter, Emelia replied.

Lord Talis nibbled on some alcas bread. "Now about the other special thing, Inkas."

Emelia retreated to the door, stepping back whilst facing forward, eyes still down as was the etiquette. It seemed a mile away. Her eyes stung whilst she contained her anguish and fear. She reached the door and then chanced a glance up.

Inkas-Tarr had slipped out a blue crystal from his robes. It glowed with a pale light. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

Emelia exited the room, breathing fast. The sense of dread that often preceded an act that she knew was wrong fluttered within her. She closed the door and peered down the corridor. Sarik was nowhere to be seen.

What are you thinking? Emebaka asked.

Well you should know. That crystal—it's like a fallen star.

We could listen... find out more, Emebaka said.

The door must be six inches thick. How can I hear through that?

Have faith in yourself—go on, just try.

Emelia strained to listen to the conversation in the room. A headache blossomed as she held her breath. Then, with some astonishment, she found she could hear as clearly as if she was stood by their side.

"... of power?" Talis asked.

"That much is still uncertain, I am afraid. Certainly, it is enchanted. But is it part of a prism? As yet I have not been able to ascertain this."

"Then you need it longer?"

"Sadly, my attention will be diverted with the Choosing. Perhaps I shall return to its study after the festival is over. Can you secure it?"

"Oh yes. The room below us is double-locked and the first door you'll recall is enchanted with a Mage-lock. Also I've got the only key for the inner door around my neck."

A hand pressed onto Emelia's hips. She jumped and turned, stifling a scream.

Stood before her was the unshaven adolescent, Uthor Ebon-Farr. He was nicknamed "The Jackal" by the servants and Uthor had earned the moniker well over the years. The features that gave his father a regal attractiveness looked cold and cruel on him. He was handsome, yet behind the trimmed silvery hair was a malignant and selfish mind.

Emelia's heart was racing as Uthor swaggered before her. He wore a tight tunic to emphasise his athletic build but the effect was marred somewhat by his stubble and the smell of stale beer.

"Didn't Mother Gresham tell you to take care when you peer through key holes? You might regret what you see." His voice was a dangerous purr.

"M'lord, I...I'm..."

"I was disappointed not to see my little flame-haired favourite parading herself down my father's corridors. But I dare say you'll be a more than adequate stand in for my eye," Uthor said, pressing himself closer.

Emelia felt her back catch against the sideboard in the corridor. She had no space to manoeuvre. Uthor pushed himself against her. The stale alcohol was pungent and Emelia nearly retched. Panic coursed through her. She knew little of the ways of men but she knew enough to be scared of Uthor and his advances.

She turned her face away and saw Torm cowering further up the corridor. He met her glance as he shook. A change seemed to come over him as their eyes connected. He reached for one of the swords hanging from the wall.

Emelia felt raw fear. If Torm raised a weapon to Uthor he would be put to death. She mouthed 'no' at him and seeing this he became wracked with indecision.

Uthor became more excited as he saw her whisper 'no.' Emelia's head began to throb with each thud of her heart. Uthor's face loomed as he tried to kiss her. Then from deep within her came a surge of anger and frustration: how dare he treat me this way!

Above the sideboard a shield crashed and clattered to the floor, its tinny sound echoing down the corridor. Uthor leapt back, eyes widened.

"My lord, are you all right?"

Sarik appeared in an instant. The door next to Emelia swung open and Lord Talis emerged with Inkas-Tarr behind him.

Emelia flushed scarlet with a feeling that if the earth opened up and swallowed her it still wouldn't be enough.

Uthor regained his composure. "The girl had just stumbled. I was just helping her back up. Just can't get the help these days, eh guard?"

Sarik shook his head. "No, m'lord."

"You're probably all excited about the move in a few weeks aren't you, dear?" Lord Talis said to Emelia. "Inkas, this is my errant third son, Uthor. Shall you join us for breakfast, my boy? Inkas will be delighted I am sure."

Uthor shot Emelia a cold stare then strode into the chamber. Emelia bowed then scampered red-faced past Sarik and back towards the safety of the kitchens.

Inkas-Tarr stood staring after her. "A special thing indeed, Talis, a special thing indeed," he murmured.

Chapter 2 Kirit's Eye

Leafstide 1920

"You'd like wine? Wine? Does this look like a Feldorian tavern?" Jurges Innsman asked. He raised his voice over the raucous din of a half-dozen mariners roaring songs towards a motley collection of painted women at the back of the tavern.

The neatly presented young man smiled and shrugged, idly playing with a silver coin in his elegant fingers.

Jurges scowled and rummaged for the inn's solitary bottle of wine on the back of the filthy bar. He displayed it to the patron who eyed it closely then indicated his acceptance. The barman filled a goblet with the deep red liquid then slammed the bottle down. The young man flipped him the coin then turned to watch the card game. He surreptitiously wiped the rim of the goblet before sipping its contents.

Jurges hated foreigners even more than he hated the locals. This was unfortunate given that he owned a decrepit seaside tavern in one of the dingiest ports in the continent of Nurolia. The Rose Tavern was an ironically named example of the worst sort of drinking den in the port of Kir. The dockland region of Kir had the appearance of a colossal shipwreck. The slimy wooden boardwalks lead to creaking piers and jetties that clawed at the tumultuous waters of the Northern Ocean. Kir's small cove gave limited shelter from the winds that wailed from the Scattered Isles six hundred miles to the north.

In ages past, in the golden era of Azagunta, Kir (or Theles as it had been known in days gone by) had been the anchorage of choice for traders sailing towards Helien or returning to Aquatonia. It survived the Plague of Dust that had decimated the majority of Azagunta in the final days of the Era of Magic, and this astonished many. They joked that its price for survival was to become a source of every known plague to torment man since that day. The haughty neighbours of Goldoria dubbed it Sogox's barnacle, an irreverent reference to the demon god of disease.

The Rose Tavern, like its dozen compatriots whose amber lights haunted the portside of the Barnacle, was a haven for slavers, pirates, dishonest traders, thieves and, of course, gamblers. Jurges sneered at the specimens that played Kirit's Eye tonight. Multi-national card games rarely ended well.

***

At the central table sat five players, cards arranged before them. The closest to the bar was a young brown-haired Thetorian called Hunor. His glittering earrings matched the twinkle in his eyes. On his left was Alfra'Te, a rotund Mirioth merchant who was relishing in the sound of his own voice.

To Hunor's right was Jelbettio, a drunken Feldorian, all curls and tanned charm. The final pair of players were sullen Azaguntans—Olix and Malik—their auburn hair trimmed very short as was the current fashion amongst the criminal classes of the immoral isle.

Alfra'Te was dealing whilst chattering in Imperial, the common language of traders.

"There's no doubt that the local market for quality carpets and cloth has dried up like an Azaguntan plague pit. I would say I'll be heading to the Choosing when I've cleaned you losers out."

His podgy hands were laden with cheap jewelry as he flicked the first set of cards out to the other four players.

"Which order is taking in this season?" Hunor asked.

Alfra'Te paused and clicked his tongue. His gold teeth glittered in the subdued light. Out of the corner of his eye Hunor could see flickering of hands between the two Azaguntans.

"It's the Air-mages, young Hunor. Unfortunately Coonor is not the city to be visiting at the advent of winter. I swear I'll be wearing my rugs as robes!"

Hunor and Jelbettio laughed, the latter swigging his ale as he did so.

"You could warm that fat back end of yours by enlisting to the Uristân legion, Alfra. I heard the lizards are chopping up your cousins for dinner again," Jelbettio said, his voice slurred.

Alfra'Te flushed and his attitude became serious. Hunor winced at the jibe.

"Right... a fresh hand then, my kind sirs. The Porosti house is high, the Helgorki house is void. Threes reverse the run. Jelbettio, are you in?"

Jelbettio squinted at his six cards then tossed two at Alfra. The merchant passed two back. Jelbettio pushed a pile of gold forward. His game had been going well.

Malik, the smaller Azaguntan, smiled and asked for two also. As he moved to receive the cards Hunor transiently saw the edge of a card in his sleeve.

"How are the tides for the trip, Alfra? I can never decipher all that nautical rubbish. It's like Wild-magic to me," Hunor asked, his eyes evaluating the two Azaguntans.

Malik and Olix were clearly allies. Malik, the younger one was hard-featured with dark copper hair and a killer's eye. Olix, the older and taller, was scarred from his mouth to his ear bestowing him a ghoulish leer. They were also both armed with swords and, Hunor suspected, concealed daggers.

Alfra'Te, eager to forget Jelbettio's joke, began jabbering once more.

"I'm no expert m'self, young Hunor. Never sail without one of the Guild on the ship. Having said that, I've sailed the trade route betwixt Kâlastan and the Mist ports that often I could probably give them a run for their money. Now if you have the Eerian moon rising, the Pyrian moon falling and the other two absent then I reckon that makes for a strong east stream across the Northern Ocean. Olix, are you in?"

Olix shrugged and scratched his scar. "With what little you've left me. Three cards."

Alfra'Te exchanged the cards and Olix pushed his remaining gold forwards. Hunor looked at the twisted face. Olix had the air of a professional criminal but he and his companion had been fleeced for most of the last hour. This stank of a scam. He should have listened to Jem.

Alfra'Te turned to look at Hunor as he glanced at his cards. He had a good hand: two mages, one duke, all in strong houses. He lingered on the choice and sipped his ale. His gaze flickered across the inn behind Olix and Malik.

The inn was deep, retreating from the wharf-side door back into the shadows. A dozen lanterns lit it, sputtering the fumes of whale oil into the air. The mariners in the far corner continued to bellow out songs, rather less than more in harmony with one another, while keeping time here and there with a playful slap on the thigh of one of their women. Three or four lone drinkers slumped at the bar by the side of the smartly dressed young Goldorian. Sat on the next table, four cloaked men spoke in whispers and shot occasional glances towards the game.

"I'm in, my vocal friend. One card if you please," Hunor said. "Did I regale you with the tale of time I fought the Mud Ogre of Southern Foom, a beast so vile its halitosis could cripple a horse?"

Jelbettio roared with laughter and Alfra'Te looked bemused. Hunor pushed forth his gold and as he did so a large coin rolled from his pile and across the table. Jelbettio instinctively reached out for it and in his drunkenness knocked over his flagon. The cheap beer splashed over the table edge and onto Malik, who recoiled. Two cards fluttered down from the Azaguntan's sleeve. Hunor smiled with satisfaction.

The moment seemed to hang in time as all eyes settled on the cards as they came to rest on the wet table.

Alfra'Te pushed his chair back as Olix and Malik rose, hands lunging to their swords. Jelbettio snarled and was on his feet drawing his rapier. Hunor twisted from his chair and spied the table of dark-garbed men rising and reaching for their blades.

Jelbettio swished his thin blade in the air before him and lunged. Olix parried the misjudged attack and slashed with his broad sword. Jelbettio gasped as the edge drew a deep wound in his belly, a spatter of blood covering the gold on the table.

Hunor swore as Jelbettio stiffened and dropped, foam bubbling from his mouth. Blade venom, that's just my luck, thought Hunor. He reached behind his back and slid his sword from its sheath. Hunor then stood immobile, the glinting blade held just below waist height.

Malik approached, his eyes glittering. About ten feet behind him the four dark cloaked men moved from the table. The inn was eerily silent.

Hunor met Malik's cold eyes with his own. Then he winked.

At the bar the prim Goldorian tutted and placed his goblet down on the bar very precisely. He raised both hands, stepped forward and muttered arcane words.

The air seemed to thicken around his arms then rippled forth, like a stone thrown in a pond. The four dark-attired men were lifted from their feet as if struck by a hurricane. They crashed through the table and into the chairs, their weapons clattering on the floorboards.

Hunor made his move. Malik swung his sword and Hunor sidestepped, hooking his blade under the attack. The razor edged sword flashed in the amber torchlight.

Once more Hunor was still. Malik crumpled to the ground. The edge had carved a furrow across his left arm and face. Bright blood spurted from the flapping artery in his arm and he dropped his sword to press on the wound. The long cut on his face served to blind him as gore trickled into his eyes.

Olix looked at the devastation in horror. The four men were being held by a vice-like force. Two were wounded, with jagged pieces of wood impaled through their legs and were wailing. The other two lay under the remnants of the table.

The assassin Olix's blade still shone with the sticky poison as he advanced. Hunor could see that his atypical fighting style had disconcerted his foe. He suppressed his cockiness—one nick from that sword and it was all over.

Hunor was like a statue as Olix closed the distance between them. Alfra'Te scuttled towards the door then paused to observe the finale of the battle.

The combatants' eyes met and then held.

Olix pounced, whirling low as he attacked, his free hand pulling out a slim dagger. His envenomed sword darted at Hunor's abdomen whilst his dagger stabbed in an arc to try and wound any parrying arm.

Once more Hunor made a single slash. The keen blade had sliced into Olix's neck before the attack had come close. The assassin flailed as blood spurted across the inn and sprawled over the table, his poisoned weapons falling uselessly to the floor.

Hunor looked at the younger Azaguntan who was desperately trying to stem the bleeding from his arm. He wiped his sword with a black cloth and re-sheathed the weapon before scooping a handful of blood-flecked gold into a small bag. Hunor strode past the bar and gestured to the neat Goldorian.

"Come on, Jem! Time and tide and all that."

***

A mist that had rolled in from the ocean thickened the evening air. It gave the worn timbers and grimy stone of Kir a glistening look, like the carapace of some giant insect.

Hunor and Jem strolled along the wharf side, navigating through the detritus of mankind that littered the cobbles in front of the taverns and bordellos. Gaudily painted harlots danced with sailors to pipe music. Yells and screams peppered the air as fistfights spilled from the ramshackle inns onto the street.

The pair may have presented a curious target to some ambitious bandit, yet despite their appearance they conveyed an aura of confident strength.

Hunor was the taller. His brown hair was shoulder length and his features carried a roguish charm. His dark travelling cloak covered a blue tunic that in turn covered black leather armour. On his back was strapped a sword of Shorvorian design and at his belt was hitched a slender dagger.

Jem was a sharp contrast to his companion. The mage had lighter hair trimmed precisely into a short greased crop. His tidy moustache added a dash of colour to his pale boyish face. Jem's clothes were quality made and had loose sleeves tamed by tight cuffs in the style of the Mirioth tailors. He carried a slim sword that hung from his waist.

Jem had been sulking since the pair had left The Rose Tavern. Hunor kept attempting conversation but each initiation was met with a dismissive tut from his friend. The two came to the central pier, now wrapped in a cloak of mist and paused at the bottom of City Street.

Hunor hid a smile. He knew Jem could never sulk for long without talking.

The mage stroked his moustache. "Well that was a quiet game of cards, Hunor. We really must look up those new friends of yours again."

The Thetorian thief held his hands out in mock exasperation.

"How was I to know that someone was going to beat me to cheating? And to do it so, so badly. What a crime!"

"Well we can add that baby assassin to our growing list of enemies. Maybe we'll regret not finishing the business there."

"The kid was courteous enough not to use blade venom, unlike his mentor. It should be a valuable lesson for him. They should pay me for these pearls of wisdom, I swear."

"Oh, absolutely," Jem said. "I'm certain when his arm has been replaced by a large hook so that he finds himself quite unable to relieve any itches in his britches without damaging the family jewels, he'll no doubt be sure to look us up and say thank you."

Hunor chuckled at the Goldorian's dry wit and Jem couldn't help but crack a smile. The pair turned and started ambling up City Street as it wound its way from the portside to the old city.

"Did you see that merchant scamper when it all kicked off?" Hunor asked. "I can't say that I've ever seen so large a Mirioth move that quick! Well maybe for a carpet sale."

Jem shook his head with a faint smile. "It transpired to be a rough deal for your drunken Feldorian acquaintance though."

"Play with assassins and drink too much. That's not a recipe for general well-being in this town. It's a shame—I had thought he'd be a good recruit to join us. Expand the portfolio, so to speak."

"Seriously? If we were to run scams involving contraband alcohol perhaps... but he was hardly competent as a swordsman, or a thief. You know I feel we'd be better trying to enlist another Wild-mage."

"Well we're unlikely to find someone that satisfies all our needs, mate—be realistic. Azagunta hasn't exactly got the widest choice has it?"

The ramshackle timbers of the docks were gradually giving way to a row of better presented houses as the two ascended the hill towards the city walls.

"Remind me again why we're in this place," Jem said. "It's filthy and it stinks. Even the old city smells of blasted dead fish and that's half a mile away. It took me a morning of spells to clean my room."

"Jem, nowhere is ever going to be clean enough for you," Hunor said. "It's hardly my fault if the shipment I'd heard about ended up ten fathoms under the Corinthian archipelago, is it? There's probably a Subaquan thief at this very moment picking through those quality silver goblets. Say, do you reckon Subaquans have thieves? I mean fish are free to grab under the sea, aren't they?"

Jem looked in exasperation. Hunor swiftly interjected, sensing that Jem was about to launch into one of his pedantic diatribes about other cultures.

"So we're at a real loose end, old mate. What say we catch a ship around to Bomor? The Sea of Mists has to be warmer come winter than this dump."

The pair had reached the city gate so Hunor's question hung in the dank air.

Kir had grown from the ashes of an ancient port called Theles, a city built in the boom of Azagunta during the Era of Magic. Its archaic stones were now blackened and drab. The crumbling wall that once held carvings and frescos of beauty now only displayed vague shapes that hinted of a magical grandeur some twelve hundred years past.

It was as if the city was embarrassed at what it had become. The walls served to contain a memory of what once was. Yet even this had been tainted over the years by shabby restorations and tasteless modification, the hallmark of the island of Azagunta, the so-called Isle of Thieves.

Two city guards scowled as Jem and Hunor approached. Their only remit was to keep out thieves and lower life forms from the small walled city.

Hunor beamed a large smile. "Good day, kindest sirs. Imagine our dismay when we realised that all the beauty to see in finest Kir was behind these walls where our salubrious accommodation resides and not in the charnel pit that lies at its delicate feet. Can we trouble you to allow our return?"

Two coins glittered in Hunor's agile fingers. The guards nodded gruffly and the pair passed the gates, slipping the money to them as they entered.

Jem resumed their conversation as they strolled through the Old City. The mist of the docks had left them halfway up the hill but the air remained chilly. Whale oil lamps gave the narrow streets a strange amber glow. Hunor could make out only two of the moons through the clouds above: the silver Eerian and the red Pyrian.

"Maybe Bomor's not so bad an idea, Hunor. I do worry about going back to Bulia until that fiasco with Igred is sorted out. Mind you, I could do with attempting to retrieve some of the clocks that I was half way through making from the house."

"Not really worth a knife in the back, mate. We'll get back there soon enough," Hunor said. His keen eyes scanned the busy street ahead. They were passing the guild houses near to where the city warden's keep was located.

"How about contemplating a change? We could traverse the Sea of Mists and see what's transpiring with the Mirioth legion and their lizardmen neighbours? Or how about the Emerald Mountains? Perhaps some worthy cause will appeal to us as we travel? You know, something different to illicit pursuits, for once?"

"Not enough profit and too much danger, Jem. We've been there and done that remember? I thought we'd discussed this to death? You'll be signing us up for the Artorian Knights next and going out to hunt trolls in the Wastes."

"Technically we wouldn't be eligible for the Knights as they only recruit from old Artorian lines," Jem said.

Hunor rolled his eyes as Jem began one of his lectures on the ancestry of the various orders of Knights in Nurolia. They were nearing the end of Gilder Road. Then out of the shadows of an alley he spotted a lean figure nodding towards him.

Hunor nudged his companion, letting his hand rest on his dagger. Jem stopped mid-conversation and peered towards the alley.

"Six in the alley. There are also two on the roof with crossbows."

Hunor nodded. He could sense the mage preparing a defence and considering all the various escape options. Hunor prayed Jem wasn't planning a fizzy wall; his stomach was griping enough after the food in the Rose Tavern.

The lean man crossed the street and stood before the pair. He was remarkably ugly. His lumpy face was crisscrossed with scar tissue. One eye was glass and clearly hadn't been cleaned in a while.

"A good Leafstide to you both. My master was wondering if you'd be gracious enough to give him twenty minutes of your time?"

Certain that both crossbows were trained on his head Hunor produced his most charming grin.

"Kind yeoman of mighty Kir, you catch us at a slight disadvantage. I am afraid as mere traders and strangers in this ancient city we can't think who would want to waste their valuable time with our exceptionally dull company."

The lean man gave a lopsided leer, his mouth evidently restricted by his scars.

"Why Guildmaster Linkon invites you and he's not a man who is readily refused, good trader."

Jem sighed as he saw Hunor's eyes twinkle.

***

The guild house of the West Avenue thieves had once been a great library. Its robust walls were designed to convey an air of tranquility, felt in the hey-day of the Azaguntan Cabal to facilitate learning. Those aspirations were now as dusty and decayed as the nation that had believed in them and the many centuries since had seen a new knowledge come to the Azaguntans—that of crime. And as the ethos of a nation had evolved so the western library had twisted and changed. Partition walls, wooden screens, newer bricks and mortar had divided the long chambers into a warren of rooms and passages, some overt and some secret. Different spans of aging plaster—yellowed by the continued haze of tobacco smoke—covered the walls patchily like the skin of some leprous ghoul.

Hunor's distaste at the place was clearly magnified a thousand-fold in his particular companion. Jem's nose was curling to the point of becoming a snout and his moustache twitched like a nervous rabbit.

Their guide, the scarred man from Gilder Road, was leading them through the passages. They passed several rooms where groups of burly men sat playing Kirit's Eye. All were armed and most rooms had racks of crossbows, oiled and ready. Jem took it all in as he walked behind Hunor, logging all their positions should the need arise to flee.

They paused at the base of a staircase whilst the scarred man talked to two thugs. Jem felt a tingle in his head and glanced to the left.

In the shadows of the staircase was a man, perhaps in his late thirties, with dirty blond hair. He was dressed in an untidy white shirt and leather pants and was muttering something to himself. Jem sensed the magic in the air around him; he was another Wild-mage.

Hunor nudged Jem. The scarred man had begun to ascend the stairs and the two thugs stared at the pair. Hunor slipped past them with a wink, followed by Jem.

The door at the top of the stairs was heavy oak and reinforced with iron bands. Another two ruffians, clearly with a hint of goblin in them, stood guard. They parted to allow the trio through.

***

Hunor and Jem entered an expansive chamber. The room was perhaps thirty feet wide by forty feet deep. A fire in the far wall sent dancing shadows across the plushly decorated walls. The majority of the floor space was occupied by a bewildering array of furniture: chairs, tables and cupboards, all of the finest craftsmanship. The plaster in here was in much better condition than the patches in the rooms below and several grand paintings were hung on the walls, dating from the Eerian Empire.

The scarred man weaved around the chairs and short tables and came to a halt before a grand desk. On the far side sat a short, solid man.

"Jem, Hunor! Boys! Where've you ass-monkeys been hiding these last few years? Hey, how long's it been now?" the small man asked.

Jem nodded curtly whilst Hunor held his hands out in a gesture of mock surprise. "Linkon Arikson. How can a visit to Sogox's Barnacle be complete without a drink with you?"

Linkon laughed then winced in pain. He was a small yet muscular man with a nose that had been broken so many times it had come to resemble a small parsnip. This comical appearance fooled very few in Kir. His eyes were dark and told of death. One did not rise to Guildmaster by any other way than a close allegiance with murder. His tattooed hand was pressing a pig's bladder against his jaw.

"Scarseye, go and scram will you. Your face makes the milk curdle. Go steal me some money or something, huh?" Linkon said to their companion.

Scarseye glowered at Linkon then left, the door closing heavily behind him.

"Cold, that one Hunor, stone cold," Linkon said. "No honour amongst these younger thieves, present company being excepted. Would kill your mother, eat your kids and do your dog if you crossed him."

Jem sat in an opulent armchair and straightened his clothes. His gaze flitted through the antique furnishings. He reached to a small table next to his seat and rearranged four candlesticks to form a precise line.

Hunor remained standing and poured a glass of wine from a golden jug on the desk, idly pushing aside some parchments and scrolls.

"Why the bladder, Linkon?"

"Damn tooth rot again, Hunor. Tried everything. This one's from the Guild of Healers, some old Midlundian cure. There's hags blood, yarkel eyes and griffon feather inside it or something. I'd just blown twenty silver on something that smelt like fish crap from the apothecary as well."

"The whole town smells of fish waste," Jem said.

"So how come you Wild-mages can't do any better than the quacks? My own boy downstairs can blow a hole in a garrison but can't even sort my tooth out."

Jem sighed and began to explain in an air of irritation. "There are few magic disciplines that can produce healing, Mr Arikson. Really it's the forte of Dark-mages, altering flesh and blood. I also seem to recall that Galvorian monks can use their arts to mend bones and treat wounds."

"Ingor's nuts! I'd not let one of those potato-heads near my killer smile. Anyways it's been too long boys. Hear you monkeys have been winding up Igrid down south?"

Hunor sipped his wine, fixing his eyes on Linkon.

"Ah come on, Linkon, you know Igrid. He's a jester. It was all some misunderstanding about his niece and an Aquatonian necklace. It'll come good. We just fancied a change of scene—thought we'd nip up to the seaside and try those eels that the Barnacle is so famous for. Did I tell you the story about me, Jem and the Molten Eel of Pyrios?"

Linkon shook his head to indicate his interest in one of Hunor's stories was at best miniscule. A lull descended on the room, which was soon broken by the short Guildmaster.

"Any how let's get to business before we all drop our trousers and start fencing, huh? I'll admit I'm pleased you boys are in my town. No really. I've a big job that needs your... ah, combined talents."

Hunor sat next to Jem, who smoothed his moustache.

"A concerned party has contracted me to locate a valued item matching a very particular description. Simple enough? Turns out Engin's dice aren't rolling too well this autumn. I've sent three crews out for three separate items that match the description already and I've just got wind of another."

"Why do you need our, as you put it, combined talents, Mr. Arikson?" Jem asked.

"I'm sure the valuable in question will be tucked away with some magic wards around it. Credit where it's due, you boys are good at this sort of thing. It'll be worth your interest," Linkon said, pressing the pig's bladder tight on his jaw.

Hunor and Jem exchanged a look.

"First, who's the job for? Second, where is it?" Hunor asked.

Hunor saw Linkon's eyes flicker almost imperceptibly at a scroll on his vast desk. The Guildmaster smiled with some effort, rearranging the pig's bladder poultice. His voice was cooler and Hunor worried for a moment he had gone too far.

"First of all you don't need to know who's behind the money. That's the way I work boys you remember that? Second of all, the job's in Eeria. Coonor, to be specific."

Hunor groaned. Coonor: the City of the Mists. What was it about mists today? It was the only place in mainland Nurolia that was colder than where they were now.

Jem sat forward. "Coonor! The cleanest city outside of Goldoria! Please continue, Mr. Arikson, please continue."

It was Hunor's turn to sigh.

Chapter 3 The Carnival

Leafstide 1920

"Do you think there's something wrong with her?"

It was Abila's voice, saturated with concern. Emelia knew that should mean something to her but she couldn't seem to generate the energy to be bothered.

Her body was weighed down by misery. Each time she tried to rise from her bed it dragged her back like an undertow in a sea of gloom. There were no tears left in her, she felt wrung out and barren. A void was within her hollow chest, a space where a young bright girl used to be.

"I don't think what Sandila's got is catching," Annre said.

"Come on, Emelia, before Mother gets here."

Mother? She is no mother to me, thought Emelia. Who would be a mother to such a weak worthless vassal as I? She needed to get up but her muscles refused. By Torik, she was tired, weary to the marrow. She was fatigued yet couldn't sleep.

"Get up now, girl," Mother Gresham said.

Emelia stared at the stone of the wall. I feel like the dead rock of this prison.

A bucket of ice cold water soaked Emelia. She sprang from the bed with a scream. Gresham grabbed her hair and dragged her across the floor.

"Melancholia is for the rich, Emelia. Remember that. Now get to your chores or I'll cane you into a better frame of mind."

Emelia stumbled towards the warmth of the kitchen, stifling a sob.

***

The wind that drove over the Cloudtip Mountains from the Plains of Meltor often marked the decline of autumn. It chilled like none other, infiltrating any gap in the yarkel hair cloaks that the servants had as their only protection.

Emelia and Abila awaited the emergence of Mother Gresham and Sandila into the cobbled square that was located in front of the Keep and its gatehouse. The ubiquitous mists had cleared rapidly that morning with the wind.

Although their origins in the frigid northern islands had conferred them some degree of resilience to the cold, the two girls still stomped and slapped themselves, trying to reclaim some of the lost warmth of the kitchens.

Emelia's attention was fixed on the upper city's walls. They ran from either side of the Keep flush with the edge of the plateau on which the city sat.

"It makes you wonder what sort of threat made them build walls that high around a city half way up a mountain," Emelia said.

"Are you going to be dreamy all day?" Abila asked. "I suppose it's better than the mood you have been in this last week."

"Oh, you noticed! Well you'd be in a mood too if you found out you were going to live with the Air-mages as an object of curiosity."

"They might turn you into a frog and then you could hop away."

Emelia glared at her friend. "I just feel so trapped in this place, with its high walls and its sombre stones. It's like we're in a giant rock pool."

"That's a curious phrase. I've heard you say it before. Where's it from?"

Emelia sat back against the edge of a rickshaw. Tears pricked her eyes.

"Do you remember much before you came here? Much about your family?"

Abila shook her head. "I was only five, I think. My mother died in childbirth and my father, well he was a sailor and you know how they drink. When he was offered the money for my servitude I'm certain he leapt at the chance. I've probably a better life here."

"Well I'm not sure I can say the same. Before you tell me off, it's not the melancholia. I've being thinking about it for a while.

"I was at the markets with Mother about three months ago and whilst she was arguing with a vendor about some cabbage I smelt this old man's pipe smoke. It was sweet, like the steam from cook's puddings.

"Well then I got a sudden feeling that I'd smelt it before and into my head popped this image, this scene, like a dream but whilst I was awake."

Abila sat besides Emelia, hugging herself for warmth.

"What was it an image of?"

"It was on an island, before the famine. I was on a beach. No, that's not strictly true. I was atop some rock pools next to the beach. With me there was another girl and I think it was perhaps my sister. She wore a shell pendant just like mine."

Emelia pulled loose the pendant and Abila nodded.

"Down on the sands there were two adults, a man and a woman, and they were repairing a net. I'd found a large crab. It was a real beauty! It had speckled brown on its shell, as if it couldn't decide what colour to be when it had been born. Every time I tried to lift up this crab from its rock pool it scuttled back into the water. My sister was laughing but I kept trying to tease it out. Each time it broke free and returned to the pool."

Abila rested her head on Emelia's shoulder as she continued.

"Well even I got bored of this game and I was really sore from the wind, salt and sun. So my sister and I came down the rocks. I can still feel the rough surface scraping our bare feet. The man, and I think it was perhaps my father, was sat with my mother by a small boat.

"I can recall my mother was young and pretty, and I wonder if it was my father's second wife. I think his first wife had died and the son by that union had left the island years before. My mother had borne my sister and me."

"I can understand the rock pool bit now. What's the pipe smoke got to do with it?"

"Give me a minute! Well I went to sit by my father. I can remember his arms—they were knotted with muscle like the ropes he used in his fishing boat. His eyes were a deep kind blue. He smoked a long wooden pipe. It had been that smell, that rich scent of pipe weed which stayed with me.

"So I asked him why the crab kept scuttling away when I just wanted to bring it down and show it where I lived. He laughed and said to me, 'That is all it knows. The pool is its world and it cannot see beyond that.' He said that I was different, that my eyes would see beyond wherever I stood but, as far as I could see at any time there'd still be more. He... he said Asha had given me eyes from the stars."

Tears rolled down Emelia's cheeks, stinging in the bitter wind. Her friend smiled and touched her arm.

"That's a lovely memory to treasure. But this is our life now. Here, the Keep, in servitude. You'll get ill if you carry on dreaming of the Islands."

"Then sick I shall have to be. When does a memory become a dream? It's as hard to grasp as that pipe smoke. But I'll dream of a better life every day and come my twenty-first year I shall make it back to the Islands... I swear."

The serving girl looked concerned and uncomfortable. Over her shoulder Emelia saw the huge silhouette of Mother Gresham waddling out of the keep with Sandila. She wiped the tears away.

"Back to where?" Abila asked. "There are a thousand islands, Emelia—you'll never get back to your own. You'd be far better staying on in service... if not with the Ebon-Farrs or the Air-mages then with some other fine household."

"There are records... they keep records, I can remember them saying."

"Oh come on, Emelia," Abila said, shaking her head. "Perhaps a record of the transaction or the contract, so they can wave it around and sell it on. But the specific little island you come from? The Corinthians get lost in the Islands when they sail there and they've laid claim to them for hundreds of years. You'd be much happier if you just accept your life and stop these silly dreams."

Gresham stomped past the girls and tossed two large cloth bags to them, each containing a long list of provisions. Emelia sighed—evidently there was going to be little room on the rickshaw for carrying the purchases from the lower city.

"So what do you think is wrong with Sandila?" Abila asked in a low voice.

"Well she's been sick every day for a fortnight," Emelia said. "According to the others 'Turnip worm' is the favourite, followed closely by 'Housemaid's grype.' I also heard Gedre whispering she thought it is a curse from Torik brought on by Sandila kissing too many boys in the Keep."

Abila laughed, her eyes wide.

"Well that earned her a thump around her ear from Annre. So I'd say 'worms' has returned as the favourite. Mind you, I think that there were a few praying with extra vigour that night."

The broad figure of Torm followed the pair out of the Keep. Abila saw the lad and nudged Emelia.

"Look, Emelia, your sweetheart's coming too."

Emelia blushed and poked Abila back. She had seen Torm only once since Uthor's advance and he had avoided her gaze.

"Hello Torm. Is the jackal letting you out today?" Abila asked, glancing sideways at Emelia.

"Oh, hullo Abila, hullo Emelia. Freezing isn't it?"

"You haven't felt cold until you've lived through a Coonorian winter, Torm," Emelia said. "Why are you coming down to the lower city with us?"

"Master Uthor had his new doublet repaired at Herstin and Jotts but there was a problem with it. He needs it tonight for some outing in the city and wants me to take it there and then back."

"All that way for a bit of gold trim?" Emelia asked.

"Ah well it gets me out from the Keep and I can see the lower city on the way down, in case I get errands in the future."

"Emelia can show you some interesting bits," Abila said.

Emelia shot Abila a deathly glance. "You all right, Torm? You knocked your face?"

Torm covered his bruised cheek and looked down.

"Err, not exactly."

Emelia cringed at her stupidity. Uthor was notoriously volatile.

"Oh. Well, we're taking Sandy down to the wise woman in the lower city," Emelia said.

"Yes, only the masters use the Guild of Healers," Abila said. "Mother prefers the lay-healers for us, rather than the apothecaries and quacks."

Torm nodded, still avoiding Emelia's eye line.

The rickshaw creaked ominously as Mother Gresham squeezed into its seat. The two drivers were looking in abject horror at her. Sandila clambered next to Gresham. She winked and pulled a face as she slipped into what little space remained. Emelia bit her knuckle to stop laughing.

"This is cosy, Mother," Sandila said.

"More than you deserve. You three make sure you keep up with us. The Festival of Ni-Faris will be damn busy and I don't want you getting lost," Gresham said.

They all nodded, but as the rickshaw moved off like a snail they could see that keeping pace wouldn't be an issue.

***

Emelia, Torm and Abila were jogging at the side of the rickshaw as it bounced through the boulevards of the upper city. They were heading towards the gate in order to descend to the lower city.

The progress down the cobbles had induced a progressive puce coloration to the two men who pulled the rickshaw and Emelia genuinely feared how they would manage the steep descent.

Torm's eyes were wide with curiosity as they ran along past the grand buildings of the upper city.

"Are those buildings where the knights live?" Torm asked.

Emelia shook her head. "No, that building is the Tower of the Wind; it's the seat of the Eerian council of fifteen. They're the ones in charge of us all, servant and noble alike. The knights are on the highest plateau in the Citadel."

"What about the wizards?"

"The Air-mages live in the Enclave, which is on the other side of the upper city, over the River Garnet. They sit on the council too, with the knights."

Emelia could not help but marvel at the pristine beauty of the buildings as they passed through the city square and turned towards the lower gate. The grandeur of the architecture hailed from the days of the First Empire and the conservatism of the Eerians had maintained its sharp lines in the millennia since. It took little imagination to think of life in those past times. The huge libraries, concert halls, theatres and noble houses would have changed not one iota. To Emelia this observation conveyed not awe at the structures but sorrow at the sterility of a city that had never advanced past its triumphs. It was a city as cold as the winds that whistled through its stone canyons.

The rickshaw slowed as a parade of robed adolescents crossed the avenue. A half dozen Air-mages flanked them as they strode along the wide street, their grey robes rippling in the wind. At the rear of the group a score of Eerians followed, the opulence of their garb inferring noble status.

"The candidates for the Choosing. They must be on the way to the Enclave," Abila said.

Emelia barely registered Abila's statement. She stared at the sombre figure of a Knight of the Air, who marched at the very edge of the group. The knight was a tall woman, her grey hair tied back in a bun. Her eyes transiently met Emelia's and the young housemaid had an odd premonitory sensation.

"You'll be seeing some of them soon enough, Emelia," Mother Gresham said as they watched the parade pass.

Emelia felt sick inside, a rising terror in the pit of her stomach. What Mother Gresham said was true, but for some odd reason she just couldn't see herself at the Enclave. It was a ridiculous notion—after all she had never visited the place. Yet she had a peculiar idea that if she tried not to imagine it, to deny its reality, then it simply wouldn't happen.

She had developed a stitch in her side by the time they approached the gate and a glance at Abila indicated that she was tiring too. The gatehouse was a splendid structure that had admittedly sacrificed something of its defence value for its image. Two rounded towers stood as sentries either side of a small barbican. The gate itself was an enormous pair of metal shod doors, with a raised portcullis for good measure on the exterior side of the short tunnel.

"Is this the way out of the city?" Torm asked.

"Not really. It's the way to the Avenue that will take us down to the lower city. I'll warn you the view is quite frightening the first time you go down."

The boy paled as they walked through. He glanced up at the murder holes, now worn smooth by the wind. The guards at the gates were idle. Six of them stood within the wide tunnel as the rickshaw trundled through, their red and silver tunics covering well-kept chain mail. They nodded at Mother Gresham and winked at the two servant girls.

"It is said that during the coup that ended the Empire that Lord Ebon-Farr's ancestor slew the mad Emperor's champion at these gates. He rode through a hail of arrows and past a rain of oil from the murder holes," Abila said to Torm.

The footman scampered forward swiftly and then stumbled to a halt at the awesome view. The Avenue of Clouds was the only link between the upper and the lower city and it descended precipitously. It was a broad road etched into the mountainside and bordered by a small wall that reduced the risk of any unplanned descents over the edge. Millennia of traffic had necessitated a near continual cycle of repair and it was rare to actually travel the length of its steep incline without encountering at least one crew of dark skinned slaves patching the surface.

The farmlands of Lower Eeria could be seen far below, extending to the horizon. Torm instinctively held the side of the rickshaw as it began its descent.

Eager to keep the boy's mind off the journey, Emelia pointed towards the lower city.

"You can see the falls of Alkar to your left. The River Garnet comes through the upper city walls and it plummets hundreds of feet into a pothole. You can't see that bit for the mists. It comes out way below in the lower city in the neighbourhood of Cheapside.

"If you look through the haze you can just make out the tiny plateau below and to the south of the upper city. That's Ferioch-Torik, where the temples of Blessed Torik are."

The descent was slow, with the shift of weight now pressing down on the backs of the rickshaw drivers. After half an hour the rickshaw and its companions had creaked all the way down the Avenue, overtaken by almost every other traveller who came from the upper city. They passed through the eastern gate of the lower city. It lacked the splendour of its counterpart at the top end of the Avenue but had a similar functionality, with twin towers and a portcullis.

The contrast between the districts of Coonor was initially subtle when one entered the lower plateaus. The Coonorians civic pride still extended to this inferior aspect of their city. The pale stones of the buildings were from identical quarries and indeed the style of the construction, arrived at by centuries of architectural rumination, was in essence the same. It was as if the regal skeleton of the upper city and its sombre Imperial memories had been thrown down the mountainside and the flesh of life restored to its bones. The lower city overpowered the senses. The shouts and cries assailed the ears whilst the odours of every part of life here found their way to nose and mouth.

"The 'wise woman' lives on the far side of the market so we'll have to cut through the carnival," Abila said to Emelia.

"Stay close to the rickshaw," Emelia said to Torm. "And don't worry, I hated crowds the first time I was brought here."

"Did it make you yearn all the more for the tranquility of the Islands?"

"What little I can remember."

The streets in the lower city were narrower and more winding than those higher up the mountain. A multitude of houses loomed from all angles as the six moved through the throng. The stone structures had far more variety in the lower city with roofs of slate, wood, thatch and even tin creating a constantly changing skyline. Busy shops were squeezed next to noisy inns next to brightly decorated town houses, all a backdrop to the human tide that ebbed and flowed with the joy of the festival.

The rickshaw dragged its way through a mass of exuberant Coonorians as they traversed the Jewelry Quarter towards the market square. Torm and Emelia clung onto the side of the rickshaw, whilst Mother Gresham swore at the foolishness of the revelers. Sandila looked wan and was silent, staring in envy at those in the streets.

The group passed the bottleneck that had formed at the end of Gate Street and emerged into the large market square. Emelia's eyes widened at the crowds as they headed towards Cheap Street on the far side of the square. Golden-toothed Mirioth merchants proclaimed the beauty of their finest carpets and rugs shoulder to shoulder with Midlundian brewers selling beer by the barrel. Two Air-mages haggled with a bearded Coonorian over a stack of scrolls and journals. It felt strange to Emelia to see mages engaged in something so mundane after her encounter with Inkas-Tarr.

Emelia spotted a tanned trader, perhaps Feldorian, selling bottles of red wine to a richly dressed Eerian and his retainers. Children knocked into baker boys who carried trays of pies that exuded welcome odours into the crisp mountain air. Carts pulled by hill ponies lumbered through the festival, loaded with produce from the farmlands of Lower Eeria and the Delta.

"What in Asha's name are those?" Torm asked.

A tingle of excitement ran through Emelia as she saw the squat forms of four Galvorians. They were looking with curiosity at some oak chairs, chatting in their strange language. Even in the din of the crowd the sounds stood out, as if two huge millstones were constantly scraping.

"Galvorians. Annre calls then potato men," Abila said.

"Abila, that's awful," Emelia said. Torm chuckled.

Emelia returned to her examination of the Galvorians. They stood five foot tall with dark brown skin that had the appearance of soil. Their eyes were completely black and glinted like onyx in the sunlight of the Eerian day. She was fascinated by their complete lack of hair and a pang of ignorance came within her as she realised she knew so little about them and their culture.

"They are hired by the lords to work in the mines just out of the city, I think," Abila said. "Mother had said they have a natural draw to finding gems and gold."

"Wouldn't it be magical to see where they came from? I wonder what their homeland is like."

Abila was distracted and did not answer. From within Emelia's head the familiar voice of Emebaka commented, perhaps if we chose not to go to the Arch-mage we could find out. Look at all these people; it'd be so easy to slip away.

Emelia scowled at her rebellious inner voice and turned to see what had drawn Abila's attention.

The rickshaw had halted and the two drivers were begging Mother Gresham for a rest and a drink. She nodded gruffly and began to talk in low tones to Sandila, her jowls wobbling with each wag of her pudgy digit. The drivers bought a flagon of ale from a Midlundian brewer and eased back in exhaustion on the poles of their vehicle.

Eight soldiers approached the rickshaw, their red tunics emblazoned with a silver eagle and the sun glinting off their spears and mail. At the front of the group strode Captain Ris, his hand resting with self-importance on his longsword.

"Good day, Mother, girls. It is a grand morn to be gracing the lower city with your collective beauty."

"Captain, what a treat!" Mother Gresham said.

The rickshaw drivers looked as if they were going to kiss the Captain for the additional rest he had just earned them.

"We brought the new boy down on an errand for Master Uthor. It's his first time in the lower city. I fear he is rather overwhelmed," Gresham said. Torm looked at his feet.

"Well the festival is well underway so you've chosen an exciting time to be down here. The carnival folk are in the south part of the square. They have bears with them this year—dancing ones. They're chasing around the masques and the fools and keeping my lads on their guard."

Gresham chuckled in delight, wobbling the rickshaw dangerously.

"However do you and your poor, poor boys manage to keep a lid on all this revelry?"

Captain Ris puffed out his chest in smugness, as was his manner, and gestured towards the roof of a small church to Torik.

Atop the church steeple were two winged creatures. They stood tall, with long slender limbs and golden feathers on their bodies. Their slim arms were wings and here the feathers were longer and darker, folded into their sides as they balanced atop the slates. Emelia marvelled at their faces, for each had the head of a bird: one a hawk and the other an eagle. Pale wood bows were secured to their backs and a quiver of arrows to their slender hips.

"Netreptans," Mother Gresham said. "Good captain, I didn't know you worked with the bird-men thus."

Ris preened his beard, as if the association with the Netreptans had made him fancy himself a peacock. His soldiers exchanged weary glances.

"It's a new move from the council. Highlord Cranston felt it would be a good show of unity with them, especially during the Choosing. They're a bit strange to work with—must be the thin air in their cloud cities."

Abila, Torm and Emelia continued to stare at the pair of Netreptans, amazed that such creatures could accept the command of one such as Captain Ris.

"I mean every four years that this festival comes here is such a strain on our garrison. You probably weren't aware of this, girls, as you're too young to remember your arrival here, but it takes days for all these foreigners to get used to the clean Coonorian air. I'll warrant the boy knows what I'm talking about. You make a Miroth run around the town on his first night and he's liable to faint dead away."

Abila had wandered off further into the square and Emelia glanced at Mother Gresham enquiringly. Mother nodded her permission whilst listening to Ris's chatter, indicating for her to take Torm. Emelia slipped the cloth bag onto the rickshaw and the pair ran to catch up with their friend.

It would be an untruth to say that Emelia feared crowds, but today felt somehow odd. A knot of unease began in her belly as she slipped through the gaggle of people. Glancing to her side she noticed several city folk scowling at her and one or two whispering as she passed.

"Emelia, about the other week," Torm said. "In the corridor, I..."

"You don't need to say anything. It was just bad luck on my part. I'm trying to forget it. So should you."

"I should have got the sword and..."

"You'd be the main show on the gallows today if you had. No, Torm, thank you for being so noble, but let's not talk of it again."

Torm nodded and they wriggled through the throng.

Abila had come to stand before a troupe of carnival folk, along with about two- dozen others. Emelia balked at the show that was being performed before them. She had detested the masked troubadours that Eerians referred to as masques for many years.

The show today was an enactment of some ancient magical battle in a faraway land called Kevor, and the masques rolled and mimed their imaginary spells to the whoops of the crowd, throwing red cloths to symbolise the blasts of magical fire. Their faces were wooden caricatures, with bulbous noses and garish cheeks that muffled their speech to a near indiscernible point.

"They're hideous," Torm said.

Emelia shuddered and said, "Mother used to be fond of scaring us with stories about the terrible plague helmets of old. The helmets were created during the Plague of Dust that wiped out Old Azagunta."

"What did they look like?"

"She said they had funnelled beaks and glass eyes. Blessed Torik, I didn't sleep for a month after that."

Torm smiled and touched Emelia's arm lightly. The slave girl blushed and glanced over Torm's shoulder. Four women were looking in disgust at her and sneering.

The noise of the crowd escalated as the play neared its finale and Emelia caught the eyes of two Eerian women smirking at her. She glanced down, her heart pounding, feeling the press of the crowd all around. Her breathing was getting shallower with the heat of the bodies that were beginning to jostle and push. It was as if she couldn't inhale properly and a sudden vision of being crushed under a stampede of people came upon her. She tasted sour bile in her mouth and her yarkel-wool cloak felt heavy and stifling. Her shaking hand reached to her shell necklace for reassurance.

Then a soft voice whispered in her ear.

"I know what you heard, little maid. I know what you did."

Emelia's whole body went icy and she turned in terror. Stood next to her was the leering face of a masque, its rasping breath flecking spittle through the mouth hole.

Get away Emelia, now, Emebaka screamed in her head. The world seemed to twist around her as if she were viewing it through warped glass. Round faces loomed, laughing with piercing shrieks at her fear and panic. Hands grasped as she bolted forward, a desperate need to escape coursing through her. She weaved through the crush of the crowd knowing instinctively that the masque was behind her, that it meant to take her and do sinister unspeakable things. Heart thudding in time with her pounding feet she ducked down a narrow alley between two shops and fled the fear of the market square.

Torm stood astonished, his mouth lolling open at the abrupt exit of his friend. He spun and pushed through the crowds back towards Mother Gresham and the rickshaw.

***

Arch-mage Inkas-Tarr surveyed the austere square that bordered the outer limits of the Enclave of the Mages of the Air. His window was located at the pinnacle of the lofty tower that soared above the buildings of Coonor. He could see the tiny figures of children forming a row for the day's Choosing. He shook his head in irritation; this was but the first day of seven, such were the number of applicants this year. At these times he felt more of a headmaster to some school for ambitious Eerian brats than the Arch-mage of an ancient and feared order.

Eight of his magi strode the lines far below, the glow of their staves just visible. The ritual was designed only to decide which of the children had the potential for the use of magic. In reality a good number of any group of children—whether slaves, servants, freemen or nobles—would have the necessary spark. The true selection came in the Sorting of these children, a range of physical and mental tests conducted within the Enclave and one that many would fail.

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 cannot 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 high-ranking mages were either embroiled in the Choosing or on more vital missions in Eeria and beyond. The gamble was whether the Netreptans would raise the withdrawal of Ekra-Hurr with one of Inkas-Tarr's lieutenants, the silver sashes. Two of the four he could trust, one of the four 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-Hurr 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 is 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 their 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. "

Marthir and Kervin were silent as they looked once more up the hill to the green of the forest. Kervin considered that Ygris might have a good point, although perhaps motivated by desire for a scalding sun rather than the rashness of this chase. The Artorian Knights were now an impotent order, concerned more with tournaments and show than true valour. Marthir had the courage of the lion and the focus of the predator stalking its prey, but that could make her impulsive and dangerously blinkered at times.

Four days ago they had ridden down from the foothills and into Sandar's Beck, returning from a trip into the hills raiding an old tower-house occupied by a band of goblins. The goblin raiders had proven a good source of gold for the winter ahead, which they aimed to spend in Belgo with Sir Tinkek and Ograk, the absent pair from the group.

They could sense that something was amiss as their steeds had taken them down the slopes towards the small shrine and mill of the Beck. A dark cloud of crows had greeted their arrival, feasting on the corpses of the kind priests and retainers that resided in this outpost of North Artoria.

They had searched through the desolation, weapons at the ready. The clerics, worshippers of the god Umar, had long faced threats from the goblins that populated the hills. To this end they had hosted a small force of men-at-arms whom provided both reassurance and protection. It had been such a long time since any danger had threatened that the soldiers had taken to assisting the priests in attending the Beck's water mill.

As a consequence they had clearly been caught unawares and the slaughter was complete. Bodies lay strewn about and several had been cut down as they had fled; their backs were split open like the pages of the books they had so cared for. Rain had merged their blood in with the mud of the settlement. Some had been charred by an intense heat. Kervin, a tracker, could discern hoof prints interspersed between the corpses. Marthir investigated the interior of the shrine, tears shining in her eyes, whilst Kervin and Ygris examined the bodies. The bolts that jutted from the spattered robes were unusual in design and Kervin confessed he had not seen their like before.

Marthir had emerged shaken from the priests' library. Mysteriously, only a few books had been taken. Their curiosity had deepened as Kervin was forced to conclude that the tracks indicated that there was but two riders whom had wreaked such devastation.

Ygris had used his magic to burn the bodies lest goblins descend and take parts of the corpses to wear as jewellery. Marthir's dismay was apparent, for she believed that bodies should be returned to the womb of Nolir, the Earth mother. They watched the fatty smoke of the burning bodies irritate the circling crows. Marthir, anger burning as hot as the pyre, declared that this evil must be punished and thus their current stalking had begun.

Now as they moved up the slope, Marthir walking slightly ahead, Kervin was beset by apprehension that whatever warriors could slaughter two dozen men would be no easy prey for the huntress.

***

The woods were gloomy yet the air carried the welcome scent of wet pine. The floor of the forest was damp and boggy and soon the horses were fatigued. Marthir whispered to them and then indicated to the others that the time to make camp had come. They tied the horses to a branch and Kervin gathered some logs to make a small fire with. Ygris waved his hand and fire sprang in an instant, the wet wood sizzling.

They had set camp at the edge of a small clearing, a natural dip in the forest floor that brought to Kervin's mind the appearance of a wood temple. He watched Marthir kneel and begin praying to her goddess in Old Artorian. The words were rich and warm, like the sweetest honey of summer and he thought wistfully of the gentle heat of his boyhood naps in the green hills near Keresh. It was a delight to hear the old tongue again: he spent most days conversing in Imperial, the common language of trade and diplomacy, characterised by the harsh vowels of its Eerian origins.

He unbuckled his sword, rested his back against a tall pine and spread his aching legs towards the fire. Ygris was scratching his chest in annoyance; the rain had irritated the skin that bordered the glowing ruby embedded in his sternum. Kervin felt a gnawing from his belly and concluded that he'd best hunt for supper before the light faded.

Three magpies took to the air with a cry as the foliage at the far side of the clearing burst apart. Two riders erupted into sight, hooves thundering on the forest floor. Kervin yelled a warning and leapt to his feet, his sword in his hand.

The two attackers were armoured in black plate armour unlike any that Kervin had seen before. It seemed fitted to the contours of their powerful bodies, like the black shell of a huge insect. Their helms were devilish: gargoyle-like faces merged back into black metal skullcaps. Dark cloaks billowed from their backs as they charged with alarming speed.

Marthir was on her feet and her body warped and changed into the bronze form of a mountain lion. The green robe split down its side, the special thickened thread unravelling in an instant. The feline reactions saved her as she lunged from the path of the charging knights, the hooves trampling the emerald cloth. Ygris raised both hands and began casting a flame bolt, but the first rider was upon him as a magical inferno erupted from his hands. The black knight swung his long sword in a deadly arc, striking Ygris in his side as the heat exploded into his horse.

The animal's scream echoed amongst the trees as its flesh charred and Kervin saw the knight's leg armour glow. Ygris spun back, blood splattering from his side and he fell under the stomping hooves of the steed.

Kervin ran forward to meet the second knight, his sword raised and steadied against the charge. The black warrior aimed a crossbow and fired and the impact threw Kervin back into the pine tree as the bolt impaled his left shoulder. Intense pain flashed into his arm and he felt the wetness of blood flowing down his side. With dismay he realised he was stuck to the trunk of the tree behind him. Fighting through the pain, he lifted his sword in defence as the knight thundered towards him.

A bronze shape blurred in front of Kervin as Marthir leapt at the mounted knight. The impact unsaddled the warrior, sending him crashing to the floor of the clearing. Marthir bit into the knight's neck, her razor sharp teeth ripping the gap between breastplate and helm. The powerful jaws clamped hard and tore the flesh loose. Again and again she shredded the fallen knight, as his attempts to fight her off got progressively feebler.

Kervin tugged furiously at the bolt. He knew that Marthir was losing control, driven more bestial by the blood of her prey. Kervin could see the second knight, turning his horse, leaving the trampled and bloodied Ygris in his wake and aiming a crossbow at the lion. Marthir arched her back, evidently preparing to leap. Kervin strained with all his might; Marthir was a sitting duck, even with the agility of the lion she could not clear sixty feet to the mounted knight.

The knight's finger tightened on the trigger of the crossbow.

A sword swung into the knight's back as Kervin lunged forward. His bloodied arm hung limply by his side, the broken shaft of the bolt protruding from his shoulder. Kervin's blade dug deep, finding the join between breastplate and waist. Blood sprayed in a fan as the sword emerged from the knight's flank and the crossbow fired. Marthir was already moving as the bolt hissed harmlessly past and within a few heartbeats she was upon the knight and Kervin.

The knight turned and slashed his sword at Kervin's head but he easily parried. The wounded horse reared at the sight of an advancing mountain lion and the dark knight fell back abruptly. Kervin marvelled at how swiftly the fallen warrior was on his feet, despite the apparent weight of his armour. Kervin pushed forward, his sword deftly jabbing and slashing at the wounded knight. Dark blood ran freely down the knight's armoured thigh as he parried Kervin's blows, trying to keep both opponents in front of him. He stumbled on a wet log as he stepped back and Marthir was upon him. Her red tinted teeth tore at his arm, the metal yielding as she ripped into the underlying flesh. Bone crushed as she bit hard and her claws gouged at the knight's helm.

Kervin stepped forward and thrust his sword into the chest of the recumbent knight. The warrior twitched once, gasped and then fell limp. Smoke began billowing with a hiss from the eye slits in his helmet. Marthir continued her attack, claws scratching a hideous sound as they furrowed the dead knight's armour.

Kervin kicked the lion in the rump making her jump forward in shock. She rounded with a snarl and readied to leap at him. He held his sword out to the side in a gesture of supplication.

"Marthir... Marthir! Listen to me, girl, get control now. You are a woman, a human... a druid. Come on."

Kervin could feel sweat trickling down his neck as the lion's green eyes locked with his own. Its haunches tensed and then Marthir pounced, the bronze fur a blur before him. He gritted his teeth for the impact, keeping his sword to the side for he had no wish to harm his friend.

In mid-leap the leonine form of Marthir shimmered and it was the human shape of the druid that bowled into him, sending them both sprawling. Kervin looked up into the panting face of the Artorian girl. Her green eyes were wild and her pupils dilated. She hungrily kissed his mouth. He could taste the iron tang of blood and then she rolled off him, sweat pasting her short hair to her face despite the chill of the dusk.

The tracker groaned and avoided looking at the naked form next to him; his wounded shoulder was still wet with blood. Damn these druids, he cursed, it was so much simpler in battle before she joined them. Avoiding her more passionate urges was as dangerous as evading the ones full of blood lust.

Kervin glanced at the part of the broken crossbow bolt that jutted from the tree and yanked out the shaft from his shoulder, pressing on the wound to stem the bleeding. He limped over to Ygris. The mage moaned as Kervin approached.

"By the ten thousand concubines of the rutting Sheik of El-Tuhor I think my days are at an end. Take my saddle bag of gold my friend and spend it on endless nights of jiggling ecstasy with women that would make your mother sell her hovel in shame!"

Kervin laughed as Ygris pressed on the wound in his own side that had already stained his dark robes a worrying red. If he was talking then he would live, at least long enough for Marthir's ministrations and healing salves.

Marthir had regained her composure and was calming one of the horses. She ran her hand along its neck and then pulled loose a black leather saddlebag. She knelt and opened the bag, bringing out a large book.

"Why have these knights gone to all this trouble for a book about the dead city of Erturia?" Marthir asked.

The druid's question drifted in the forest air like an early morning mist.

***

Emelia.

The familiar voice seemed to be calling from a vast distance, sounding faint and immaterial.

Emelia!

A blissful heaviness enshrouded her, comforted her. It was like a mother's womb, secure and removed from the terrors outside. Her instincts implored her to stay within this tranquil haze, to keep as far away from the acuteness of reality that awaited her should she strive to emerge.

Emelia. You cannot stay here.

All of her senses jerked back into action at the same instant and she jolted awake, slumped in a filthy alley.

She looked around in disbelief and then at her own arms and legs as if she was a soul who had drifted in error into some giant marionette. What in Blessed Torik's four winds had happened to her? Her skin was dirty, with cuts and scratches criss-crossing her hands and knees. Her hair was matted with grime, curly ringlets having escaped the bun; her yarkel-wool cloak was ragged and snagged.

Come on, you idiot girl, focus your mind, you are in danger here, Emebaka said. Emelia concentrated, ignoring the sting of the scrapes on her body. Her memory was fragmented. It was as if the last few hours had been painted on one of the Keep's stained glass windows then shattered with a stone. Shards of recall came back: images of pushing through crowds, running down jostling streets and stumbling past droves of merchants.

The panic that had so driven her was gone now and in its wake she found herself shaking like a leaf in the breeze. Tears welled to her eyes then flowed down her cheeks. Was she losing her mind? She recalled those vivid dreams of being chased by some wild dog and falling towards the shining cobbles of the square, each night the ground getting closer and closer. If you died in your dreams did you die in the world or did some part of you just disappear forever?

Sandila had once said the Azaguntans believed dreams were your spirit leaving your body at night searching for messages from the gods. What messages were the gods trying to convey to her? Nothing made sense any more, everything was changing and it terrified her.

What had got into her at the carnival when she had heard the masque's voice? How ridiculous that anyone should even care about a housemaid or what she had ever done or ever heard. She had surely misheard it, misinterpreted some comment to some other person of importance in the crowd? A pang of unease still sat in her stomach: was she so certain it wasn't true?

Emelia wiped her tears on her muddy sleeve and rose to her feet, wincing at the ache in her thighs. The Moon's malady they called it in the kitchen: the sickness of the mind. Captain Ris had talked about it one evening with Mother. A young soldier had gone insane after some terrible incident in the lower city involving the miners. They had found him stood naked outside the gatehouse wailing like a new widow. Sandila had made some lewd comment about his lack of clothes and the effects of the cold and Gresham had struck her squarely with a spoon.

Moon's malady or not we need to get from this place, Emelia, Emebaka urged.

You're the one always nagging me to run away, to escape this little rock pool of a city, she retorted.

This isn't the right time for you to do this, we must return to the Keep and accept the punishments, Emebaka replied.

The punishments were likely to be painful, she thought, as she emerged from the alley. Runaway servants were made examples of to the others and as far as Gresham was concerned that would mean the birch. Tears sprang to her eyes again. How was this fair? Why was it happening to her?

Emelia had emerged into a winding street, its surface covered by cobbles and patches of browned straw. The houses leaned nosily over the road, producing a gloom that was deepening as dusk approached. Several city folk went about their business, pushing past without a second glance. In a nearby doorway a girl nursed a baby. A pair of old men sat smoking long pipes on a doorstep, their voices croaking like two skinny toads. From twenty yards away she could hear the noise and jubilation of a tavern, its golden light pouring like spilt ale onto the street.

Emelia shuffled down the road, keeping her head low and her cloak tight around her. The state of the buildings spoke to her of Cheapside, the furthermost district of the lower city before the road that descended to the plateau of Minerstown. This was not an area for a young girl to be at night alone, especially a naïve housemaid like her.

A gang of lads emerged from the tavern laughing and hooting. They were well dressed for such a neighbourhood. A flurry of hope arose in her as she saw them. Perhaps she could implore them for assistance and an escort to the upper city. Emelia advanced, fixing her gaze on the tallest boy and trying not to catch the eye of any of the street's other denizens.

"Uthor, my old mate, this is a splendid jape. Where are we to drink next? There'll be no taverns left that'll serve us after your trick with that serving wench!" one of the smaller men said, sloshing ale from a tankard.

Emelia froze at the sight of Uthor Ebon-Farr. Uthor snorted then began to urinate against the wall of the tavern.

"Plenty of places down here, boys. This is how the Thetorians celebrate—they have the right idea—not like our stuffy countrymen. Got to enjoy yourself while you can. Father sends me to the Knights soon enough, then there'll be no rounds on good old Uthor."

Emelia retreated and walked straight into a drunken man staggering towards the tavern. He groped at her, chortling loudly, his scabby hands trying to get hold of her shoulders. Emelia moved with surprising speed, side-stepping his fumbling. The oaf fell onto the muddy road and roared in anger, his hand darting back and grasping her ankle.

Uthor and his companions turned to stare at the commotion. One of the lads, a short nobleman with a petulant face, pointed with a swaying arm.

"Look, boys, a harlot in distress. Who's for saving the day?"

The group erupted into laughter and Uthor looked with recognition at Emelia as she tried to liberate her ankle.

"No rescue needed, chums. She's a floor scrubber at home. Father can always buy another."

Fury roared through Emelia's ears and she kicked out at the drunk who clutched her foot. The kick struck the bridge of his nose and it split like a ripe tomato flecking blood over the cobbles. He screamed and released her; she whirled and ran.

Streets flashed past as her shoes echoed on the stones of Cheapside. Emelia was in many ways a natural athlete, with strong muscular legs and a nimble frame, and the distance she put between her and Uthor's gang was admirable. After ten minutes, she began to tire. She chanced a glance over her shoulder, then slowed to a more civil pace and walked down a deserted back street.

The buildings were changing in character, the patchwork nature of Cheapside giving way to older structures. It was dark now and the moonlight provided limited visibility as she entered a small square that lay before a large pair of iron gates. The sound of flowing water was near and with relief she realised it must be one of the two rivers in the lower city, the Garnet or the River of Stars. That would give her a chance to get her bearings.

A figure caught her eye as she entered the square and she instinctively stepped back into the shadows of a large house. It was a slender man, with a dark cloak and jet black hair and he was stood at the iron gates. He eased through a narrow gap in the gates and disappeared from view.

She wondered whether this stranger may be implored to help her. It felt a better option than retracing her steps and encountering Uthor. Emelia walked over to the gates and glanced at the sign. It made no sense to her illiterate eyes and she slipped after the man.

Emelia was in a small garden interspersed by engraved stones. The grass had grown over them, like overly long hair. The gravel path crossing the lawn was dotted with little mounds where it had seeded further. There were four small buildings that were difficult to see in the half-light. The closest had an iron door that stood open. The buildings were bland and functional, with few windows and flat slate roofs.

A tingle of excitement and daring arose in Emelia as she crept forward. Her own breathing seemed to be astonishingly loud in the silence of this curious garden and her breath left a vapour trail behind her as she crept to the door.

Emelia glanced through the open door but the man was nowhere to be seen. If she was so sure about this gentleman then why hadn't she called out? The corridor beyond the door was decorated with dust and cobwebs. It ran ten feet and was lit only by mediocre light from a window so filthy as to be near opaque.

Emebaka's voice whispered, tread carefully, Emelia, there is something dark going on here. She paused and considered turning and leaving, but a twist of curiosity gripped her, pulling her forward like a fish on a hook.

In a small hall at the end of the passage the cloaked man stooped. He had slid a stone slab from the floor and Emelia could see that there were about a dozen more placed on the floor. The slab had been covering a dark pit and with horror Emelia saw a skeletal arm lolling out of the hole, its mummified flesh hanging from it like parchment. By Torik, she thought, I am in a cemetery.

The dark man was placing a metal casket into the hole. He paused for a moment and opened the casket as if confirming the contents. A blackness seemed to emanate from the interior, a paradoxical gloom, which shrouded the man's hands in inky shadows. He snapped the lid shut and then lowered it into the grave. The stone cover grated as he slid it back over the hole.

Emelia was shaking as she snuck back out of the room. She did not have long before he turned towards the passage she had just emerged from. Her heart pounded in her ears and she felt suddenly desperate to pass water even though her mouth was parched. Emelia's foot scraped against the wall as she exited. The pale man jerked around and his dark eyes met Emelia's.

He smirked and prowled towards her, his hand reaching for a long knife at his belt. Emelia ran as if Nekra herself was after her, shoes clattering on the dusty stone as she flew from the doorway and into the cold air. Her foot skidded on the gravel as she landed and she stumbled then righted herself, sprinting on towards the gates. The iron frames looked skeletal in the moonlight and ridiculously far away.

This was no masque making phantasmal threats; this was a sinister man with a knife who was intent on her murder.

Emelia reached the gates and began squeezing through the gap, scraping her belly on the flaking post. The bitter scent of rust filled her nostrils as the powder fell on her face—it was like the odour of old blood. She spared a glance back and saw the man emerge from the mausoleum door, brandishing his dagger. A golden funnel was tucked in his belt, its glitter like a coin in the murky depths of the ocean. Terror gave her a burst of energy as she scraped past the gates and into the square. How had she got into this mess?

Please, Torik, do not let me die here in this lonely square. All her dreams, all her hopes would come to naught, bled out on the mucky cobbles of this dingy corner of Coonor.

Two voices startled her as she darted across the square and Emelia nearly ran full tilt into their owners. A pair of the city guard, part of Lord Ebon-Farr's garrison, were before her, looking with curiosity at her bedraggled figure. Emelia almost cried with relief; she had reached safety at last.

"All right, young one? What's going on with you, eh? Too late to be out in this part of town I'd say," the older one said.

Emelia couldn't speak such was her joy and she turned to gesture at the dark-cloaked man as he emerged through the gap in the gate. His thin lips were sneering at the trio. He held the knife before him and raised one hand to point at Emelia.

"The girl is mine," he said. His voice was like a sigh from a grave. "Her essence promises to be most... succulent."

"I don't think so, pal," the younger guard said, drawing his sword. "Now why don't you put down the dagger and we'll not give you too hard a kicking for scaring this lass."

A creeping dread arose in Emelia and inside her mind the voice of Emebaka, which had so far been suspiciously reserved, hissed Emelia don't stop running. These two are but an irritation to him.

There had been many times in her life since she first welcomed the little impish voice that she had ignored it, reprimanded it and even entered into pointless debates with it. This was not one of those times; she had a definite sense that Emebaka was correct.

The two soldiers had forgotten Emelia and were moving towards the dark-cloaked man. His outstretched hand twisted and appeared to scoop a piece of darkness from the shadows of the square. He spoke strange words and then flicked it at the older guard.

The tar like mass struck the guard in the face, enveloping his helmet and he let out a scream of terror. "I cannot see! Torik's breath, I am blind!"

His companion charged at the man, his sword swinging. The dark man evaded the attack and slid into the shadows. The guard halted, bewildered and looked around for his opponent. Emelia gasped. He had simply disappeared, as if he had been nothing more than a shadow himself.

Then Emelia spotted him, emerging from the darkness at the opposite side of the square to where he had stood just a moment ago. He was about forty feet away from her and, chuckling with a shrill cold laugh, he thrust forward his hand again. His whispering voice muttered arcane words that seemed to scratch the very air with their hateful sound. The blackness of his surrounds flowed from him. The soldier, caught off-guard by the mage's sudden shift across the square, could not avoid the magical beam. The darkness poured over him like a wave and he whimpered in horror as it consumed him, corroding his flesh like acid.

The guard crumpled dead to the floor, half his body eaten away. Emelia felt nauseous as she saw his ruined chest and the glisten of his exposed organs in the half-light. She backed away from the square and into an alley, whilst the mage strolled towards the blinded guard, dagger raised. His screams of terror ended abruptly as Emelia staggered down the alley.

The passage was narrow, situated between two tall stone buildings, and was littered with fragments of broken barrels and rotted vegetables. Its darkness was thick; the Dark-mage could appear at any time next to her and she may not even know until his knife slipped into her belly.

She stumbled with her arms outstretched and struck the wall without even seeing it was there. A white flash of pain lit her vision for an instant to be replaced by a thumping in her head.

Emelia leant, sobbing against the cold brick of the wall. The chase had ended now, she realised. What had begun with a stupid panic in the market square would now end in lonely death in an alley far from her friends. She would gaze no more on those sunrises as the dawn patrol of knights flew their mighty griffons. She would have no opportunity to say her farewell to Sandila or Abila. There would be no chance to ever look her father in his eyes and ask him 'why?' Why did you sell me? Why did you send me away? Why do you cry those tears of gold?

Emelia scraped along the rough surface of the wall. She was like that crab in the rock pool on that beach a lifetime away from here, scurrying sideways yet never getting anywhere.

"I can almost taste your fear, little one," the terrible voice said, echoing in the darkness of the alleyway.

"Please... please, don't kill me. I won't tell anyone... I won't," Emelia said with a sob.

"Oh, I know, I know," the voice said. "But sorcery makes me ravenous and you exude such life force."

Emelia felt sick and her head was splitting with pain. She could not tell how close the Dark-mage was.

Think quickly, by the gods, think quickly, Emebaka screamed.

"The Arch-mage is soon to be my master. I... I am of great value to him," Emelia said, trying to keep the desperation out of her tone.

There was a silence in the alleyway and Emelia looked about in the inky darkness. Then she heard the scrape of steel down the brick, mere feet away.

"Inkas-Tarr is an old... acquaintance of mine. Knowing I shall be killing something so valuable to him gives me great delight. Cry more, little one, it adds to the succulence."

Upset and anger rose within her at the injustice. Damn this sadist, she would not beg nor cry, nor give him the satisfaction of a quiet death. She would spit and scream and tear and gouge, dagger or not, until the last drop of blood had drained from her body and her soul would soar to the arms of the Air Father.

"I'll cry no more for you," she said, her fists clenched.

She could feel his fetid breath on her face as her headache began to thud like the drums of the carnival. She pressed her back against the wall and readied her legs to kick. The chill of the bricks seeped through her woolen cloak and entered her chest then her head and belly and she had a curious sensation of tumbling backwards in the pitch black, a speckling tide of pins and needles coursing through her.

A recognition struck Emelia that she was falling and her hands flailed out for a hold. The impact on the ground jarred her and she gasped in surprise as she proceeded to roll down a gravely slope, out of control. Her long legs tried to seek some traction and found it on a rock that scraped her legs raw.

Emelia stared up at the night sky, its radiant spatter of stars stretching like a colossal painting before her eyes. She sat up and looked around to gain her bearings. A surge of nausea erupted in her belly and she retched violently.

Emelia observed that she was sat on the stony riverbank. The water of the river was tinted a mercurial colour by the bright light of the Eerian moon. She sought the other moon, which she could just see over the rooftops of the buildings that backed onto the waterside. To her left the river raced towards a cliff edge, about a hundred yards away. Those must be the Falls of the Mists and this the River Garnet, she thought, which put her on the edge of Cheapside at the far end from where the Road of Gems lead down to the Minerstown.

How had she got from the alley to here? Had the Dark-mage had some change of heart and used his powers to move her through the shadows? The idea almost held credence until she saw that there were no shadows where she sat, such was the clarity of the moonlight.

Emotion erupted like a geyser inside her and she began to cry, at first meekly then in large hungry sobs that wracked her body. This day was like a dream and her mind was a turmoil of relief, fear, guilt, hatred, anger, pity and joy.

The figure beside her had probably been there a good minute before she noticed him.

Emelia looked up and towering above her was a Netreptan ranger, his feathers catching the moonlight. The girl gasped as the Netreptan held out its hand and she took it and stood. Its palm was soft, strong and cool to the touch. The Netreptan looked into her eyes with its own dark ones, the metallic disc of the Eerian moon giving the appearance of a white pupil in the twin points of night before her.

The Netreptan stroked her tangled hair from her forehead and then it spoke. Emelia would never forget the first time she had heard a Netreptan voice. The voice was like a thousand birdsongs merged into one melodic sound; a dawn chorus in one syllable.

"Girl of the star eyes, your fear is now retreated. I am Hirk of the Jelez Arc and you are under my wings now until your safe returning."

Emelia nodded in awe at the alien beauty, a feeling of well-being enveloping her.

"Thank you, umm... Hirk. I'm, I'm a servant. I am so, so sorry. I need to go. To go home."

Hirk nodded then shrugged. "You are a human girl of great beauty, inside and out. Servitude means little to my people. Torik judges your heart on its weight of good not the weight of another man's gold that paid for it. Your home is far away in the golden sands not in the craggy peaks of this city so removed even from its own people."

Emelia looked stunned at how this birdman could know such things of her when she heard a familiar voice.

"Hirk, have you found that blasted girl?"

It was Captain Ris, sliding and stumbling on the pebbles of the riverbank as he walked towards them with four men. His expression was not one of great joy and Emelia's back twitched at the thought of the caning she would be getting on her safe return to the Keep.

Hirk leant forward one last time and spoke in a low voice. "Your gifts come at a price, one I shall call Star Eyes. Yet even the heaviest burdens become bearable when their value is great. Flee the coup when the time is right—they cannot clip your wings in this blinkered city."

A hundred questions came to her lips but it was too late. Ris grabbed her arm in fury and dragged her from the water's edge. For an instant Emelia feared he was about to slap her but she caught a glimmer of pity softening his glare.

Hirk spread his wings and soared into the sky as the five soldiers accompanied Emelia up the river bank, the sound of the Falls in the distance. Unseen to all, the black-cloaked mage observed from the shadows of a roof top and, scowling, he slipped into the inky blackness and was gone.

Chapter 5 The Lamb

Windstide 1920

Words of death whispered in her ears as the cadaverous hands tightened around her throat. Emelia struggled as the hands scratched and clawed, pulling her down into the stifling dampness of the grave. Soil was tipping into her mouth, filling her lungs, choking and suffocating as the grave edge collapsed onto her. Blessed Torik, she was being buried alive, the desiccated corpses crammed for all eternity by her side.

Emebaka, where are you?

Emelia jolted awake, legs flailing out into the dormitory. Her sheets were soaked and wrapped like a shroud around her upper body. For a moment she thought she had wet the bed sheets, like that night those years before.

No, it's sweat, she rationalised, as she began to shiver. It wracked her body in uncontrollable waves and, biting her lip, she clambered out of bed. The room was black; there was no moonlight shining through the window. A dark cloud had rolled in at dusk and Mother had spoken of a storm brewing.

Emelia's mouth was arid and her head pounded with dull throbs. Whereas most of her body was cold, her back was still red-hot from the welts of the birch. By Torik, she needed a drink.

The water in the bowl was frozen. She poked it to try break the ice but her nail just scraped off the top. A chink of light infiltrated under the door from the kitchen. She moved towards the thin amber strip then hesitated. Had she just seen a motion at the window?

Heart thumping, she turned. A pale face peered through the glass.

Emelia staggered back, almost knocking the bowl off the table. He's come for me. He's come to kill me, to drink of my soul—because of what I saw.

A loud snore from Sandila jolted her from her panic and she looked back at the window. There was nothing there save the reflection of the scanty light from under the door.

She was desperate for a drink now, her throat felt raw and she could still sense the choking hands from the dream. Emelia eased the door from the dormitory to the kitchen open and slipped through.

The kitchen was rich in shadows, the only light source in the absence of moonlight being a solitary lantern. The wide tables and cupboards were lent a sinister appearance by the half-light. The pans and pots, hung from the walls, reflected the scanty glow like the eyes in the forest at night.

Emelia scampered across the kitchen to the water barrel, praying it wasn't frozen. She dipped a dented beaker into the water and drank deeply.

A shadow fell across the water.

Emelia spun in panic. Two figures stood before her, the dull lantern light illuminating their glistening viscera. Flesh hung like an old rag from their greasy skulls. They wore the uniforms of the city guard.

"You killed us," they moaned in unison.

The beaker hit the stone floor with a sharp clatter as Emelia stumbled back. Torik help me, he is in here with me.

"Emelia..."

The voice was in her ear, the breath as dank as a tomb. She whirled, hand scrabbling for a knife on the table by the barrel.

A visage as white as chalk, eyes as black as opal was before her. She raised the knife.

"Emelia, what are you doing?"

A strong hand gripped her wrist and with a gasp she saw it was Torm in front of her. Her arm began shaking and Torm eased the knife from her grasp.

The two stood in silence for several minutes, whilst the tremors subsided.

"What in the Pale is going on, Emelia?" Torm asked finally.

"Nothing. It's just a bad dream—everything here is just a bad dream."

Torm nodded and touched her arm gently; his touch was burning hot on her cold skin. "Was it something that happened in the lower city, when you ran away? I've been worried about you."

Emelia shrugged and looked away, ashamed of her tears. Torm had been the only one who had made an effort to talk to her since her caning.

"Why in the Pale did you come back?" Torm asked. "If I'd have got away I'd be half way to the ocean by now."

"It's safe, that's why."

"Safe? From what?"

"It doesn't matter, Torm. I'm... I'm sorry. Get to sleep before someone gets the wrong idea."

"I couldn't care what anyone thinks in here," Torm said petulantly. "You're pretty much my only friend anyway."

Emelia smiled and stroked his cheek. A trace of fluff had begun to grow on his face. He placed his rough hand on hers. She quickly turned and scampered back across the kitchen and into the dormitory, her mind in turmoil.

***

The Great Hall of the Keep had witnessed many celebrations in its thirteen hundred year history, and each one had left a mark on its weary timbers. Legend told that King Tilmoth the Eighth, the first Emperor of Eeria, planned the great push west into Midlund that was to signal the onset of the First Empire in this hall. Legend also had it that the coup that ended that self-same empire two hundred years later was ironically plotted at the long oaken table by Lord Ebon-Farr's ancestors and the attendant Knights of the Air.

Such history was lost on Emelia as she scrubbed the remnants of the previous night's feast from those knowledgeable timbers. Yet even as she winced with each push of her arm, as the scabs on her back cracked and oozed, part of her wondered at what this vast chamber must have seen.

The past is just dust and whispers on the winds of nostalgia, said Emebaka.

It was true to some degree, Emelia considered. She was working on a stubborn red wine stain with her wire brush. It had taken almost all of the day to clean the hall. Where was the honour of yesteryear in the Ebon-Farrs now? Her respect for Lord Talis dwindled as each day between her and her move to the Enclave drifted past. Erica Ebon-Farr was like a vacuous kitchen cat, lapping up attention and fuss. As for Uthor: she still shuddered at the memory of the night a week ago that had earned her the welts she still bore across her back.

She paused to get her breath and surveyed the Hall. A dozen torches sputtered in their sconces along the walls. The room was a hundred feet long with a vaulted ceiling and stone walls adorned with memorabilia of an age far prouder than this. The other girls had been all of a twitter last night about the feast being held in honour of Uthor's entrance to the Knights of Air.

Emelia had been confined to the kitchens where she was run ragged and had to endure the continual glares of Captain Ris as he sat at the edge of the hard graft. The death of two of his guard weighed heavily on him and the Enclave had been alerted about the presence of dark-magic within Coonor. Emelia was convinced Ris suspected that she was involved somehow. Yet logic clearly told Ris that a runaway housemaid could not really be implicated and after her caning Emelia did not dare to brooch the subject with him.

Gloom had returned to her mind during this last week. Every part of her life was shaded grey, like she was becoming as unfeeling as the stone around her. Her thoughts often wandered to the nightmare that had troubled her as a child. In the daytime she kept ruminating about the Dark-mage that she had disturbed that night and about the certainty that she was losing her mind.

However, the days were a welcome break from the nights where the dream about being a lamb chased by the wild dog had become more vivid. She would awaken lathered in sweat to mumbled threats from the other girls in her room with whom her popularity could not be much lower.

She moped over to the window, her finger tracing a trail on the dusty glass. The Great Hall was situated on the opposite side of the corridor to Lord Ebon-Farr's chambers where she had met the Arch-mage Inkas-Tarr a month or so ago. Normally there would be a fine view of the city from here; the square below was in front of the gatehouse, where the garrison drilled. Wide avenues that lead into the upper city ran from its edges. A black cloud had been persistent since the night she had met Torm in the kitchen and now rain and wind battered the window's exterior.

Last night's dream had been especially intense, leaving her awake from before dawn and thus tired and grouchy. She shuddered as she recalled the sensation of striking the cobbles in the dream, that odd sensation that was not pain yet was some ethereal discomfort akin to it.

A sudden gust of wind thrust one of the windows open. The torches flickered and then extinguished. The Hall deepened into gloom.

Terror ran through Emelia as the wind howled through the Hall. She dropped her brush and ran by the windows until she reached the open one. With all her strength she shoved against the pane, closing it to a degree where she could lower the rusty latch.

The drop in the noise of the wind left the hall in silence. Emelia strained her ears, suddenly uncertain as to whether she could hear a noise. Slow footsteps resonated in the corridor outside, echoing in the dark hall.

A tingle of apprehension arose in Emelia's chest. What in the Pale was happening to her? She was treading on egg shells. The footsteps could be anyone. There was no reason to think it was the dark sorcerer. Surely she was safe in the Keep and would continue to be so when she went to the Enclave?

An instinct made her drop to her knees and crawl under the huge table. She was shaking again and she bit her lip in anger. This was insane—the Keep was safe.

Yet was it? The Dark-mage had inferred he knew Inkas-Tarr. And if he knew the Arch-mage then surely he would know Lord Ebon-Farr. But that didn't make sense. The Eerians were arrogant and condescending, but they weren't evil. Yet the Dark-mage was in Coonor for a reason—some nefarious purpose at the cemetery—and she had disturbed him. He knew who she was, she was certain. And she had seen him emerge from the shadows.

Her heart stopped in abject dread. He came from the shadows. The room was dense with them. She scrambled forwards under the table; she had to get into the light.

The door to the Great Hall creaked and Sandila entered carrying a bowl covered by a cloth. She was framed in an aura of light. Her ginger hair was tied back and smeared with grease and ash. Sandila's round face was ruddy with the exertion of climbing several flights of stairs.

"Torik's wind, I can't see a bloody thing in here!" she said with a laugh. Sandila stepped out and returned with a torch from the corridor and proceeded to ignite four others on the wall.

Emelia ducked her gaze; she had been avoiding her friend since she had run away from her and Mother Gresham in the market square.

Sandila strolled to the edge of the table near Emelia and slid her bottom onto the surface. Slipping off the cloth, she plucked a red grape from the bowl and bit into it.

"You've missed a patch there."

Emelia flushed and was about recommence her scrubbing and hope her friend would leave when, jaw muscles twitching, she retorted.

"You know where the brush is."

Sandila laughed, her grin lighting up the room. "Ha. That's more like it. I wondered where the old Emelia was hiding. Working in the dark doesn't help so much with finding the stains, love."

Emelia felt as if a weight was being hoisted off her shoulders.

"Sandy, I'm really, really..."

"Yeah, I know," Sandila said. "Would you like some grapes?"

"Grapes? Um... well, yes. Thanks."

"You're welcome. Pinched them from the pantry. One good thing about being 'this way' is that everyone avoids being near you, like they're worried they'll catch my... trouble."

Emelia nodded, rubbing the back of her neck. She sat next to Sandila and plucked some red grapes.

"So do you want a hand then? There's lots of spilt wine and ale on these boards. What a set of greedy fat buggers."

"Are you fine to help, Sandy? I mean is your sickness better?"

Sandila paused then stood and strode to the window leaving the grapes on the table. She stared out at the square.

"Yes, that's the funny thing isn't it? Mother says that's usually how it goes. First sickness, then showing and then swelling. But fine to work? Sure... I'd say my little rest is well and truly over."

"I'm sorry I wasn't with you at the wise woman's place."

"I've said I know you are. Torik's wind, you were better off running around the pubs of Cheapside. I've never been to a worse place in all my days! The hovel was so vile I thought I'd be stuck to the floor for a week. It was like being in a room coated with honey, except it stank."

"Oh that's disgusting."

"Yeah tell me about it. And the crone that looked at me smelt like a garrison's privy. What a nightmare. And just when I'm sick as a dog."

"Was your malady cured?" Emelia asked, rising from the table.

Sandila hesitated then turned slowly, a look of amusement on her face.

"Cured?" she said. "You really don't have a clue about all this do you? Oh, Emelia, I will miss you when you're gone. Your naivety is a light in the gloom of this place."

"That's not fair, Sandy. I do know about... about womanly things. I know of the world."

"All right, all right—sorry to touch a nerve. No, I'm not afflicted with some pox or worms or such like. I'm with child."

Emelia's eyes widened at the news. A shudder worked its way through her, a sense of foreboding.

"Oh, Sandy. Oh. How... err, how has it..?"

"Happened? That's a talk for another day, my little Emelia. Foolishness? My own innocence? Duped by the syrupy words of a rich boy? Not the first and certainly not the last to get caught that way."

"What will you do?"

"Mother feels there are two choices. I can go see the crone and she will use slippery elm and that will be the end of it. Or I see it through and am cast onto the streets of Coonor for bringing shame upon the household, left to beg in the warrens of Cheapside."

Emelia looked with sorrow at her friend. The vivacious Azaguntan seemed diminished, like she had lost some of herself to this problem. Her mind swirled with things to try and say.

"By Torik, that's..."

"Not a great choice. Mother says in truth I have none. She's arranged my return to the hag's boudoir."

The two girls hugged—faces damp with tears—clutching each other as if by pressing themselves together it would in some small way make them bond forever. They clung like reunited lovers for several quiet minutes and it was Sandila who broke the silence, her voice thick with emotion.

"It's all changing, little Em. Our days of childish fun, if ever they were really there, are fading like the snows of early spring. Within days you'll be a servant at the Enclave and it'll be years until we are free from our servitude and get chance to see each other again. As for me... whatever I choose it'll never be the same."

"It's not fair."

"What is? Was it fair that the gods watched uncaring as our parents sold us on—me from my tiny village in Azagunta or you from your little island? You know, still now I sometimes awaken crying, thinking of my father's sobs as they took me, his sheep bleating around him and his hound wining."

"Your father was a shepherd? I never knew that."

"Why would you? The brazen Sandila, a shepherd's daughter—my father's little lamb. But for the roll of Engin's dice I would be sat chewing bread on a blustery hilltop, not scraping sick and wine from the floor of our callous masters."

"Why... why did he put you into service?"

"Money... and safety," Sandila said. "He was in debt to a landowner and there had been threats that I would be taken and put into... shall we say unpleasant work in the docks of Kir. It was the only way he could do it... I'm certain."

Emelia nodded at Sandila's statement, her mind drifting to her own servitude. Idly her fingers twiddled with the shell pendant around her neck. Perhaps the famine in the Islands had been so severe that if she hadn't entered service then all her family would have died. That surely made it justifiable—didn't it?

Emelia broke the silence. "I'm almost done here anyway. Are you going back down to the kitchen?"

"No. No. I've got something to put to rest," Sandila said. "Look, Emelia, sorry I'm a bit... well... not myself. Remember me for the joyful times, not for the last few weeks, eh?"

"I shall, of course I shall."

"And don't let go of those dreams of yours. Dream of a better life than this and who knows what may happen one day."

Sandila strode out of the hall and Emelia stared after her thoughtfully. Dreams were all the servants had that were truly their own. The one thing they did not have to concede.

***

The jangle of the carriage's iron shod wheels did little for Lord Talis Ebon-Farr's headache as he trundled through the wet avenues of the upper city. The interior of the carriage had a grandeur more befitting a king than the noble head of Coonor's garrison, yet Talis hardly noticed the plush velvets anymore.

He mused that perhaps his hangover should be savoured in some way. Such feasts were far fewer these days. They were the preserve of the young and fashionable in this magnificent city of cities. In the time of the Empire the revelry was nightly and Talis wondered how his ancestors ever had time to get out of bed for the troop inspection let alone conquer most of the known world. He had retired with Lady Heler at around midnight, shortly after the dour High Commander had taken his leave and just as Gulor Hinterton had made the seamless transition from raconteur to boor.

He squinted at the fine buildings as they flitted past. Rain bounced off the stone, creating a haze of spray. They were travelling towards the higher gate and the Avenue of Bilroth that would ascend towards the Citadel of Air. The colonnades and frescoes of the University bordered the wide street and he watched the academics taking shelter under the huge arches, engaging in discussions about politics and law. Talis felt disappointed as they passed without seeing Karak, his eldest son, who was no doubt hidden in a cave of tomes and legal scrolls in the library.

The gilded carriage had reached the higher gate and passed onto the avenue, which climbed towards the Citadel. Statues flanked the first five hundred yards regarding his passage. Rain ran like tears down their impassive faces.

Their names were legend: Alkar the Great, first king of Eeria, unifier of the three primary tribes in the Era of Heroes; Bilroth IX, the king who died in the War of Mages; Tilmoth I, the chancellor made king, who expelled the Air-mages for two hundred years before the first Emperor allowed them to return.

The lower lands of Eeria stretched to the horizon like a patchwork blanket. The oppressive sky loomed over the landscape, the mighty River of Stars but a blue thread that snaked northwest to the Northern Ocean. The grey of the famous Imperial roads slit the green and gold of the fading fields as autumn slid inexorably towards winter. Those ancient roads, the arteries of the First Empire, were its greatest legacy, except perhaps for the Imperial language: the common tongue of traders and diplomats the continents over.

He turned his attention to the scrolls and papers that he had on the seat next to him, fiddling with the key that hung on a chain around his neck. More strife from the council to navigate through, he scowled. He flicked through a ream of yellowed minutes. In the eastern Cloudtip Mountains there was trouble yet again with the Mountain giants and the Netreptans. Shkris, envoy for the birdmen on the council, had petitioned for assistance but local problems were going to have to take priority. Informers from within the miners had warned of some unrest amongst the masses. A cave in had killed a Galvorian, forty miners and a dozen slaves. Annoyingly the slaves—imported from the Sapphire Isles—had been children, used for their ability to slip down the potholes in the mines. By all accounts some agitators were demanding anyone below their twelfth year be excused from pot holing.

Talis shook his head at such radical notions. His attention returned once more to the precipitous road ahead. The Avenue emerged onto a plateau bisected by a wide chasm. It was crossed by a stone bridge, worn smooth by two thousand years of traffic. Two enormous stone griffins flanked its near side and a small guard station was situated by the edge of the road as it crossed the small plateau. Eight knights stood alert in the driving rain, rivulets of water cascading down their plate armour. They saluted as the carriage passed.

Born and raised in the peaks of Coonor, the City Of Mists, Talis was generally de-conditioned to heights. However he could not help but shudder as he glanced over the edge of the Great Bridge and saw the eight hundred foot drop.

Five hundred feet from the far edge of the bridge the Citadel loomed above the rocky base on which it stood. Talis marvelled at its imposing nature. The bulk of the Citadel was carved deep into the rock of the mountain, although an exterior courtyard enclosed by three high walls provided space for stables and a forge.

The carriage passed through a gatehouse, under its two raised portcullises and into the courtyard. Knights trained and skirmished despite the weather and to his right Talis could see the griffon stables.

The main barbican of the Citadel stood before him, six stories high and topped with battlements. It protruded perhaps only seventy feet from the rock face, like the tip of an iceberg. A deep dry moat had been carved into the hard stone of the plateau and ran the length of the barbican, traversed by the drawbridge.

His carriage drew to a halt and he eased himself out onto the courtyard's stones, ignoring the rain and wind. His footman descended from the high seat and assisted him as he stretched his stiff legs. A wound sustained as a youth still troubled him on such damp days.

A knight, dressed in a black and silver padded longshirt and black yarkel-wool tights, ran from the barbican's gatehouse flanked by two armoured knights. His cloak billowed in the gusts that whistled through the courtyard.

"Lord Ebon-Farr, I hope the winds find you well. This is an unexpected surprise, sir. Will it be the Lord Commander you wish to be seeing? I am unsure if he has other engagements but I am certain a visitor of your standing..."

Talis smiled politely and shook his head. "No thank you, Sir Helminth. I would not presume to trouble Commander Taros without prior appointment. I was simply visiting to see my niece. Is she available?"

"Lady Orla will be delighted by your impromptu visit, she had just returned from a rather blustery patrol. Am I to assume it is about young Uthor?"

"In the main. Shall we enter? I fear this gale is sent from Torik to remind me why I command only the garrisons of the city and not your more resilient airborne comrades!"

Helminth laughed and pivoted on his heel, escorting Lord Talis across the drawbridge. The dry moat was a good eighty feet deep and sheer walled, its bottom mottled with greyish lichen. He had always thought it an unnecessary precaution, for the exterior walls of the Citadel were surely such that none may ever get this far. Nonetheless, secure castles make secure lords and none were more secure than the great buildings of Coonor.

They emerged into a vast hall, two hundred feet square and three stories tall. Its ceiling was shrouded in darkness as the main light for the hall came from a hundred sputtering torches, sited in sconces at the peripheries. The hall was decorated with tapestries of enormous proportions, their once vibrant colours dulled by time but their heroic scenes no less for the passage of the years. Talis smiled to himself as Sir Helminth paused to allow him to view the grand sight. Imperial pride was personified in the Knights of the Air whose glories had been magnificent in that halcyon era.

The pair shook the water from their cloaks and Talis's footman remained in the entrance, dripping onto the cold stone floor. Sir Helminth bore a right and strolled with Lord Talis to a spiral staircase that ascended within a tower to each of the six stories of the barbican. A brass handrail was fitted and Talis considered using it but his pride before his niece's sergeant precluded him doing so. Progress up the stairs was slow. Ever courteous, Helminth stepped idly, stopping periodically to illustrate a point in his dialogue and by way of this allowing Talis a rest.

Lady Orla's office was on the fourth floor, up amongst the rooms of the other captains and officers. A single knight, a rider of the sixth lance Gold Wing, guarded the landing. He saluted Sir Helminth and the pair continued through the stone corridors deep into the mountainside. They passed several oaken doors, a small hall, another two staircases and a tiny chapel to Torik before they finally reached Orla's rooms. Talis suppressed a shudder of claustrophobia.

Lady Orla's office was sombre. There were few frills or niceties to it, unlike some of the chambers of her fellow officers whom had ornate furniture from Toscorian craftsmen or rich carpets from Mirioth. The room was frugal and contained a large wooden desk, a half-dozen chairs, a cursory cabinet of guest wine and a tall cupboard with meticulously ordered scrolls. The walls were decorated with dozens of maps, mainly of Eeria. Her sole frivolity was a large leather bound tome titled The Philosophy of War by the famous Imperial High Commander Lord Jonty Bedik, which sat neatly on the shelf.

Orla sat behind her desk studying one of the maps. She glanced up at the pair with some irritation until she saw her uncle and then she rose swiftly.

"Uncle Talis, you honour me with your visit. My apologies, if I had known to expect you I would have attended the courtyard myself."

"Trouble yourself not, my girl. I was well cared for by Sir Helminth here and treated to a briefing on the current state of play with the preparations for the spring tourney."

Helminth flushed slightly and stood stiff to attention before Orla. She glanced at him and said, "At ease, Sergeant. Thank you for your escort. Did you require anything else?"

"No, Captain. By your leave?"

Orla waved her hand and Helminth inclined his head at Talis then strode from the room. Lady Orla indicated for Talis to sit; she was not one for hugs.

"How does Windstide find you, Uncle? Are the ministrations of the council keeping you as busy as ever and far from my aunt's shopping trips?"

"Ha! Your aunt direly needs my presence to moderate her expenses now that Erica is almost of an age. But, by Torik's grace, it is easier to bury myself in the mountain of council work and the moans of the garrison with regards the Festival."

"I am certain. I had the pleasure of strolling through the upper city to the Enclave to watch Jular undergo the Choosing. I am happy to report his success."

"Yes, so I hear. Wonderful news, though I am not surprised. The lad is bright."

"Word had reached the officers that there was a strange murder of two city guards in the slums on that same day. Dark magic, it would seem?"

"I shall be honest, Orla," Talis said with a shrug. "I have been too busy to give it much thought, what with various agenda items. Nothing down there should surprise me. Cheapside has long been in need of a good purge—it really lets the city down. How any true Coonorian can accept to live in such squalor escapes me. They really should take more pride in themselves."

Orla met his gaze and he thought transiently how the last few years had changed his niece. Orla was the middle child of three and had been serious even as a child, with a superior air that irritated the other children. Always one to be commanding the others and always derisory of their childish games she had presumably had a lonely time of it, unlike her affable younger brother Jular who had just joined the Air-mages. Her mother, the first Lady Farvous, had died with complications of childbirth and her father had married again when Orla was young. Most unusually, Orla had chosen the rigorous path of knighthood and Talis had long suspected some curious secret amongst his wife's family had driven the girl along it.

"Indeed, Uncle, I share your dismay. Dare I ask what items command your attention beyond the death of two soldiers?"

"Well, obviously that is a great concern," Talis said. "But since you ask, there is a great problem arising with the Mountain Giants in the eastern edge of the Cloudtips. The Netreptans are asking for our aid. Unfortunately this has coincided with a request for assistance from the Mâlkar of Uvistân in Mirioth."

"Against the lizardmen in Ssinthor?"

"I'm afraid so. This is a bit of a tricky position to be in. I mean the birdmen are our neighbours and allies but the Coalition of Mirioth is wealthy with the monies of its enormous trade empire."

"Surely we owe the allegiance to the Netreptan problem?"

"Of course and we shall assist them in some way. But with the gold seams somewhat sparse at present the boost to the treasury would be desirable also. After all the Miroth were part of our Empire once and we were involved in the Fall of Kevor, and thus the creation of the sunken land."

"I know my history, Uncle," Orla said. "Strategically we have more to fear from the giants. No matter. I am sure a mere soldier such as myself is ill placed to comment on such matters. I assume your welcome visit wasn't purely to debate council matters?"

Talis observed Orla as he replied. She was a tall and handsome girl, nearing thirty years in age and with the characteristic grey hair of the Eerian nobility. She had escaped the distinct Eerian nose however and in its wake had a pale face with piercing grey eyes. She did nothing to highlight her attractiveness, having tied her hair in a severe bun and wearing none of the eye shade or blusher that the noble girls so loved. Her uniform hid her femininity particularly well: a padded black long shirt and wool tights with knee length leather boots, buffed to a gleam.

"My apologies for distracting you in such a manner. Your aunt and I missed you at Uthor's feast last night."

"You had my apologies, Uncle Talis. Regrettably I had agreed to command the night patrols and as the weather was turning I thought it best if I did that personally. I am sure you understand."

"I understand, Orla, that you have never enjoyed such occasions. This was a family affair, however, and your elder brother Hulgor was able to attend. It is after all your cousin that you will be welcoming into the Knighthood under your patronage."

"Were I to be able to forget this fact with the continual missives from Father about him. You are well aware of my reservations about all of this. The Knighthood is no playground for Uthor's little tantrums. It is the sole fact that he is family that I am even considering his application."

"With all due respect, the High Commander is happy with the decision."

"With all due respect, Uncle, the Commander is not above enjoying being owed a favour in this city of politics," she said. "Orders are orders, however. I am sure cousin Uthor will learn that fact very swiftly in his year as a squire."

"His wilder side will be brought into line I am sure, by the reputation of the Silver Wing's training if nothing else."

"Can the eagle ever walk as well as it flies? I wonder, Uncle, what training can change Uthor's drinking and merrymaking?"

Talis felt his indignation rise within him at Orla's disrespect. A captain she may be in the knights but she was still his kin, albeit by marriage.

"Captain Orla Farvous! That is enough. Uthor is your cousin and you his patron. You of all people should recognise that at times even the best of us act rashly."

The colour drained from Orla's face as if Talis had drawn every blood cell in her body out in an instant. Her manner became instantly formal and she replied crisply.

"Forgive my rudeness, Lord Ebon-Farr, I forgot my place. Will Uthor be attending the Citadel in four days' time as arranged?"

"He will indeed," Talis said, with a sigh. "I trust you will be available to meet him? The requisite uniform will be arranged prior to the day. Excuse me now, I must return to the Keep. May I trouble you to escort me to the gatehouse?"

Orla nodded and stood, rolling up her map before striding to the door. Talis followed her, pulling his fine yarkel-wool cloak tight and bracing himself for the winds once more. The politics of families were as intricate as the politics of the city, he ruminated, as the pair exited into the dingy corridor.

***

It took Emelia another hour to finish cleaning the Great Hall, and by the end of it her back was screaming with pain. She wiped the sweat with the hem of her dress, streaking grime on her forehead. The bucket she had used was filthy, with rotting food particles bobbing on its scummy surface like gulls on the sea. She placed the brushes and cloths in a small bag and went to leave the room. The rain still battered the stained-glass windows and dust danced like drunken revellers in the amber pools of the torches .

Emelia emerged into the long corridor that interjected between the Great Hall and Lord Talis's chambers. She paused at her favourite tapestry, the one adjacent to Talis's day room and with a pang of guilt she recalled her eavesdropping that day when the Arch-mage had visited. It seemed an age ago, as if it happened in a dream long faded.

But it did happen and you are leaving, Emelia, Emebaka reminded her.

It might be for the best, though my soul is wracked with trepidation at the idea. I mean Inkas-Tarr will protect me and in six years time maybe things will have changed.

This man of darkness will never forget, Emelia. Tell me, what did you see that day? Emebaka asked.

I... I am not sure. He was doing something in the grave. Oh Emebaka, how has this happened to me? What's going on?

Something is coming, Emelia, I can feel it. Something dreadful. Something dark. A storm is looming that will shake your world apart and you will need strength to make those choices.

Help me. Help me make them.

I cannot—they are yours to endure.

Emelia clutched the wall, a surge of consternation coming upon her. Her breathing was rapid and shallow and with effort she reined it in.

Could she truly have run off that night in Cheapside? Was that her god-given chance to avoid the trip to the macabre world of the Air-mages? It felt at times as if her life was the dream and the imaginings of the night her true existence.

How had she escaped on that night? She'd pushed the thoughts to the rear of her mind, afraid to question the surreal events in Cheapside. But the apprehension of moving to the Enclave was dragging it kicking and screaming back to her consciousness.

It just doesn't make any sense, Emebaka. I am certain that I was destined to die that night.

You can clearly change your destiny then, Emebaka replied.

But how did it happen? It seems all hazy and vague, like my recall is shrouded in mist. Perhaps it was some sadistic trick by the sorcerer, chasing me down only to let me live a little longer. So he could feed off my terror.

That doesn't make sense.

What does though? I could fantasise that I am so interesting to the Arch-mage that he put some glamour on me, to protect me. But who am I but some curio for his collection? Am I just looking for some fantastical explanation? Maybe there was a crack in the wall that I fell through?

But it didn't feel like that did it?

It's all so... distant now. Did I dream it? Is it my imagination impinging into reality like in my dream the other night?

There was no reply from Emebaka and Emelia rubbed her eyes. Her head ached with all this introspection. She longed for a quieter time when all was simple and the biggest challenge of the day was lighting the fires in the morning before your fingers went numb.

She shuffled down the corridor, the heavy bucket straining her arm. At the corridor's far end were the stairs that would take her back into the Keep's depths and back to the frostiness that now pervaded her days in the kitchens.

Something was odd about the archway to the stairs. Something was missing, she thought, as she neared it. It came to her: there was no guard on the stairs today. Presumably when Lord Ebon-Farr was not in residence they didn't have to post one at the entrance to the corridor.

A sound of clattering boots echoed down the stairs as she approached them. The pace was fast, as if someone was running full tilt down the spiral staircase from above. She hesitated and then a strange feeling came into her, like a waking dream. In her mind's eye she could see a barking wild dog, all matted fur and sinew, its teeth bared. A sense of unease twisted in her belly. She turned and went back into the corridor, looking around urgently for a place to conceal herself. The noise of the footsteps was coming towards her quickly.

She pulled back the nearest tapestry. There was a recess behind the tapestry made for storage and she squeezed in amongst the upright, stacked benches. The heavy wood still had the odour of dried wine and bodies on it and she pressed her face in fear against the wood, hoping that the strength of the timber would stay her shaking.

The sound of boot steps indicated someone had emerged into the corridor. An almost animalistic panting and sobbing could be heard. She could smell fumes of drink seeping around the edge of the dusty tapestry. Her heart thudded in her ears, sounding as loud as a war drum in the eerie silence.

The boots clicked on the wooden floor of the corridor as their owner passed the tapestry, then they stopped. With a wrench of horror Emelia realised she had left her bucket in the corridor.

Emelia held her breath and stood like a statue. The silence seemed to stretch endlessly, like the vastness of lower Eeria running to the horizon. She had no idea who was beyond the thick cloth of the tapestry, save that every instinct told her they were dangerous. It struck her that perhaps it was the Dark-mage come to kill her, his black sorcery eating her face like the chill winds that had gnawed over the ages at the stones of Coonor.

Emelia's breath was about to explode from her chest when the person in the corridor laughed bitterly and kicked the bucket over. Foul brown liquid sloshed under the tapestry and onto Emelia's worn leather shoes, soaking the chapped material with debris and dirt. She held down the nausea as the stench struck her and the owner of the boots cursed again.

"Blasted servants! Buckets lying around, damn them. Is this some sick joke? Oh Torik, what have I done?"

Emelia stifled a gasp; the voice was Uthor's sneering patter.

Uthor stomped off down the corridor and Emelia chanced a quick look as his footsteps faded. He was dressed in a green velvet doublet and dark orange tights, the former hanging open as if it had been ripped. His normally flushed face was pale and wan, his hair a dishevelled mess. The young lord turned and entered his rooms at the far end of the corridor and slammed the door.

Emelia stooped to pick up the tipped bucket and looked in dismay at the large pool of grime soaking into the wooden floor. She would need more water to clean it all up, which meant a descent to the kitchens and a trip back up with aching arms. What was wrong with Uthor and why had her dream appeared to her so vividly?

She left the corridor and descended the staircase towards the garrison level. For the second time that day she heard the sound of boots on the stairs but in this instance it was perhaps a dozen of them running from the first floor to the ground level accompanied by yells and shouts. Curiosity came upon her and she came down the staircase on the tail end of eight soldiers. They ran along the lower corridor to the inner courtyard and the gates of the Keep.

Emelia followed them through with a sense of foreboding, her slender form unnoticed in the panic. She passed through the inner courtyard and through the gates of the Keep and into the square that lay in front of the tall building. The rain pattered around the gathering crowd and in the distance the peal of thunder echoed along the bleak avenues. Two-dozen people were in a circle around something on the cobbles and she could hear screaming. With a jolt she realised it was her friend Abila that was screaming, one of the soldiers holding her back as she yelled. She was red in the face with mucous and tears running like a torrent down onto her dress.

Sarik was in the crowd as Emelia pushed her way through, feet sliding on the wet cobbles, desperately needing to see what was there. Her mind raced as images of her dream came back: the rooftop, the wild dog, a jackal, the lamb, her friend.

"Don't look, Emelia, don't look," Sarik said, his face contorted in horror.

Crumpled on the cobblestones of the square, her body oddly angled, was Sandila. A dark pool of blood spread slowly and inexorably away from her dead body, mixing in with the puddles.

The lamb, she thought. Sandila was the lamb.

Chapter 6 Funerals and Forts

Windstide 1920

A dozen candles cast their dancing light over the walls of the shrine, yet their amber glow did not warm the chill of the place. The heat of the gathered bodies faired no different, nor did the small brazier that lit the far end of the room. Emelia felt as if she would never know the comfort of summer's warmth again.

Lord Ebon-Farr had generously allowed the service to be held in the tiny shrine that served the garrison. It was a dank and musty place, tucked away at the rear of the building. Its solitary window opened out through the sheer back wall of the Keep. The wall fell precipitously away to the foot of the mountain, thousands of feet below.

What would it be like to leap through the window and fall almost without end? Emelia thought. It was a macabre notion, given the nature of her friend's demise.

The priests of Torik had not matched Lord Ebon-Farr's kindness. The acolyte who normally preached within the shrine had refused to give the service. He regarded it as sinful that the deceased was both with child and had undoubtedly taken her own life whilst wracked with shame. It was fair to say that this was the general consensus of opinion, as difficult as it was for the other housemaids to believe of their friend—a friend who had lit up their daily lives like a beacon.

Emelia's eyes were dry as she gazed across the small shrine, crammed shoulder to shoulder with the other girls. Her tears had gone, dried in a near constant flow of grief. Now all that was left was anger and a fury that simmered and throbbed within her at the injustice of all of this.

The elderly attendant of Torik droned words of prayer at the far end of the shrine. His face was like an old boot, worn leathery skin stretched tight with a shock of grey hair. Emelia knew that he was normally responsible for cleaning the shrine and maintaining the candles and brazier for the acolyte. Mother Gresham had clearly offered him some recompense for his 'sermon', dismayed that a proper priest wasn't amenable. He stumbled over his words like a nervous suitor but no-one really cared. All were relieved that someone was simply saying them.

In addition to the snuffling servants were Mother Gresham, two cooks and two of the soldiers, their stoical faces betraying occasional flickers of emotion. Captain Ris was also there and Emelia still struggled to meet his eyes. Torm stood in the corner, seeking solace in the shadows. By Emelia's side was Abila, their prior frostiness having thawed in the heat of their grief.

It was grief like none she had ever known. Emelia considered she had had some experience of loss in her fifteen years of life. She had endured the ache of separation from her childhood home, albeit a ramshackle shack on the edge of a beach. She had a sense that her servitude had lost her what a childhood should have been: full of love and fun and the warmth of a father's smile or a mother's hug. She considered she had lost free will as now her only real freedom was that of her imagination and her dreams. Yet in retrospect she was deluded, for true loss, true sorrow, was an ache more terrible than she realised could happen. It was the ache of what would never be, the ache of all the "if only", the ache of the "should have."

The first night, when she'd finally forced the image of Sandila's broken body from her mind she had fantasised, as was her want, about how she might have changed things. Perhaps if she had kept Sandila talking that hour longer, perhaps if she'd not run in panic that day in the lower city and gone with Sandy to the wise woman, then her friend would never have come up to the Great Hall to talk that morning. She replayed the scenario in her mind a dozen times and in all the day-dreaming Sandila was alive and laughing at the end.

Her eye caught Torm's gaze. He smiled slightly and then looked towards the shrouded shape that was Sandila. Emelia stared at the amorphous form, a white sheet covering the broken body; the husk that her departing spirit had left. She had heard from Abila that Mother Gresham had bullied and begged enough coins to pay for Sandila to be interned in a mass grave in one of the lower city cemeteries, a great boon for a foreign girl in servitude. Coonorians buried their dead in deep holes hewn into the rock and only the rich had the luxury of privacy in their final resting place. Abila had been confused at Emelia's lack of joy at this news, interpreting it as distorted grief rather than Emelia's memory of her last trip to a cemetery.

Emelia's ruminations about her imminent move to the Enclave and her ever-present fear of the dark sorcerer had been suppressed by the tide of grief. Sandila had loved life so very much and a fire was smouldering inside Emelia now: a passion to live, a burgeoning desire to experience something beyond the stifling chambers of Coonor.

The ceremony was drawing to a close now and as was the custom the attendant was lighting the spirit lamp. It consisted of a small candle held by a wire frame to a large paper lantern, in this instance decorated by Gelia and Annre. The attendant gestured to Emelia and she stepped forward and took the lamp. He then turned, walked to the window and flung it open, the breeze making the candles flicker.

"Thus we guide your spirit to the eight winds of Gracious Torik," the attendant said. "Lord of the air, Master of the great breeze and Father of the storm we pray to thee to lift the essence of this poor girl, taken too soon in our mind yet never too soon for your great realm. Torik, Air Father, hear our prayers."

Emelia leaned from the window and the early morning air sent her dress billowing. The icy wind finally elicited tears. She released the spirit lamp and it flew from her grasp and soared into the sky, its light flickering as it took Sandila's soul to the peace of the heavens.

The room was silent for a minute before Mother Gresham began rounding up all the girls and sending them back to work, clucking how even in death Sandila could instil laziness all around. Emelia did not miss the thickness in her voice as she gruffly bossed the maids about.

Emelia stared out of the small window, the panoramic view like a majestic tapestry before her. She would give anything just for a month to walk to that horizon and back rather than around in this rock pool of Coonor. That last conversation with Sandila still played in her head. Her time was running short before she left for the Enclave. It would be tomorrow morning and all this would be a bitter memory fading like the tapestries in the upper corridors.

Run away, Emelia, let us run away, Emebaka urged.

How will I live if I were to escape Coonor? And that's even if I could evade the black sorcerer.

Are you a lamb to the cull like your poor friend or are you a mighty eagle, your wings beating against the winds of change? Are you to live in this half-life, scared by the shadows? the dry voice answered.

Her temper flared at this insult. It is not that simple, Emebaka. I am no warrior, no princess of fairy tales and no sorceress to have talent to battle against the fate the gods have decided for me. I am a maid, a servant, illiterate and worthless, a commodity to be bartered and sold, given for a favour and used until I am of age. And then what? Abila told me straight—there is no chance of me leaving this city to find my parents. And why would I? Do I really want to put myself and my family through the pain of reunion, even if they were alive? If I am truthful to myself, do I want to ask my father if things were really so dire that he had no choice but to sell his daughter into servitude in a land a thousand miles away?

How wrong you are, Emebaka replied, the truth sits on the edge of your mind like an itch that cannot be scratched. The birdman knew when he looked in your glittering eyes that you are meant for greater things than this. The gods put you by the door that day for you to listen, they guided you into the cemetery that night and they put you behind that tapestry to learn the truths of this place. Beneath the façade of nobility is a rotten core; behind the masque is a face that is vile.

A shudder of expectation juddered through her body and a sudden sense of inevitability pervaded her. It was as if all her self-consciousness, that sense of being a stranger in her own flesh, of being a girl in a woman's body, fluttered away in the wind. It drifted upwards, carried with the spirit of her dead friend in that glowing lamp. Emebaka was correct; she knew what she needed to do.

She had to confront Uthor.

***

Torm was waiting for her as she left the shrine. He hugged himself as she approached. His face carried a fresh bruise, purple and angry.

"Good of you to come along, Torm," Emelia said.

"Least I can do," Torm said. "It saves me an hour of slaps from him upstairs. He had a dark mood on him, what with the move to the Citadel being so close."

"Still, I'm sure Sandy would have appreciated it."

"Right. I never got much chance to know her. Some of the other lads were very fond of her I heard."

Emelia laughed, tears stinging her eyes.

"Sorry – I didn't mean to..."

"No. It's not that. It's just – well, it's a difficult thing..."

"It always is. You were the last to see her. What did she say? I mean, did she hint at what she was going to do?"

"No. No, it wasn't like that. She said she had something to put to rest"

"To what? To 'put to rest'? What in the four moons does that mean?"

Emelia rubbed her forehead in discomfort.

"I – I'm not certain, Torm. She went off and then, then he..."

"He? Who are you talking about? Was someone else there? What is it you know, Emelia?"

Pain was throbbing in the rear of Emelia's head. She wanted so much to tell Torm, but his knowing would put him in danger.

Torm was blocking her way back to the kitchens, trying to meet her gaze. Realisation spread across his face. "Asha's tears—she didn't kill herself did she?"

The lie congealed on her lips; she couldn't deceive him.

"No."

"Oh.... sweet Asha," Torm said, his face a ghastly hue. "She was... murdered."

"Yes, I think so," Emelia said, her arms shaking. "After she fell, I heard... him..."

"Him?"

"Uthor... I heard Uthor."

For an awful second Emelia thought Torm was going to faint such was his pallor. He gripped the smooth stone of the wall; his knuckles were white.

"Uthor," he said, like saying the name slowly would exorcise the evil of his master from the Keep. "Curse him."

"Torm, calm down."

"How can I? Is it not enough that he treats me like the filth on his boot? He murdered Sandila."

"Keep your voice low, for Torik's sake. Look, we can't do anything about this. No-one will believe us."

"His face carries the evidence. The scratches, I saw them. I wondered how he'd got them."

"We need to slow down. Think some more before we say anything, before we consider confronting him."

"Think? Well, you ponder it, Emelia. Have one of your little daydreams about it. In the meantime I'll sort things out with a little justice."

Torm held out his hand and in his palm sat a small sharp knife. A trickle of fear ran through Emelia's chest. Her head was thumping now.

"Torik save me! You'll be thrown in prison for even carrying that near the Ebon-Farrs," Emelia said. "Your life will be finished."

"And what life is this that we have now? What life for a child of the sea? We simply exist, entombed in this ancient fortress. We count down the days to the end of our service knowing almost all of us will end up trapped in another menial role in another noble house of arrogance. You feel the same as I do – I saw it within you on that day you ran off."

"I didn't run off. It's complicated."

"Well this is simple. It's the only message he'll understand. And when I stick this in his belly I'll be sure to whisper Sandila's name in his ear."

Torm pushed past Emelia and stormed down the corridor. Emelia sprinted after him, grabbing at his shoulder.

"Just wait, Torm. This is madness."

"Well you're the authority on that or so they say."

Emelia stumbled to a halt as Torm pushed through a door into the kitchens. Torm's words were like a slap across the face. She had thought he was one who understood her; the one who had given her the benefit of the doubt when all others shunned her. A void of despair was expanding within her breast. Her head was agony.

"Damn it. Wait," she said.

A wave of dizziness came over her and she clung onto the doorframe. A clatter of pots hitting the floor rang out from the kitchens and she heard Torm cry out. She entered the kitchen, battling through nausea.

Several angry cooks were pulling Torm loose from under a half dozen pots. His ankle was swelling rapidly over the edge of his boot. Emelia saw the knife on the floor and swiftly kicked it away under a table.

Torm's eyes met hers as the cooks hoisted him free. His eyes displayed only confusion.

You did tell him to wait, Emebaka commented, to which Emelia had no reply

***

The funeral procession wound like a black snake through the Thetorian town of Eviksburg. It paused periodically to increase its size as mourners wandered from their crooked houses.

From the vantage point of the hills that lay to the north of the town, Aldred Enfarson could make out that the procession numbered at least four dozen. It wasn't a bad turn-out for the town's eldest baker, Aldred thought. He would have been happy if he managed half that number.

Daily life still bustled away down in Eviksburg, albeit with due respect for the loss of one its great grandfathers. The bells of the two churches sang their lament. The birds atop the statue of Mortis, the Father of All, matched the peals with their incessant twitter.

Aldred sighed as he turned to his riding companion, Livor Korianson. Livor was an enthusiastic fifteen year old like Aldred and eldest son to one of Aldred's father's principal lords.

"Still struggling with the funerals, Aldred?" Livor asked. He was chewing on a handful of dried fruit whilst his horse lapped at the water in a small pool.

"That's fair to say, Livor. If I'd known it was old Eli's send-off then I'd have suggested we ride south to chase the maidens in Oldston."

Livor patted Aldred's shoulder and then nodded towards the north where clouds the shade of tempered steel were gathering.

"We could retrace our trail back over Evik's Moor and with luck we could be back to Blackstone by early afternoon."

"What says that of our initiative?" Aldred asked. "I feel like a bit of excitement to lift my spirits from the pall of Eli's funeral. What say we hop the brook and ride over the crest of the hills and then down past the old fort?"

Livor laughed nervously. "Come on, Aldred, that's a fair leap on these horses. I don't want to be explaining to the baron about a lame drowned gelding, especially with his moods at the moment. Besides that, my father would flay me senseless for upsetting your old man."

Aldred frowned and then grinned. He dug in his stirrups, turned his horse and galloped at the foaming brook. The horse began to shy so he jabbed the metal into its sides and reined it tight, guiding it towards the water.

For a second he thought he had misjudged it and that the slick rocks would dash his head open. A buzz of excitement tingled in his chest as he vaulted the stream and his horse's hoofs clattered on the far bank.

He turned and yelled to Livor. "Nekra take my father's moods. It's time he realised life is for living. Come on, vault the brook, Engin is with us this day."

His companion's eyes darted from the brook to Aldred and back. Aldred smiled—Livor dressed like a noble Thetorian in his crisp white shirt and stylish leather trousers, yet he did not act like one. True Thetorians were men of passion and impulse, men who would hang the consequences and act.

"I'm afraid that my riding is not on a par with yours, Aldred," Livor said. "It would appear that I should retrace my steps and catch you up near Unger's Common."

Aldred shrugged, waved and then cantered away along the rocky crest of the hills. In truth, he was glad for some time alone. Livor's common sense and wisdom far exceeded his years; Aldred begrudgingly admitted to himself that his friend was correct about his discomfort with funerals.

It had been fourteen months ago that his mother had died. A wasting sickness had taken her slowly over a five-month period. That summer he had rushed through every lesson, every sword practice and every scroll he had to scribe, just to attend her chambers for another precious minute. With every sunny day that passed she seemed to diminish. The colour of her warm cheeks became more and more like the rocks of the hills that surrounded the barony. Whilst he sat there holding her frail hand, his pride damming his tears, he willed the summer to last forever; he knew that as the golden days shortened so his mother's life would too.

But Harvestide had arrived and she had departed, her soul rising like the dust from the reaped corn in the fields. She had left him to rest with Mortis, the Father, God of Light. The funeral procession had journeyed the fifteen miles from Eviksburg to Blackstone Castle to pay their respects. They had descended into the gloomy crypts and Aldred had watched as a part of his father, the baron, left with his mother.

Livor had also not been mistaken about Aldred's father's moods and temper. The baron had always been a harsh man, cast from the same iron that his subjects mined from the northern hills of his land.

Yet since his wife's death he had become a feared master, prone to outbursts, and the servants scampered like dogs before his rage. Lord Korianson had sought to occupy Baron Enfarson with forages into the hills at the west of the barony. They would travel from there into the South Khullian Mountains, Korianson evidently hoping that the exertion of killing goblins would distract him from his excess of black bile. Even that had proven futile, though they returned with armour stained with green blood and saddlebags brimming with treasures.

Aldred guided his horse Greymane down a pebbled track. It descended towards the fields that ran to the western edge of the hills. About a quarter of a mile ahead were the ruins of an old fort, its aged stones jutting like the ribs of some ancient dragon skeleton. He slipped off his mount and tied the reins to a crooked tree that leant against the wall of the fort.

The fort would once have been sizeable, agreeably not on the scale of Blackstone Castle, yet imposing enough. Long grass and brambles had worked their way through every gap. Aldred clambered across the mossy stones, pausing to consider the fort's layout. If he remembered his history lessons correctly then this would have been the outer wall: a strong two-layered barrier, built with the precise geometry of the Imperial engineers.

He smiled with satisfaction as he entered the fort; his memory had been correct. He had learnt something in the history lessons about Thetoria in the time of the Second Empire after all. This fort had been the residence of the Imperial custodian for the region, which would have equated to Aldred's ancestors' lands. It had been sacked during the civil war that ended the Artorian Empire, its mighty stones shattered by explosions of magic and boulders hurled by catapults.

Aldred entered the bailey and walked across the sloped ground, pushing through the grasses and nettles. The central keep rose before him, its flat roof now caved in. Streams of dusty light shone through like long prying fingers. Most of the upper floor's boards had long ago rotted, but Aldred still felt an admiration at the compact might of this structure. The Artorian Empire had ruled Thetoria for nearly three hundred years. Its influence had permeated every aspect of life in the country, having spread like the wasting rot that had consumed his mother. Its legacy was everywhere: in the buildings, the language and the culture, even in the organisation of the king's army. How ironic that the First Empire, the Eerian Empire, which had occupied Thetoria four centuries prior to the Artorians, had only left a language, a calendar and some damn fine roads.

The ruined hall of the keep was in front of him. Even in age it had grace, nobility, and conveyed a sense of the golden era in his country's history. The remnants of statues flanked Aldred as he entered the hall. Weeds had worked through the flags, splitting them like skulls on a battlefield. The statues were famed warriors of the Empire, emulated for all eternity in stone. Their faces had worn smooth with the rains and the winds that came often from the mountains, but Aldred could still sense their grandeur. Would any man make statues of him in days ahead or would his only likeness be in the crypts of Blackstone Castle?

He paused at the fragmented mural on the east wall; its tiny ceramic pieces flaked onto the flagstones. Artorians had not been lovers of paintings and tapestries in the way the Eerians had been. Instead they had depicted scenes of valour and war in vast intricate murals. This one was of a great battle, perhaps the subjugation of his country. He could see the faded kings bowing to the might of the Artorian war machine, a metal onslaught cast in the forges of mighty Erturia.

Yet the Empire was long gone: fragmented, shattered and now but a dusty memory for the history tomes. It had been destroyed by the greed of its rulers, finished by a civil war that had ended with cataclysmic magic in its very core.

Aldred stroked the tiles of the mural, feeling the rough edges under his fingers. As ever the Thetorians had survived, their royal lineage returned to power after centuries of living as minor nobility to the Emperor's governors and custodians. The lineage stretched into the mists of time, back to King Thetoria the First. Their nation had been founded in the ashes of the Trimenal lands, a vast country split by the two Wars of Brothers into becoming Goldoria, Feldor and Thetoria.

Aldred smiled as he considered that many centuries of marriage and inter-marriage had linked almost every noble house of Thetoria with the other such that Aldred was probably eight hundredth in line to the throne.

Bored now, Aldred turned to exit the keep and return through the bailey to his horse. Like one huge family, he mused, and like one huge family it squabbled incessantly. Barons fought barons over lands whilst dukes played their games at court and the king did as he fancied, leaving the scraps for the nobility like an elder brother would leave hand-me-down clothes. His vainglorious children Dulkar, Altred, Meara and Gwyn played with courtiers' lives as if in a game of Kirit's eye and then fought one another at any opportunity. Aye, Thetorians liked to fight, whether against Goldoria over mines or with each other in pointless battles and duels. They were never far from a good scrap.

Aldred emerged into the bailey and then froze, his hand slipping to his longsword. Atop the crumbling wall was a large bird, its ebony eyes staring at him. A trickle of fear ran down his spine: it was a black-hawk. The size of a bird of prey, its feathers were the colour of charcoal and its beak a wicked hook of black pain. The old tales he recalled from his wet nurse spoke that the birds were born from the souls of murderers, so foul that the Dukes of the Pale would not give them succor in their halls.

Aldred stared at the large bird and noticed it had a tiny scroll tied around its leg. Curiosity got the better of his wisdom and Aldred stooped and grabbed a stone then slung it at the bird. The bird took flight as if anticipating the missile and the rock clattered along the wall.

Aldred vaulted across the boulders and out to his horse, cursing his poor aim. The black-hawk was flying towards the distant River Eviks that traversed the barony. The river ran from the Khullian Hills past the castle, past Eviksburg and then east to the neighbouring baronies and ultimately south to Birin.

He rode his horse down the slope, but the bird had gone. At the base of the hill he found a track that wound between fields occupied only by corn stubble and occasional grasslands. The serfs knelt as he passed but Aldred did not acknowledge them, occupied as he was by his own thoughts.

After an hour he saw Livor waiting patiently at Ungor's Common, situated on the north bank of the river. His friend waved and greeted him as he approached.

"Ho, Aldred! It would seem that even my meek steed manages a better time than your royal bred stallion. Did you doze in the old fort?"

Aldred gestured at the gathering clouds that were darkening the lands around them.

"I thought it prudential to return before we were obliged to swim home. I didn't want you to ruin your best riding clothes. After all I'd hate for you to show me up when we go to Thetoria City in the New Year."

"My lord father may not have the wealth of the baron, but he shall provide me with enough finery to charm the city girls. Besides you shall have three years to try to outdo me with the ladies there!"

Aldred's moody face broke into a grin. The prospect of going to Thetoria City for three years to complete his education was the beacon at the end of his gloomy life at the castle. The pair rode from the common, following the track that ran west to the castle along the riverside.

"Maybe we could find a temptress to put a smile on the face of Quigor?" Livor said. "Draw him from his catacombs to the warm thighs of a woman!"

Aldred laughed at the jest and tried to imagine the pasty flesh of his father's advisor entwined with that of a buxom city girl.

"I fear he would find more pleasure in the crumbling limbs of the cemetery's residents," Aldred said.

The two lads chuckled as their horses galloped into the grounds of Blackstone Castle, its walls looming high above the river that lay at its feet. They slowed to cross the Blackstone Bridge, which arched over the wide River Eviks and trotted onto the stones of the main road that ran from the castle to Eviksburg.

Blackstone Castle lay on the south bank of the wide river like a slumbering mountain giant. Its dark walls had stood for a millennium, erected in the time of the First Empire to guard the north-west corner of Thetoria against the goblins and ogres that teamed in the mountains. Its outer curtain wall was wide, encircling a vast grassy bailey in the centre of which stood the main castle. This sat atop a small hill and comprised of a collection of towers and turrets that reached high into the air above the lower keep and halls. Having been added onto over the centuries its structure was confusing at times. It reflected the fancies of the many barons who had ruled from here during the changing times of Thetoria.

Its black stone made for many shady corners. They had never seemed sinister to Aldred as a boy, but in the wake of his mother's death the shadows had grown deeper. Something had happened during the baron's forage into the hills and his mood had never lifted since.

Two months later Quigor had arrived to take on the role of advisor after Helgint, the baron's old counsel, had abruptly retired to the town of Eviksburg. Quigor had some connection with Baron Enfarson's second cousin, a merchant in South Artoria whom Aldred had only heard referred to as 'the runt.' With Quigor there seemed to arrive a gloom at the castle, as if the stones were sapping the delight and life from its inhabitants. In fact when his father had suggested he finish his education in Thetoria City he positively leapt at the chance to leave his home.

The pair came through the gatehouse in the outer wall and trotted across the green. They passed the small collection of houses in the bailey, ascended the slope of Garan's Motte, and continued through the inner gatehouse of the keep. They dismounted in the courtyard and handed the bridles and reins to the two stable boys who waited shyly.

"M'lord, the baron asked for you to attend him when you returned," one said, staring at the cobbles of the yard.

"That's fine, err... Hinkir," Aldred said. "Make sure Greymane is brushed down, the long grass irritates him."

"M'lord," the boy said and lead the horse off to the stable. Aldred clapped Livor on the shoulder and strode in through the entrance hall, slipping off his cloak and tossing it on a vacant chair. He was sweaty from riding so he undid the top few buttons on his shirt and took the stairs two at a time. He ascended rapidly to the second floor and then froze as he passed a slit-like window.

Perched on the tip of the south tower was the black-hawk. It was resting beneath the flag that bore the banner of the House of Enfarson: a black castle on a gold field. It preened its feathers, oblivious to or uncaring of his attention. Aldred cursed once more, turned to ascend to his father, and ran straight into the slight figure of Quigor.

Aldred let out a yell in surprise and then jumped back at the furious glance that Quigor shot him. In an instant the expression was replaced by a sly smile, so rapidly that Aldred began to doubt he had even seen the glower.

"Always in such a rush, my lord. The impetuousness of youth, how I long for its thrill," he said.

"Master Quigor. You move like a shadow around my father's castle."

"There are many shadows in the dark stone. I seek only to diminish their toll on your father's heart."

Quigor was shorter than Aldred, with lank ginger hair that trailed from his shiny bald crown. His eyes were a light brown—not the warm brown of the earth but rather the mottled brown of rust. He was an Azaguntan and this fact did nothing to endear him to the baron's friends and troops.

He glanced out of the window. "I see you have spotted a black-hawk, my lord. What a magnificent bird it is. I am sure you concur?"

"They are said to be ill omens in Thetoria, master Quigor, not that this house needs any more of those."

"In Azagunta we believe they are dispatched by Engin to symbolise a time of change. Perhaps it comes to wish you well on your journey."

"My journey? I am not sure I understand you, Quigor?"

"Oh how careless of me. I do beg your pardon. Your father is to send you to Thetoria City earlier than planned. This weekend it would seem. But I'll allow you to hear it from his lips. By your leave..."

Quigor bowed and then slipped away down the steps.

Aldred's mind whirled as he took in the news. Part of him was glad to be rid of this mausoleum that passed for a home, yet another part ached at the ease with which his father sought to send him away. Did he feel pain inside when he saw Aldred's face, a face so like that of his mother? Or had his love been replaced with something darker and more consuming?

Aldred ascended the stairs contemplating Quigor's words. Like it or not the Azaguntan was correct: it was all going to change.

***

The opportunity came to Emelia more easily than she had been expecting. Her mind had been racing all morning, entertaining a dozen fabrications and schemes to try to get to the upper floors whilst the steel within her soul remained sharp. Mother Gresham had kept the girls so busy that none had time to brood, and in the bustle of allocating tasks she had received an order for refreshments to be taken to the upper Keep.

Emelia had stepped forward, rather too keenly, but Mother Gresham looked too weary to argue. A flicker of guilt came to Emelia as she ascended the stairs. It was possible that the rotund matron may well catch some of the brunt of the inevitable furor that she was about to unleash.

Her athletic legs took two steps at a time, hastening to the third floor in which the lord's chambers began. The numerous halls, rooms and studies that the Ebon-Farrs occupied were spread over the third to fifth floors of the building. Emelia paused at the landing, catching her breath and steadying her heartbeat.

A figure further down the long corridor that ran perpendicular from the landing made her linger and then step back into the concealment offered by a tarnished suit of armour. Lord Ebon-Farr was thirty feet away and stood at a door with no apparent handle. He had extracted a golden key on a leather thong from his shirt, but rather than use it on this unusual door he simply spoke his name. The door swung open with a faint glow, like the glint of moonlight on a pool. The door closed and sealed silently behind him once he had passed through. With a start she recalled the conversation with the Arch-mage she had overheard: that must be the room situated below his day chamber.

Emelia continued on her journey, thinking little more of Lord Ebon-Farr, but rather of his son Uthor. A nag of doubt was in the back of her mind; how did she think this whole scenario would play out? What would make anyone actually care what she said? Servants were rarely permitted to say anything at all in the same rooms as the nobility.

It matters not, she thought. I do this for my friend and for the life that was stolen away from her.

Emelia was stood outside the door of the lord's day chamber before she knew it, awaiting the arrival of the refreshments within the dumb waiter. Her heart was pounding now and she steadied herself on the firm wood of the sideboard. The platter arrived with a creak of rope and Emelia took a deep breath, then had a sudden strange sensation that someone was stood beside her, watching her. She looked around in confusion, praying to Torik that this time her mind would not let her down and make her flee. She had this task to do, to lay Sandila's soul to rest. She rubbed the smooth hard edges of her shell pendant nervously. She wished, not for the first time, that she were back on that golden beach with her parents and her sister. Emelia removed the tray from the cavity and then knocked before entering.

The day chamber was much the same as it had been six weeks ago in Harvestide. The rich smell of wood smoke filled the chamber. Even with the fire on full blaze Emelia suppressed a shudder at the chill demeanour of the chamber. Its décor included bleak tapestries and rows of shields and swords mounted on its walls.

In the centre sat Uthor, sprawled idly and lost in thought as he stared at the flickering fire. He was attired in a black and silver padded long shirt, the garb of the Knights of the Air. He sipped a beaker of red wine, its tannins staining his mouth with a vampyric smile. The silver of his hair gave him a cold and harsh look despite his handsome features.

Uthor barely spared a glance as she entered the chamber. Emelia's yarkel-wool pinafore felt stifling in the heat from the fire. Her scalp itched with the grease and ash.

He gestured nonchalantly at the table. "Put it there and be gone."

Emelia walked to the set of tables by the high backed chairs and lowered the tray. The two bottles of red wine had made it a heavy load. Nine years of habitual deference glued her eyes to the floor and she began to shuffle back. Then she halted and stared at him, her eyes narrowed.

Uthor became aware of her presence after about half a minute; his lip was curled as he turned his head. His glare melted into one of curiosity as he recognised the unusual glitter of her eyes and saw her face contorted in disdain.

"What in Torik's chill peaks is the meaning of this, girl?"

"What did you do?" Emelia asked.

"What? How dare you address me thus! Etiquette demands you say only 'm'lord,'" Uthor said with a splutter, wine and spit flecking his chin.

"You said to yourself when you came down the corridor, 'What have I done?' The day she died. The day my friend died. Well, m'lord, what did you do?"

Uthor looked astonished, partly at the impudence of a housemaid addressing him thus and partly at the inference of her question. He surged from his seat, his goblet falling to the wooden floor. Emelia stepped back to maintain some distance between them. The wine spread in a pool on the floor and an image of Sandila crumpled and broken on the cobbles sprang unbidden into her mind.

"How dare you talk to me. I have no idea what you think you heard but I should think very, very carefully about the things you say."

He began to move towards Emelia, his normally blotchy face red and livid.

Emelia smoothly stepped back, not through fear but from a desire to speak her mind.

"Oh, I've thought carefully, m'lord. Every night I think as I lay in bed. I think of my friend, with a child in her belly, laying on the uncaring cobbles. I think of what it must have been like as she fell towards her death. I wonder what she felt as her body smashed on the stones like an unbalanced pot. I think how in Torik's name she could accidentally fall over the battlements when she had the best balance of any of us girls. Then, master Uthor, I think how unjust it was that you had only yourself to confess to."

Uthor's face darkened. "I know you. Yes, I know you. You were that little whore's friend. You're the one I saw in Cheapside, all over that drunken sot. Is that how you servants earn an extra crust? Is it? On your back, in some alley, down in the slums?"

Emelia stepped forward and slapped Uthor with all her strength, the sharp crack echoing. He staggered, clutching his face, a look of horror written across it. Then he lunged, grabbing her wrists and shoving her back into the table that abutted the inner long wall. Emelia gasped in pain as the table edge struck her hip and she was pressed off-balance with Uthor's weight.

His leering face dominated her vision, his dilated pupils glaring into her own eyes. The wine on his breath smelt sickly sweet as he panted, excited by the struggle with Emelia, who was two stone lighter though nearly as tall. Emelia felt a sudden surge of fear at what this evil man may do to her in this lonely room and her feet desperately tried to gain traction on the floorboards. His hand jumped to her throat and as she struggled she felt her pendant snap and clatter back onto the table.

Uthor pushed towards her face, mouth opening to kiss her. "I recall when she wriggled under me like this. Give up and shut up. If you breathe a word I'll kill you."

"Like you did Sandila? I don't fear you and I don't fear death. I'll be gone from here soon enough and we'll see what the mages have to say when I tell them."

"And what would they care," he said, spittle flecking Emelia's face. "They'd not believe a little harlot like you. And don't think you're safe there—I know enough people in the Enclave to arrange a little fall of your own."

A roar exploded through Emelia, surging from deep inside like a tsunami. Nine years of frustration and anger; nine years of fearing to tread the wrong way; of not knowing whether she was valued more or less than the hounds that bayed in the garrison in the evening, burst the dam of her control. She shoved forward with all her might, yet this in itself may not have been enough save for the pent up rage flowing from her hands.

The air rippled, as if a heat haze had leapt from the fire and interjected between Emelia and Uthor. He was lifted from his feet and flew across the chamber, like a leaf in the autumn winds. His black and silver clad body crashed into the table, sending the two wine bottles smashing around him and drenching him in red liquid. For an instant Emelia thought she had killed him, but then he moaned and began to try sit up.

Panic came upon her as she moved sideways towards the door. What in Torik's name had happened then? How had she managed to send him sprawling fifteen feet across the floor? A mixture of elation and fear pulsed in her arteries and she realised with a jolt that she could have slain this man. Indeed she still could whilst he lay on the floor.

He'd deserve it too, Emelia, Emebaka snarled.

The door burst open and three figures entered the chamber: Lord Talis, Lady Heler and Sarik. They looked in astonishment at Uthor trying to regain his feet and Heler strode forward to help him.

"What in Coonor's mighty spires has happened to you, my darling?" Heler asked.

"My lady, I can explain," Emelia said.

Lady Heler flushed and whirled, glaring at Emelia.

"Silence! I care not to have our noble ears muddied by your common utterances. I spoke to my son and your lord. You will wait there until I ask you."

Emelia blushed and began to curtsey, then stopped herself.

"I'd suggest that it's your filthy son that muddies this room, my lady."

Talis, Heler and Sarik all gasped simultaneously as Uthor began to regain his feet.

Lord Talis, his features stern, stepped forward.

"That is enough, young lady, you will remember your place. Sarik escort her to the kitchens at once and be thankful it is not straight to the yard for the sting of the birch."

Sarik took Emelia's arm firmly and pulled her from the room.

"Thank Torik you're on your way tomorrow," he said in a whisper. "Few cross the Jackal and live a happy life thereafter."

Emelia was shaking with the adrenaline as they left the room and her eyes were moist with tears. There was no choice now: she would have to leave tonight.

Chapter 7 Cutting the Cord

Windstide 1920

At night the kitchen was a peaceful place, albeit only for the four hours in the smallest hours when even the bakers had to rest. The silvery moonlight from the waning Eerian moon mixed with the blue of the Aquatonian to give the interior the quality of frost. Two kitchen boys were curled together under a yarkel blanket for warmth. A small mouse nibbled at the crumbs that lay on their clay plates, the remnants of their supper.

Emelia crept across the cold flags, considering the fragments that remained of her own life at the Keep. She had been almost disappointed that Mother Gresham had not beaten her for her earlier affront; somehow the pain would have fired her fury all the more. Instead she had looked at her with eyes wracked by sorrow. In a flat voice she said that leaving the Keep would be punishment enough, and that if she tried such tomfoolery at the Enclave she'd be living on a lily pad in the Arch-mage's garden. She had then told Captain Ris that one by one all her girls were going. Gresham had solemnly appraised Emelia, commenting that the girl she had raised had gone that day at the carnival, melting into the crowds never to return. Emelia had skulked to pack her scanty possessions in the girls' dormitory, the bitter words stinging deeper than any birch.

Yet in a sense Gresham's comment was true. After all, the old Emelia—a young girl obedient and courteous—would have never eased herself out of her cot at high moon and snuck through the kitchens with escape in mind. She had kissed Abila with tears in her eyes, hoping perhaps one day to see her again, but knowing in her soul that it was not going to be possible.

In the corner of the kitchen Torm was asleep, his head resting on a pile of rags. Emelia hesitated to take a final look at him. His bruised face was peaceful and his ankle was securely strapped.

His eyes flicked open and for several seconds Emelia and Torm just stared at one another.

"Heard what you did," he said in a low voice. "I still think sticking him would have been better."

"Perhaps, though my discretion has meant I'm still here to try escape and not in a deep cell in Iyrit Crag," Emelia said. "One day we'll get justice."

"I'll pray for that day. Perhaps he'll get drunk and fall off a griffon."

Emelia knelt by Torm. Her hand touched his swollen face.

"I'd take you with me if I could, I..."

"You'll have a far better chance if I stay slumbering on this cold stone floor. I would slow you down and get you captured. Two servants on the run? No chance."

"One day, I'll come back for you."

"You'll do no such thing. I'll be nipping at your heels like a guppy in no time. You keep checking over your shoulder, Emelia, and one day I'll be there."

Emelia stood and secured her satchel.

"I'll look every day," she said.

"About what I said earlier. I'm sorry."

"I know. Bye, Torm."

She turned and slipped across the kitchen towards the steps. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Torm roll towards the wall.

Emelia reached the stone stairs that led to the levels above and paused. A vision of her younger self, running under the wood tables with Sandila and Abila came to her, a warm orange spectre in the silver blue backdrop. A lump sprang into her throat and she had to choke back a tear as she turned and left that child behind forever.

Although little thought had gone into this beyond the encouraging tones of Emebaka there was no doubt in Emelia that it was her sole option. She could be a servant no more; something had switched inside her. There had been an awakening, an epiphany that something about her was different, destined for another path in life. She could not sit around counting the wasted days until she came of age.

A paralysing surge of fear stopped her in her tracks. She wavered on the steps, looking back down to the kitchen.

I am on a threshold, Emebaka, if I take another step I know I won't go back.

What holds your legs frozen to the spot then?

I... I am terrified. I'm no longer to have the safety of the Keep, and with each passing second I doubt that the Enclave is a place of security for me. Uthor has his blood-stained reach into the place and I keep thinking of the dark sorcerer talking about the Arch-mage.

That may all be supposition and lies though.

Aye, but something has happened to me, Emebaka. Something awakens, like a long dormant dragon. I feel it growing within me. I'm changing somehow—doing impossible things. If the Air-mages find I can hurl grown men across rooms like rag dolls and fall through solid walls do you think they will ever let me go? I'll not be spending six years at the Enclave. No, I'll never see the light of day again.

It required more effort to take that step than anything ever had in Emelia's life before. Yet as the first step forward lifted her up the stairs, the second rapidly followed and before long she was vaulting up the stairwell.

Her satchel bag was crammed with bits of bread and cheese, enough for perhaps a week. Then she would be forced to steal to live. Could she become a thief? She pondered this as she slipped up the stairs, keeping flush to the wall. For a moment this afternoon she could have been a killer she had been so enraged. So yes, indeed, she could steal if she was required to. It would take weeks and weeks to traverse the farmlands of Lower Eeria and winter was coming; her timing could not have been worse. Yet staying in the city was a poorer option. Escaped servants rarely had pleasant lives; they invariably gravitated to Cheapside and the horrors it held for young girls.

She had reached the ground floor now, where the main barracks of the garrison was located. This was the only real option for exiting the Keep and was, of course, always guarded. None the less she had heard from some of the older girls that at this hour the guards were fairly somnolent and with Engin's grace the opportunity may arise for her to slip out into the upper city. Then perhaps she would hide in a cart bound for the countryside and then away.

Emelia's hand drifted to her pendant as she began to creep from the landing into the ground floor's corridors. She reeled in horror, her long fingers scrabbling at the bare skin of her neck.

It was gone.

She almost screamed in frustration with the realisation of where she had lost it. As Uthor had grabbed her neck, seconds before she had somehow thrown him across the chamber, she had felt it snap. She punched the wall, the hard stone sending pain lancinating through her fingers. Tears welled once more and she bit hard on her lip to stop her cries of disappointment and pain.

Emelia stood frozen, like the ethereal kitchen she had only just left, as she weighed her options. The sound of voices from further down the torch-lit corridor made her mind up for her and she swivelled and padded back to the stairs and upwards. She trod the same wide steps that she had hours before as she had gone to confront Uthor. The irony was not lost on her as she rapidly adjusted her make-shift plan. Perhaps she could leave the Keep from the roof, ascend to the city wall and then seek a way down the towers or steps? The idea seemed unappealing given the fate of her friend but roaming the whole building was surely an invitation to being discovered.

Emelia approached the landing of the fourth floor, slowed and began to creep, making as little sound as the ancient stones around her. This floor was often guarded and she needed to make some assessment as to the wakefulness of its sentry. Could she fabricate some excuse to pass a guard? Some yarn about why she roamed the Keep at an hour past high moon?

You really do have the Moon's malady, Emebaka chuckled. She smiled despite herself, easing around the corner of the stairs.

The landing was vacant, its only occupant a suit of armour. Perhaps Engin was visiting the Keep tonight to pay her back for all the misfortune of the last few weeks. Emelia entered the corridor, which was lit by eight torches. She passed the old tapestry that covered the alcove, and out of the corner of her eye saw a slight bulge in the cloth at the base.

It was the tip of a boot.

She bit her fist to suppress her scream. The boot was flat to the floor as if its owner was sleeping. Her hands trembled as she pulled the tapestry to the side.

Crammed in the alcove, between the stacked benches, was the bound figure of a guard. Emelia's immediate thought was that he was dead but then she saw the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath his chain mail hauberk. He was expertly tied with rope and had a thick gag in his mouth, secured by a knotted cloth. An ugly bruise was behind his ear and a dried trickle of blood had wormed down his neck like a strange tattoo.

Leave him be, this is not your problem anymore, Emelia, Emebaka hissed. Let us get the pendant and get out of here, for there is villainy afoot and we best not be caught up in any more trouble before we depart.

For once the voice made sense; Emelia replaced the tapestry and walked silently towards the door to Lord Ebon-Farr's day chamber. She eased the heavy door open, used by now to its weight and conscious of how to avoid its creaking.

Two figures whirled to face her as she entered the room. They were silhouetted against the large window. She made to yell in surprise but her mouth was so dry no sound came. They flew into action. The nearest, a slim man with a neat moustache raised his hands and hissed some words in a language Emelia didn't understand. Air shimmered around his hands and she was propelled into the wall, the impact knocking the breath from her. It was as if the invisible hand of a giant was clutching her, as if her limbs were made of lead.

The second man had run across the room drawing a dagger. He was on her in an instant, the cold steel of the tip pressing painfully into her throat whilst his other hand covered her mouth.

Up close he was handsome, although Emelia was perhaps not best placed to admire his dashing features. His hair was tied back in a ponytail and both his ears were pierced with gold earrings.

"Listen. I shall say this once," he said in a low voice. "We are thieves not killers. However, if you chose to scream you will force me to push this dagger through your neck. Is that very clear?"

Emelia looked into his eyes to gauge whether this was an idle threat. It was not easy to tell. His eyes were a warm deep green yet there was a hard edge to them, every bit as keen as his knife. In any case, she thought, alerting the Keep was the last thing she wanted.

Seeing her acknowledgement the thief slipped his hand away and lowered his dagger. She felt the invisible pressure ease as the second man approached, a look of fascination written on his face. She suddenly felt very self-conscious and awkward before these strangers and blushed.

"Are you a slave here, love?" the man with the pony-tail asked.

"Not a slave, a servant—a housemaid. I'm... in servitude," Emelia said.

He turned to the second man who Emelia saw was primly presented.

"You know, Jem, getting the young lasses from other nations to do their housework—like they're too good for it. That's so, well, so... Eerian. Arrogant sods."

"Where else would you expect to find something 'so Eerian', Hunor? The feeding pits of Pyrios? The gardens of Versica? This is the main market for the Azaguntan slavers that you rip off in your games of Kirit's eye."

Hunor wrinkled his nose and turned his attention back to Emelia. "What's a housemaid doing prowling around the place at this hour, like a thief? Lighting up the fires early? Are you running away, love? Going to find fame and fortune on the stage in the playhouse at Kokis?"

When Emelia didn't answer he shrugged. "Anyhow, nice to make your acquaintance but I'm afraid we're going to have to tie you up. We're at work, y'see."

Emelia look startled and her mind raced; she couldn't be tied up waiting for the Ebon-Farrs to find her. She could not face the Enclave.

"Take me with you. I can help you," she said.

Hunor paused as he was unfurling his rope and stared in surprise at her. "I'm sorry, love. We're not in the... ah... recruitment game at the moment. You see we're sort of vagabond, freebooter types. I mean you are quite striking. Those eyes are remarkable. Really. But I'm afraid..."

"Hunor," Jem said. "Just wait a moment."

Slender fingers lifted Emelia's chin and she met Jem's gaze with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. Emelia found his hazel eyes hypnotic. Her skin tingled, like she had just come inside from the wind.

"Let it out," he whispered. "It's like a cauldron inside you isn't it? Pushing inside your skull."

Emelia could hardly breathe; her blood ran cold in expectation. By Torik, how does he know?

The air reverberated around Emelia, pushing Jem's hand away. A smile worked its way across Jem's lips.

"She's a Wild-mage."

Both Hunor and Emelia stared at Jem in disbelief.

"She's a Wild-mage?"

"I'm a what?" Emelia asked.

Jem came closer to the pair. Emelia could see how he differed from Hunor. His hair was neatly combed and parted with a surgical precision. His face was as young as Hunor's yet paler, with a clipped moustache. It was his eyes, however, that fascinated Emelia as she observed him: they burned with a feverish intelligence, seeming to penetrate within her soul.

"I can see the Web bending around her, Hunor. Trust me, she has the magic gift. Like me. She's like me."

"No offence, mate, but she's not a bit like you. I mean she's young and pretty and those sparklers in her head would make her a fortune in the right places, but, well, no offence love, she's a housemaid doing a bunk. Wild-magic or no."

"I think we can trust her, Hunor. Seriously. When I say she is like me I refer, of course, to the potential she holds within her."

Emelia stared at Jem. The air crackled with tension and Emelia had the strangest sense that she had always known this man, that she had always trusted him.

"We can trust her, Hunor. She wants far more than this place and she can help us."

"Oh, that's different then. If you're going to contribute to the job, then you're all right by me, love. I still think a career on the stage might be a safer option. I must introduce you to Igridd the Pink sometime. He's got some great acts."

"Hunor!"

"Oh yeah, sorry, Jem. Tangents and all that. Right... the key! Where is it? See Jem can get us into the antechamber but not the store itself, so we need the key for the second door."

The key, Emelia thought in panic. Her mind raced and then she realised what they were seeking. They wanted the blue crystal. That same fateful day that Lord Talis had met the Arch-mage she had heard their discussion of this crystal. Earlier today she had seen him on the floor below with a key entering a locked room.

"It's around his neck," she said, gesturing at the door leading through to the lord's bedchambers. "On a cord around his neck."

Hunor and Jem both smiled at the same time and glanced where she pointed. Hunor flipped the dagger in his hand, caught it and then offered it to Emelia handle first. She gawped at the weapon; the silver and blue of the moons that shone through the large window gave the metal an icy quality.

"It's to cut the cord, love," Hunor said. "Regard this as your trial by fire."

***

It took a good minute for Emelia's eyes to adjust to the darkness of the Ebon-Farrs' bedchamber. The day room had been relatively bright with moonlight. In the bed chamber the smaller windows were concealed by heavy curtains, thickened to trap heat within the chill room. A fire in the corner had burned out, leaving a faint scent of wood smoke in the chamber.

The bedroom was a testament to Lady Ebon-Farr's adoration of soft furnishings. Emelia had always been fascinated by the explosion of cushions that adorned this room. They came in every shape and size. The majority were from local weavers in the town of Melton, a picturesque place that sat on the edge of the harsh Plain of Meltor. These cushions mixed yarkel and sheep wool stuffing with cow leather trim in beautiful patterns. Dotted between were the plush fineries of Mirioth and some extravagant giant Feldorian cushions. As bad luck would have it they were scattered across the polished floorboards and made traversing the room in the near pitch black a true challenge for Emelia.

Emelia weaved silently past the dressing table, with its powders and perfumes, past the leather armchairs and towards the four-poster bed that dominated the far side of the room. It loomed like an ominous beast from a fairy tale, emulating Mother Gresham's best yarns about evil dragons and gargantuan mountain giants.

Emelia caught a movement out of the corner of her eye as she neared the foot of the bed. She froze, the dagger clasped firmly in her hand. In an instant she recognised it was only her reflection in the full-length mirror, given extra clarity by a slim chink of blue moonlight slipping past the lined curtains.

Emelia turned cautiously to face her own image. It had been many years since she seen any reflection, bar a glimpse in a grubby puddle or a distorted caricature in the curve of a brass kettle. Her reflection stared back nonchalantly as she looked herself up and down, fascinated by the change.

Gone was the awkward adolescent, overly conscious of her maturing figure, and in its place stood a young woman, proud and confident. Her blonde hair was tied back allowing the pale moonlight to illuminate her face. It was long, with a thin nose, large glittering eyes and full lips that had never forgotten how to smile. She had a tall athletic physique, with muscled arms, toned legs and small breasts pulled flatter by the overly small tunic she wore.

When had she become this woman that stood before her? Minutes ago when she had met Jem's intense gaze? Hours ago when she had challenged vile Uthor and unleashed some strange force? Days ago when she had unknowingly said her last words to her closest friend? Or was it that moment when Hirk the Netreptan had whispered for her to flee the coup when the time was right? They could not clip her wings now.

With new resolve Emelia slipped past the foot of the bed and towards the slumbering occupants. Lord Talis slept flat on his back. The scanty moonlight that fell upon him gave him the appearance of a corpse. At his side Lady Ebon-Farr was sprawled. She was evidently a far more exuberant sleeper. She regularly moaned and mumbled and changed position, tangling the bed sheets around her like a bizarre ball gown. The scent of wine hung in the air and Emelia surmised that they had continued the drinking after Uthor had been taken to the Citadel of Air.

Inch by inch Emelia moved towards Lord Talis, her own breath slowing to near silence as she came closer. She could see a moist patch of saliva on his cheek and a light wine snore was rasping from his lips.

A strange feeling arose inside her as she came within a foot of his hawkish face. In truth it was difficult to describe exactly how she felt, for here was a man who had become the all-encompassing force in her life. This was her master and her lord. His will and whim dictated how she lived, how she ate, what she wore and what she thought. She scurried around in the shadows he cast, as if he were imbued with the morose grey of the stones, a part of this castle like some living statue. He was the all. He was a god that ruled in this domain she was trapped within. So as she looked down at him and the golden key that was lying on his bony chest she was transfixed by a sense of obligation and loyalty to this man, bound to him as servant and master in the way a babe would be bound to its mother at birth by its umbilical cord.

The voice that she kept repressed within her came to her rescue once more. It surged to the surface, like a shark breaking the still sea at night. Emelia, it is past time we did this, Emebaka implored. Cut it now. Cut that cord.

She slipped the razor sharp dagger under the leather cord and with a tiny pressure it slit. Her eyes were glued to the rhythmic breathing of Lord Talis as she tentatively gripped the key and then gently lifted it away from him.

His breathing paused then continued and Emelia slowly exhaled, little spots dancing in her vision from the prolonged holding of her breath. She stepped back carefully, noting the brass bedpan within inches of her right foot as she did so. Now that would have been a poor trial by fire, she smiled.

The cord had finally been cut.

***

It was apparent as she returned to the pale light of the day chamber that Hunor and Jem had been discussing her and also that Hunor had been observing her progress through a chink in the doorway. He made a show about being disinterested in her return, but she could see his eyes focused on the gold key.

Emelia handed him the key and then began to make towards the main door from the day room that lead out onto the corridor. She saw her pendant lying under the table as she neared the door and with a sigh of relief she picked it up and tucked it away safe. It was then she realised neither man was following her. Jem was pacing slowly across the floor, muttering to himself. Hunor had a leather roll out on the same table that had borne Uthor's bottles of wine hours before. He seemed to be examining a selection of spindly metal picks and hooks.

Jem looked up and gestured her over to where he stood. She walked over as he pulled a small ball of food from his pouch. He offered it out to her and indicated for her to begin chewing it.

"It's a mixture of mint and coriander herbs, bound by sap from the golden willow tree," Hunor said as she winced in distaste.

"How do you plan to get past the first door below?" Emelia asked, attempting to take her mind from the pungent taste. "Lord Talis is the only one who can open it. I'm certain I heard them say it was enchanted."

"It would be a challenge," Jem said. "The nature of the enchantment is probably too elemental and complicated for me to break. I would propose—I suppose obviously—that there's been some help in its creation from the Air-mages."

"Then how are we to get past it?" Emelia asked.

"It's one of Jem's party tricks, love," Hunor said, taking her hand. "There's a proper magic name for it but I call it fizzy wall."

Jem snorted in derision and took both Hunor's hand and Emelia's other hand so that they now stood in a small circle.

"The term amongst Wild-mages is phase-shifting. It's hard to explain to the uninitiated and I don't mean to be patronising by that. In essence I use the magic to stretch the Web and we slip ourselves through the gaps by precisely lining our auras up."

"But it feels like your backside is sat in a pool of frisky minnows," Hunor said to her out of the side of his mouth. "Keep chewing the cud and you'll not feel as sick."

Emelia felt a sudden sense of panic but Jem and Hunor held her hands tight. The air began to coalesce around them as Jem uttered arcane words. Emelia noticed a bright green glow pulsing in his eyes, like two radiant emeralds. Then a sudden cramp struck her stomach and she nearly bolted the chewy concoction from her mouth. With terror she realised she was sinking through the wood floor. The chairs and tables now loomed over her head and as she looked down in astonishment she saw her waist appeared to begin within the floorboards. Her legs were numb and tingling, the sensation she would occasionally get from lying with her arm pressed against the hard rim of her bed in the dormitory.

Emelia stifled a cry as the floor ascended up her chest to her neck. She felt a cold tingle that flowed like icy water through her head and then her vision went black.

An instant later she was drifting slowly down through darkness. Her body was light and felt insubstantial, as if she were now a spirit. After what seemed an eternity, yet in truth was but a few seconds, her feet touched solid floor and the tingle disappeared, leaving a wrench within her gut. The heady scent of the mint and coriander overpowered her and she retched violently, feeling warm vomit splash down her arms.

Emelia pulled her hands away from Jem and Hunor and stood straight. Hunor chuckled in the pitch black.

"Don't worry, love, I caught it at the lower end my first time. Thought someone had sat me on a cursed privy! I swear I never left it for an entire week."

Emelia pushed out her wet arms, trying to orientate herself in the inky blackness. Her hand brushed against one of the men's backs.

"Easy, darling," Hunor said. "We've only just met. I haven't even asked your name. Some gallant Thetorian I am, eh? Now hang on a second. That's the trick."

A spark flashed in the dark and a torch sputtered to life, Hunor's flint box having caught the oily material that wrapped around its top. Hunor took the torch and lit the six others in the cold chamber they now stood within. Jem was rubbing his arms clean with a large cloth, a look of intense concentration on his face.

The roof was vaulted with six pillars rising from the room's edges and then curving at their apices to merge in to the stone of the ceiling. It gave the chamber the feel of a shrine and despite the glow from the torches there was more shadow than light. Emelia shivered, partly with the cool of the room, partly with the awareness of how she was crossing a line of no return.

"What is it then?" Hunor asked as he approached one of the doors in the chamber.

Emelia looked puzzled at him as he slid the key into the lock of the door.

"Your name?" Hunor asked as he opened the door.

"It's Emelia. My name. Emelia. Just Emelia," she replied and moved forward to join Hunor at the door. Jem took one of the torches from its sconce and followed.

Hunor smiled and then stepped carefully into next room and the other two followed.

Lord Ebon-Farr's vault contained the culmination of the heirloom of perhaps fifty generations of his family and Emelia was rendered speechless by its content. She heard Hunor emit a slow whistle as the torches cast a warm light over the array of gold and platinum that cluttered the room. The walls had a heaviness that seemed to soak up the sound so that their footsteps were eerily silent as they strode across it. Racks of gilded goblets leaned against the pale walls, interspersed with bejeweled platters, tiaras, sceptres and rings. They had a certain order to them that spoke of some attempt to catalogue the treasures that sat within this place. Jem slid his torch into a vacant sconce and set about rooting through the glittering prizes, like an oversized squirrel.

Hunor looked with admiration at a suit of plate armour, its enamelled breastplate emblazoned with a silver eagle. He gently stroked the front and commented to Jem. "It's a magnate alloy, really light. I'll bet that's what those air knights wear."

Jem nodded, rifling through a rack of swords and maces. He paused as he found a broad sword and slid it from its scabbard. The torchlight reflected off the blade and Emelia gasped at the beauty of the weapon. The hilt and grip were gilded and the pommel was hooked into the image of an eagle's head. Jem muttered some strange words and Emelia saw symbols carved on the blade begin to glow green.

He turned, re-sheathed the sword and then tossed it to Emelia. She squealed in surprise and caught the weapon, then looked sheepish at her clear inexperience with such an item.

"It's got some Galvorian enchantment on the blade I think. It must be magnate too, to be able to hold the charm," Jem said. Emelia looked in awe at the sword, afraid to draw it from its scabbard again. It was amazingly light in her hands.

"Well, Emelia, that's the first payment in your apprenticeship. In the markets of Azagunta that'd be worth twenty times your pretty face, I'm afraid to say. Perhaps for the first lesson Jem'll show you some card tricks and I'll show you how to stick that in some ruffian before he sticks a cheaper one in you."

"Hunor, I think this is the chest we need. Take a look," Jem said.

Emelia noticed a change come over Hunor, as if a switch had been clicked in his mind. His face became serious and he handed Emelia the torch as he stalked past.

The chest was small, perhaps two feet across and eighteen inches deep and tall. It was made from polished mahogany inlaid with golden bands and small discs of platinum. Each disc was inscribed with a protective rune and the central disc had a tiny keyhole in its centre.

Hunor scratched his light stubble, his gold earrings glinting in the torchlight. His hands slipped over the surface, probing its contours and crannies before settling on the keyhole.

"Oddly enough I'd have said it was Pyrian in design, but I think that's a red herring. It's a Mirioth trap-chest," Hunor said.

"I assume you can crack it, Hunor?" Jem asked. "The runes mean that it's protected against magic which ultimately means that I can't phase-shift it back up with us."

Hunor glanced at Emelia and Jem, then grinned.

"Is Esmerelda Fishgusset the least successful harlot in the port of Kir? Of course I can crack it! The trick's not losing my face or my fingers from the acid behind the lock whilst I open it."

Jem nodded and subtly stepped back from Hunor. He indicated for Emelia to hold the light closer to the crouching thief. The chamber suddenly felt very claustrophobic as Emelia watched her new mentor begin his work.

Hunor had pulled out a leather roll of picks and implements and was carefully selecting two to use. He slid two long picks gingerly into the lock and then gently began to manipulate the tools. Sweat beaded his brow and his concentration was total. Emelia found herself holding her own breath.

After about five minutes Emelia heard a click. Hunor placed his hand on the lid of the chest as a spring began to propel it open. He reached to his leather roll and pulled out a slender pair of tweezers and then slipped the implement under the crack between the lock and the lid. He slowly extracted a minute vial of purple liquid.

Emelia backed away as he placed it in a cloth bag and then slid it across the stone floor. "Acid cloud. That's just really mean."

Jem had been busy arranging some of the treasures he had disturbed back into order. Emelia noted the pedantic way he had lined the rows of weapons and shields against the wall.

Hunor opened the chest and chuckled in delight. The interior was padded with velvet—within it were three diamond rings and the blue triangular crystal that Emelia had seen the day Inkas-Tarr had returned it to Lord Talis. Hunor slipped all the items from the chest into one of the pouches that hung from his belt and stood with a flourish.

"The job's in the bag, my friends. Let us make haste from this chill place and into the frigid embrace of Lower Eeria!" Hunor said, drawing the sword he kept strapped to his back.

Despite the tension of the last ten minutes Emelia burst out laughing, taken up by the charm of this man. She smiled at Jem, who shook his head in mock despair and drew his own sword. Emelia awkwardly pulled out her new sword. Both Jem and Hunor stepped back as it jerked out from the scabbard and almost sliced them both. They both grinned at the deep blush that blossomed on Emelia's face.

Their moment of silliness over, the three exited into the antechamber that they had first entered, re-sheathing their swords. Jem gestured at the ceiling.

"Back up is the better option, I'd say. We can't go through the vaults walls or floor as it's enchanted and if we descend from here I'm fairly sure we'll land in the officers' mess, which will be good for my strange love of vintage port, but not so good for our escape. So up we must go and then a swift and silent escape the same way we came, eh, Hunor? No diversions to take some impressive work of art?"

"You loved that bust we took from that merchant in Kokis, Jem. If you hadn't made me drop it..."

"It weighed eighty pounds and we were sliding down a rooftop four stories up," Jem said to Emelia.

"No appreciation of art these Goldorians," Hunor said as he began to chew the mint once more.

***

Something subtle had changed in the day chamber when they ascended into its cool interior once again. Emelia sensed it immediately but the tension in the air seemed lost on her two companions. The wave of nausea hit her once more but less vividly than before and after a minor retch, with little to show for it, she was back on her feet.

Emelia shivered as she surveyed the room. All was as they had left it: the faint embers of the huge fire; the leather armchairs; the cluster of tables in the room's centre; the cabinets and sideboards on the room's periphery. It was the same sensation she had experienced when she had walked down the corridor earlier in the day: a feeling of being observed.

Jem and Hunor were securing their packs and talking in hushed tones about their pre-planned escape route. It was as they did this that Emelia noticed a wisp of blue smoke worming its way under the door from the corridor and into the room. She watched in fascination as it spiraled upwards and then began to coalesce, unnoticed by her two companions.

"Err... Jem, something's wrong," Emelia said.

Jem turned, his lips pursed and eyebrows raised. His face dropped in astonishment as the smoke transformed into a tall man. His bald head was tattooed with runes and he wore robes similar to those of Inkas-Tarr. Emelia instinctively darted for cover beneath the oak table that Uthor had pinned her against earlier.

The Air-mage raised his hands as Hunor and Jem leapt into action, the former drawing his sword in a blur. The air crackled with electrical power around the mage.

The chamber erupted into a gale. A ferocious wind blasted like a battering ram into Hunor and Jem, lifting the companions from their feet and propelling them backwards through the air. Jem slammed with a crash into the large mirror over the fireplace, scattering shards of glass around him like rain. Hunor grasped onto the side of the leather armchair as he flew past, but the move simply lifted the chair with him towards the large stained-glass window.

Emelia stifled a scream as Hunor spun towards the window. On its other side was a thousand foot plummet to a rocky death. Hunor twisted and the armchair was propelled with an explosion of glass through the window, its beautiful scenes of Eerian mountains and heroic knights annihilated by the impact. Hunor dropped lower as he neared the shattered window and jammed his legs onto the stone wall, then with a grunt managed to force his way safely into the corner between floor and wall.

Jem was bleeding from several cuts on his shoulders and back and was desperately trying to fight against the hurricane. The pressure of the wind dropped abruptly and with a thud he tumbled down onto the ashes of the hearth, a cloud of soot erupting around him. Emelia could see a look of intense disgust on his face.

The Air-mage spoke, his voice shrill in the wake of the hurricane.

"My name is Ekra-Hurr, Wizard of the Air and brown sash ferenge. I am the guardian of this treasure you have procured. Your fortune has turned for the worse, base thieves, for now you face the elemental might of the Air-mages. This charlatan magic you practice will avail you little against the ancient powers of the wind. Surrender now and I will ensure you both a fair trial and a kind death, should it come to that."

Hunor was regaining his feet, his sword in his hand, but Jem was clearly still struggling to stand.

"No offence, pal, but your sweet talking blows more hot wind than your magic," Hunor said. "Give us your best shot."

Ekra-Hurr snarled and the air crackled around him once more, his robes billowing. The room flashed white as lightning coursed from his hands. Hunor was swift, rolling to the side behind an upturned table. The lightning bolt exploded into the table with a peal of thunder and it burst into flames.

Hunor moved swiftly behind fresh cover as Ekra-Hurr's lightning began to build once more around his raised arms. Emelia could see from her hiding place the look of ecstasy on his face at the power he was wielding and it sent a chill through her. He did not look like the merciful sort.

Hunor was weaving across the room as lightning forked again towards him. He scooped a fallen shield from the floor and threw it into the path of another bolt. The shield flared with a bright flame then fell like ornate slag to the floorboards. Smoke was beginning to fill the room, its choking cloud snaking out through the shattered window and into the night air.

Emelia's heart was racing at the pace of the battle. It was surely only a matter of time before either half the garrison arrived or the Ebon-Farrs came to investigate.

Jem was on his feet now, tunic caked in dark soot. He thrust his arms forward in rage. A small table, one of the leather chairs and two heavy brass pokers from the fireside tumbled through the air with ferocious force towards Ekra-Hurr. The Air-mage snarled and directed his electrical blast towards the missiles, which exploded as the energy struck them. Smouldering wood cascaded around the room and Emelia winced as a glowing hot poker hissed into the floor five feet from her arm.

Once more the wind arose from the Air-mage and soared towards Hunor and Jem. Hunor anchored himself against one of the heavier tables, his ponytail writhing in the gust. Jem gritted his teeth and forced his own magical force against the hurricane. Goblets, platters, bottles, shields and books danced like leaves in the air, suspended between the two opposing forces.

Despite the ringing of the wind in her ears Emelia could somehow sense that the corridor was echoing to the sounds of the garrison's boots. Tears welled to her eyes as she realised that capture was inevitable; her freedom had been short-lived. Once again a sense of indignation boiled within her and then impulsiveness took over.

She crawled from under the table and across the wooden floor. Her nails dug into the wood and split as they tore along it. Both the wind and some other unseen force buffeted against her but the move to stay prostrate on the floor was proving a wise one. The sword was stuffed down the back of her dress, given some security by the cloak that she had pulled tight to her back.

Within a minute she had come behind Ekra-Hurr's legs. She could see the strain in his calves as he forced his magic against that of Jem. Emelia bit her lip in determination, the salty iron taste of the blood giving her a boost of willpower. She slid the sword from its scabbard with her right hand then, yelling in fury, slashed the blade across Ekra-Hurr's ankle.

The razor-sharp edge sliced to the bone and blood spattered against her arm as the mage stumbled. His concentration broken, a shower of debris crashed into his front then rained down around Emelia. A bottle glanced off her head sending a flash of white-hot pain across her vision.

Emelia scrabbled to sit up, the sword still in her hand and her fingertips raw and bleeding. The Air-mage was leant back against the table, blood streaming from his ankle, his chest cut and his breathing ragged from several broken ribs. Emelia could see the pulse of a glowing diamond embedded in his chest. His angry gaze met Emelia's as she came to her feet only six feet away from him. Her blood ran cold as she saw lightning crackle around his hands.

In a blur of dark leather and a flash of steel Hunor was there beside her. He moved with the fluidity of a dancer, his sword slashing across the Air-mage's arm as he thrust it out to cast the spell. Ekra-Hurr screamed as the blade tore open his wrist, releasing a morass of tendon and artery and carving a deep furrow into his bone. A jet of bright arterial blood sprayed forth and the mage dropped like a stone, instinctively clutching his crimson arm to his chest.

For an instant, Hunor paused and Emelia felt suddenly sick and afraid. She wanted to look away from the scene rather than witness this man's death. Then Hunor kicked out, the toe of his boot catching the chin of the fallen mage. Ekra-Hurr's head bounced with a resounding thud against the leg of the table and he slumped dazed to the floor.

Hunor grabbed Emelia's arm and pulled her across the room towards Jem. They weaved through the wreckage of the room as both doors opened, spilling yellowy torch light onto the destruction.

The three stood before the broken window, the chill of the mountain winds blowing into them from the black void that lay beyond. Emelia glanced back at the eight guards bundling into the chamber, their swords shakily held forth. She saw Lord Talis and Lady Heler holding each other in the doorway of their bedroom. The chamber seemed to be full of noise and shouting and smoke but all she could hear was Hunor's warm voice slicing though her pounding headache.

"Say goodbye to this world, Emelia, and hello to the next."

Jem and Hunor grasped under her armpits and lifted her up. They stepped on a wrecked table and vaulted through the large gap that was once the window. Emelia's scream was lost in the roar of the wind as they plummeted into the pitch black void, thousands of feet above the base of the mountain.

Darkness Rising

Book One

II Chained

Chapter 1 The Dead City

Seedstide 1924

Four years later

Nature had reclaimed Erturia for herself. Through the granite buildings, windows rotted by the passage of two centuries, it snaked and wormed. Its green tendrils gripped the worn stone like a frightened child. The flagstones in the many courtyards of the Empire's foremost city had been buckled as the bushes and trees erupted forth, splitting after decades of insidious pressure. The towers that crowned the rectangular halls and sober town houses were wrapped in thick green ivy, softening the harsh features of the Imperial architecture.

Marthir padded through the weed-infested streets, marvelling at the overwhelming silence of the city. For the plants, as ever, had more bravado than their animal counterparts; it had been two hundred and twenty four years since the day time stopped in Erturia and no bird song had echoed around its walls since.

Erturia: the dead city. The gigantic mausoleum was home now only to the foliage and to the deceased. Marthir's animal instincts set her nerves on edge as she prowled into one of the city's large squares, weaving between the black statues around her. She halted to sniff one out of curiosity and she smelt only charcoal.

The city was populated now by the charred corpses of its citizens. Instantly incinerated they were now petrified eternally in their moment of death. Traders still argued silently, gesturing at some unseen event transpiring towards the centre of the city. Children still ran to their mothers, their tiny features now shiny black masks. Marthir saw five soldiers in mid-stride, their spears held aloft, moving towards the enemy soldiers. Enemy soldiers derived from their own kin. And as the civil war that tore apart the Empire had ended in one cataclysmic instant they had once more united—in death.

There were so many black statues, thousands and thousands, and Marthir had wept when she had first seen them the prior day. She and her five companions had snuck across the Wastes, the barren land that surrounded the once magnificent city, avoiding patrols of black-armoured knights. Last night they had crept like thieves into the dead city, in awe of the ruined majesty of the famed outer walls. Yet within the walls came the real sight—a city populated by charcoal statues, lit by the sinister glow of the red and silver moons.

Marthir could sense the restlessness of the dead around her as she crossed the square. A lichen-coated fountain sat in the centre of the square, its waters now thick with green slime. Balanced on the edge of the fountain was a young lady, smiling at one of the soldiers as he moved past. Once again Marthir paused and touched her paw gently on the shiny black leg. The charcoal was solid and robust, cold to the touch. What had the girl being smiling about as the city was torn apart by fighting? A secret lost now in time.

Marthir became aware of a faint grating noise somewhere in the distance as she entered a broad street at the far end of the square. A moment of indecision held her; should she retrace her steps and fetch the others? After all she had agreed with Kervin that this would be just a quick scout ahead before the five others followed her. If there was trouble she could use Kervin's skill in taming her wilder side as well as the fire magic of Ygris. Her acolyte Ebfir and the two warriors, Iogar and Ograk would also be an asset if she ran into any knights.

Curiosity got the better of her, which was ironic given that she wore her feline form. She quickened to a run down the overgrown street. The main avenues of Erturia extended straight from the six gates, each arranged at the corner of the vast hexagonal outer wall. The street she journeyed down ran parallel to the Avenue of Iron, the main route from the south-western gate. The street continued over a weed choked bridge, the River Erturia bubbling beneath its chipped base, and turned after three hundred yards to join the main avenue. Marthir paused and examined it with interest; the foliage was crushed and shredded. It was evidence that some heavy traffic had passed this way recently.

The noise was getting louder now. The grate of metal mixed with a continual hiss and dark smoke rose above the roofs to the north-east.

Marthir took a run then leapt onto the remnants of a broken statue. Her powerful legs pushed and she sprang to a first floor balcony then across to a low flat roof. Her claws scraped on the tiles then with a scramble she was atop the roof. From here she bounded across from rooftop to rooftop, making a dizzying course over the skyline of the city.

Within ten minutes she neared the centre of the city, the convergence of avenues that was the Imperial Circle. Here the magic that had incinerated the outer fringes of the city had been so intense that no carbon statues stood. In their stead were shadows seared on to the walls of the great structures.

She moved across the rooftops of the opulent buildings. Marthir, though a creature of the woodlands and never one for the cold stone of cities, was nonetheless impressed by the grandiosity of the Empire's finest architecture. Around the enormous central square she could see the legendary buildings: the Great Library, the Halls of Justice, the Treasury, the Mausoleum, the Temple of Egos and the Temple of Tindor, the twin gods of the Empire.

Marthir looked down with astonishment to where the Emperor's Palace stood, or rather once stood, at the south-eastern corner of the square. Its former magnificence had been shattered, the remnants of its marble and granite walls now like a crushed eggshell. Clouds of dust rose from the skeletal remains, drifting into the spring sunshine. At first Marthir thought some gigantic iron dragon sat within the devastation but as she looked closer she saw with consternation it was some huge machine.

It stood about eighty feet high and was thirty feet square at its base. Its tarnished iron plates creaked and rasped in a hideous din, the rivets juddering as it laboriously excavated the rubble from its path. Steam hissed like an angry serpent, scorching any bare flesh around it, whereas at the rear of the machine black choking smoke belched forth. Marthir could see three or four trolls, large and muscular with cruel flat faces, whipping a line of slaves with zeal. The slaves seemed to be in two teams: the first pulled small boulders and stones from the tracks of the iron behemoth, the second shovelled black chunks of coal into a furnace in its belly.

Atop the pinnacle of the machine were three dark-armoured knights, operating a large array of levers and wheels–Knights of Ebony Heart. Marthir spotted a long ladder that ran up the side of the metal plated structure. More knights stood at the periphery of the excavation and Marthir could see two in particular with different armour and helmets. The pair gesticulated to a small group who then saluted and strode to convey directions to the others.

The noise was deafening, augmented by the keen hearing of her feline form. Marthir began to descend the rooftops and balconies. Solicitude at this affront to nature overwhelmed any sense of caution.

She came to rest at a partly ruined terrace on the former Grand Auditorium. The white stone of the balustrade had worn smooth with age and the frescoes of heroes had faded like a long forgotten dream. Marthir noticed a dozen shadows emblazoned on the wall, next to the three doors leading to the theatre's interior. She shivered at the horror of their poses, their moment of death etched forever in a city that no one ever saw.

Her green eyes focused on the slaves shovelling charcoal bricks into the furnace. They were mostly men, tall and dishevelled, with long matted hair and braided beards. Perhaps they were barbarians or wild men from the bleak plains of Foom or even horse lords from Kanshar? Then she saw a slave stoop to break chunks of charcoal into smaller pieces before scooping it with a shovel. With a jolt she realised that it was the arm of a black statue; they were using the charred corpses of Erturia as fuel.

It was time to return to the others and relay her findings. The mystery remained as to what the knights were trying to excavate from the foundations of the Emperor's Palace but that could await investigation. Marthir turned to retrace her path across the rooftops. She could see the two senior knights walk away from the others and northwards across the rubble-strewn Square of Cordius. They passed an iron fenced park that formed the eastern border of the square and strode towards the buildings that occupied the northern perimeter. Marthir tracked them with her eyes as they advanced up the steps of the Great Library.

She might not get another chance at spying on such senior knights—the Druid council would be impressed with such information.

Within three minutes she was approaching the library. Her passage amongst the shattered bronze statues that once stood at the perimeter of the Square went unnoticed. She kept low, as if hunting, and checking the coast was clear, bounded up the steps to the enormous doors.

The Great Library was an archetypal Artorian monument and neither time nor nature could diminish its pomposity. With the same spirit that had planned the precise hexagonal design of the city—with its wide tree lined avenues and its open airy squares—the Library was a geometrical dream. Its frontage soared with straight edges and sharp right angles, topped with triangular eaves and carvings in the stone. Its relative shelter from the erosive northern winds, behind the taller Halls of Justice, had preserved much of the design on its main aspect. The walls were carved with scenes of glory and military prowess; even this place of learning was touched by the pervasive military ethic of the Artorian Empire.

Marthir paused in the foyer of the library, her nose seeking her prey. A surge of saliva came to her fangs as she got a sudden urge to eat man flesh. With great effort she suppressed the instinct; she had remained in this form overly long.

The scents lead through the main corridor and to the western wing of the library. She noted that there was a wide marble staircase to the upper levels just to her right. The enormous library she now entered had two stories, with a balcony running around the entire perimeter of the room at the level of the first floor. Access was gained via ladders and via tight spiral staircases in the corners of the chamber, set back into the depths of the thick marble walls.

The scents had passed through this room and there was another smell she had picked up: it was sour and pungent, the odour of death. A tingle of panic ran through her as her feline instincts told her to flee, but once again she suppressed the urge.

Her golden body shimmered and warped as she moved across the room and in a heartbeat she was once more in her native form. Four years had made little difference to Marthir: she retained her vibrant glow and healthy curves, her wide full smile and the defiant glint in her eyes. The tattoos had been extended over her abdomen and down onto her hips and buttocks.

A ray of sunlight crept through a near opaque window sited high on the walls. It felt warm on her bare skin. Marthir crept over to the wide table in the room's centre atop which were half a dozen books. She swiftly pored over them, ignoring the thick coat of dust on the table top. They were books about the Emperor's Palace, floor plans dating from four hundred years ago. She read down the pages of the adjacent tomes. They were histories of Erturia and of Artoria. They detailed how the Emperor's Palace had been rebuilt after its collapse during some magical conflict. She had never heard of such an event in the many fireside stories of the Empire still told by travellers the country over. She tried to read more: some demonic catastrophe overtaking Erturia, the Empire in danger and the Empire's strongest wizards battling.

Loud voices almost made her knock a book from the table. Marthir whirled, melting once more into the shape of the mountain lion. Her powerful back legs propelled her towards the corner stairs and she slipped into cover just as the two knights entered the chamber in the company of another man.

This third man was thin, with long black hair tied in a lank ponytail. His skin was chalk-white as if he were cast from the same stone as the gigantic library. His step was graceful, like that of a dancer, and he was attired in archaic robes: purple velvet trimmed with silver. It was as if he had been lifted from one of the books that sat on the table.

Despite his gaunt features and porcelain complexion Marthir felt a strange attraction to this purple robed man. It was as if all the energy in the room was drawn towards him, as if light and sound soaked into his monochrome body. He halted before the desk and then turned to address the two knights.

"I do understand your concerns, Darklord Jüt, but the plan is nearing its critical stage. The time for wavering passed some years ago," he said in a soft voice.

The taller knight was clearly agitated. "I understand what you tell me, Xirik. And I appreciate the seminal moment we now approach—yet we take a massive gamble on this action. How do we know he will accede to our wishes?"

A cold humourless smile stretched Xirik's skin taut.

"We do not truly know anything, Jüt. My dear grandmother used to tell me that death was the only certainty. That shows what she knew!"

"Nonetheless, Jüt has a point," the second knight said. "We are warriors—we thrive on tactics and certainty. He will bring us neither if the books are anything to judge."

"Darklord Klir, you forget the seedlings of this whole endeavour. The vision was as clear as if Lady Nekra had carved it across my forehead. For five years my mages have laboured for this; even now they seep through the shadows, sewing the dark seeds that shall allow us total domination!"

The two knights were silent and Marthir could see the reflection of Xirik's white face in their black polished armour. She barely dared breathe.

Finally one spoke, his voice sounding tinny and cold from beneath his black metal mask. "Accept our apology, oh dark one. It was not our intent to show disrespect for the will of the goddess. By your command we shall return to coordinate the more...militaristic aspects of the plan."

Xirik smiled and nodded then gestured and the air shimmered before his hand. A goblet appeared: a golden chalice with burning red rubies embedded in its swirls. The dark wizard sipped from the goblet as the two knights bowed and began to leave. A thick red liquid dribbled down his chin and Marthir's keen nostrils flared as she scented blood.

"My lord, I ask your pardon at the disturbance," a voice said from the door of the room.

Marthir chanced a glance around the corner of her hiding place and past the protrusions of a hundred books she saw a knight enter the room. The two Darklords stood by his side. His black metal mask was shaded within his hood; his boots were dusty from the excavation.

"Speak swiftly, soldier, 'ere I elect to quench my thirst with something a trifle warmer," Xirik said.

"Th-the perimeter patrol think they have discovered some intruders, my lord. Th-they are near to the south-west gate, just off the Avenue of Iron."

Xirik frowned and tapped the rim of the goblet against his teeth.

"Why would anyone chose to sneak into the dead city? We shall need to take one of them alive or at least dead but still warm enough for me to interrogate him. I shall attend this personally."

"It would be my honour to do this for you, Xirik," Darklord Klir said. "You are never your strongest in the sunlight."

Xirik's face flashed with anger and Marthir held her breath. He turned with a flourish and threw his goblet against the bookshelf but twenty feet from Marthir. The blood splattered across the spines and trickled down towards the marble floor.

"Take care, Klir. My dark powers are not to be underestimated even in the hateful glare of the warmest Pyrian summer. Sergeant, alert your patrol. I shall join them there shortly."

Xirik's arms weaved and his purple velvet cloak billowed, the shadowy depths within spilling out like tar. His pale features shimmered and twisted and in three heartbeats he had transformed into a large black-hawk, its eyes a glowing red. He flew into the air, towards the higher floors and then out of sight.

Marthir dug her claws into the stone steps as she endured the agonising wait for the three knights to exit the room, muttering dark plans between them. She bolted from the spiral corner staircase and out of the chamber. Her heart was pounding; she needed to make it back to the others before Xirik got there.

***

"We should be looking for her, Kervin, she's been gone far too long," Ograk said.

Kervin squinted out the grimy window into the small square that lay before the inn. Marthir had been absent for nearly three hours now and despite her prior assurances he worried whether she had been too bold. He idly rearranged her folded green robe atop the table; his fingers toyed with the intricate stitch work of the seam, designed so the garb fell apart when stretched during the druid's transformations.

"Can you sense her, Ebfir? Form some kind of druid magic link or some such thing?" Kervin asked.

Ebfir, a small balding druid, was meditating in the corner of the inn's common room. He looked up with a placid expression and shook his head. "The Woodlink is only a skill for a master druid, friend Kervin, and then only in places of nature."

"Right. Sorry," Kervin said, rubbing his dry eyes. "Even after years of travelling with Marthir I'm never sure what you druids can do. In fact I'm not certain how you do it either—it's not as if you have a gem of power jammed into your breastbone."

"You are not the first to query the gifts that Nolir has bestowed us," Ebfir replied, with a beatific smile. "The xirande of the four Orders have spent centuries pondering the occurrence. I understand they refer to it as the druid paradox."

"Aye, even I've heard of that," Kervin said. "Though it was buried deep in the manic twaddle that comes from Ygris's lips. So the Woodlink—as you call it—is out of the question then?"

"This city that mistress has brought us to... it is tainted with the breath of the dead, not the warmth of nature."

"Not with nature?" Ograk said. "I haven't seen this many weeds since I last visited Sir Tinkek's garden. I tell you, Kervin, if that knight was here he'd have us out looking for her."

"Onor's spit! If the knight was here he'd have us charging down the bloody avenue tooting war horns and taking on an army of dark knights, on the off chance he'd get his name in some ballad," Kervin said. "No, I think Sugox smiled on us when he gave Tinkek the gout last winter."

"If only it was contagious then I'd not have come on this fool mission for those bloody tree-huggers," Ograk said. "Me and Iogar were offered a job on a ship bound for South Aquatonia. I've never had a girl from the Isles before."

Kervin sighed as Ograk skulked away, dragging his war hammer behind him like a sullen child with its toy. Ograk, a broad curly haired Feldorian, was more notorious than Ygris for his continual wining.

The Fire-mage hobbled down the stairs from the roof terrace, as if on cue.

"Ah young carouser that I call friend Ograk," Ygris said. "The gentle rustle of the multitude of blossom trees that echo like a rich Kokisian opera cannot rival the banshee's lament that escapes from your bee stung lips. Far from me to question the motivations of your pin headed companion but he seems to take more interest in the antique ports and liquors of the bar than the potential doom we find ourselves faced with."

Iogar, a huge North Artorian warrior, grunted and returned his attention to the rows of dusty bottles stocked behind the low wooden bar. Ivy had entered through a cracked window and grew like a veil before almost half of them.

"I can't say that five years away from your prattle has conferred me any resistance to it, Ygris," Ograk said. "How come you are the only bloody Fire-mage in Nurolia that doesn't spend his days scuttling back to pay his earnings to the higher sashes in the Tower of Flames?"

"This is a laudable query, young Ograk. It is simply a far more powerful calling to spend my days irritating your good self. I luxuriate in a rather unique status, treading the knife edge between palastar and unoristar, assisted by a rather reprehensible collection of documents related to the carnal activities of a senior mage—kept of course in a chest with remarkable fire-proofing."

"Just my bloody luck—I'll go to my grave with your gibbering in my ears."

Ograk stepped gingerly around the charcoal statue of the barman, frozen in a posture of wiping his bar clean. A thick layer of dust sat on the fissured wood.

Ygris chuckled and strode to the black statue, holding his hands out in mock enquiry.

"Kind sir, we have yet to indulge ourselves of your establishment's hospitality. Pray tell what has the finest city in the Empire to offer us this fell day? I fear my belly so empty that I consider it highly probable that an enchanted tapeworm, confused about its usual route of entry, had slipped down my fiery britches and has worked its way unseen through my tidy hole below. Yet dare I mention my thirst? I see you have a range of vintages, centuries old that I agonise may now be so alcoholic that they would even make my comrade Kervin's eyes water and encourage him to sing that little ditty about the lass from Aquatonia West with the purple furred br.."

"Ygris!" Kervin said.

The Fire-mage chuckled and approached Kervin.

"Ygris, you should treat the dead with more respect," Kervin said. "It's bad luck to fool around with them. This place is dense with the cheated spirits of the Empire."

Ygris nodded a touch sheepishly and came to sit next to his friend.

Ograk leant against the dusty bar, attempting nonchalance. "What happened here to make them this way, Kervin?"

Kervin peered out of the dusty window again, chewing on some tobacco. He scratched his brown beard as he spoke; this place made him itch.

"No one really knows. Everyone within the city and in the lands for about a hundred and fifty miles around was killed. The last records from Belgo and Keresh detail that a force from the eastern part of the Empire, under the Praetor of the East, had attacked Erturia."

"That was the Emperor's brother wasn't it? He ran Goldoria, Thetoria, Ssinthor and Mirioth?" asked Ograk.

"Yes, I think so," Kervin said. "They'd snuck across the Khullian Mountains somehow or maybe around through Kanshar and Foom. While the battles were going on in the Straits of Belgo and down the Valley of Shurt between Feldor and Keresh, he obviously thought he'd try come and surprise his brother."

"Some family reunion," Ograk said, looking at the incinerated bar man.

"Then some serious magic was let loose and puff the Empire ends with a flash," Kervin said quietly.

A silence fell on the room and Kervin looked back out on the square. A dozen black statues were frozen in mid stride, their feet now obscured by small bushes that flowered purple in the spring sun. He shuddered and turned to Ygris, who was twiddling with his beaded beard in thought.

"The end of the Empire and the chaining of the magi," Ygris said.

Ograk uncorked a dusty bottle that his silent friend had passed to him and sniffed it with reluctance.

"I thought you were all towing the line since the Mage Wars? That was donkey's years ago, before both Empires!" Ograk said, starting to sip the port.

"You surprise me with a knowledge that does not relate to either the chink of coin or pursuits most carnal, Ograk! Indeed your wet maid must have broken you from her teat oft enough for you to recall that indeed the original Codex came about after the Dust Plague of Azagunta, that signalled the cessation of the war. Yet at that time it was not so restrictive: it simply forbade any mage from the rule of a nation or lands. It still allowed us to fight in the armies of kings and dukes and indeed the Empire embraced wizards as it spread its tendrils across the lands. Years later, in the wake of the Empire's demise, a council met in Belgo. They were formed by the fragments of the shattered Empire. Sadly they bowed to the zeal of the Goldorians and created a code that heavily restricted any wizard from serving in armies or conflicts beyond the miniscule.

"Now, sadly, the majority of the wizards of this world are naught but civil servants with parlour tricks. There remain many tales, agreeably most apocryphal, about straw sucking peasants, brains addled by serial bestiality who were foolish enough to chance their arm against a wandering member of the Order. Ah, the gamble of slinging goat soil at a baldy you erroneously consider a visaline only to bask in the torrent of lava from the thrusting arm of a ferenge."

"Well your Codex is a good thing if charcoal boy here is anything to judge by," Ograk said. He shuddered as he swallowed the antique port. "Onor's spit! That's wiped the lining of my throat."

Kervin laughed and looked back out of the window. In astonishment he saw a galloping horse burst from the far side of the square, scattering the black statues like skittles. He leapt to his feet, grabbed his bow and smashed the dusty window with his elbow. It exploded outwards with a crash and he yelled to the others in the room of the danger.

Eight knights ran into the square in pursuit of the horse. Kervin saw a quarrel jutting from her flank as she galloped towards them. Ygris was at his side as the three others gathered their weapons and he pushed open the door to the inn and began speaking words of power.

***

Arrows hissed past Marthir as she thundered across the uneven surface of the square, her hooves tearing apart the small shrubs. Two knights staggered back with shafts embedded in their necks. She saw Ygris at the door, his red and black robes swirling like smoke. Twin torrents of flame poured from his hands. They shot past Marthir's right side, making her horse hair steam, and exploded into the knights. Their screams echoed in the square as the magical fire turned them into flailing bonfires, their armour glowing a searing orange.

Marthir's equine form blurred and metamorphosed into her naked human guise, still running at a pace. She gestured frantically to Kervin but it was too late.

The black-hawk landed behind Ebfir, who was in mid-transformation into a bear, his robe unravelling. The ebony bird had entered through the open door to the roof terrace. In a crack of black smoke it transformed into Xirik.

Ebfir whirled, fur erupting from his face as he grew to the size of a brown bear. Xirik's hands darted forwards and grasped his face, his nails sinking into the flesh as if it were butter. Ebfir wailed, shuddering and twitching as his life force drained from him. His skin, half covered in fur, dried like a leaf in autumn. Within seconds he had shrivelled to a husk and his crumbling corpse crumpled to the floor of the inn.

A roar rang out as Iogar vaulted the bar and charged across the large common room of the inn towards Xirik, closely followed by Ograk wielding his warhammer.

Marthir almost collided with Kervin at the door. She was panting and caked in sweat. The tracker fired another two arrows in quick succession as the four remaining Knights of Ebony Heart ran for cover at the edges of the square. A crackle of fire swirled around Ygris as he stepped aside to allow Marthir past. In the square a fifteen feet wall of flame erupted, sending dark smoke billowing into the spring air.

Xirik laughed as Iogar bellowed and thrust his longsword through the purple robed mage's chest. The sword entered to the hilt then emerged from his back with a shred of cloth. The huge warrior gaped in astonishment as Xirik still stood; it was like the blow had done nothing more than ruin a good outfit. Xirik grasped the hilt of the sword and a green flame erupted from his hand, flashing up the pommel and engulfing Iogar. The Artorian warrior staggered back screaming and collapsed to the floor before a stunned Ograk.

"He's a ghast, Kervin, he's undead" Marthir wheezed. "We've got... to get... out of here."

Ygris swore and whirled, sweat springing on his shiny bald head. He pushed to the front of the three at the inn entrance and began to mutter incantations to battle the undead sorcerer.

Ograk, too distant from Marthir to hear her warning, charged at the smirking wizard. His huge warhammer swung down with a crippling momentum and struck the side of the pale mage's head. With a horrible crunch the entire head imploded, as if made of nothing more than dust. Ograk wrenched the hammer back from the stump of the neck, readying for another blow.

The headless body of the wizard lunged forward as Ograk swung back. His bony hands grasped the warrior's ring mail vest. The fingers penetrated the metal like it was paper. With no more effort than swatting a fly, the headless figure lifted and threw the two hundred pound man across the length of the inn. Ograk smashed into the shelf of bottles behind the bar with an explosion of glass and liquid.

Marthir grabbed Kervin's arm in panic and yelled for him to get hold of Ygris, but the mage had entered the fray. Kervin flinched as quarrels hissed through the open door from the knights in the square.

Marthir's world exploded as she began to turn to run. She staggered forwards, a crossbow bolt having ripped through her shoulder. A wave of intense pain flooded her mind, warm blood splashed across her tattooed breasts and she stumbled and fell through a rotten wood table.

The inn blurred for a second then came jolting back into focus as she scrambled to gain her feet. Shards of glass from the window had slid unnoticed into her bare feet. Her arm was numb and useless and the pain threatened to drag her into unconsciousness. Every part of her fought the urge to just lie down and surrender. She cursed her own frailty as she tried desperately to concentrate on a transformation, but her thoughts were scattered like pollen in the wind.

The inn was a haze of noise and motion; she felt the warmth on her face as Ygris unleashed his fire magic, heard the yells of Kervin as he fired his bow at charging black knights. Was that Ograk, bleeding from a dozen cuts running towards her? Green flames met golden fire, darkness met light and the night met the day. She rolled in exhaustion amongst the splinters of the table, the wood of the shattered furniture now oddly on top of her, feeling the sharp spikes of the barbed quarrel in her flesh.

The flames hit the gallons of spirits flowing like blood from the wounded bar.

Marthir's instinct was to curl in a ball as the explosion ripped apart the side of the inn. Through her pain-wracked brain she was dimly aware of an eruption of dust and a crushing weight that slammed down around her like a giant's foot. In a burst of adrenaline she wrenched magical power from deep within her, drawing the energy from the ancient soil, calling on the sparse earth magic for one last spell.

Then all was dark and warm.

***

In the depths of the inky blackness it began: a single thud, like a drum. Then there came a pause, perhaps an instant, perhaps an eternity and then a second thump arose. The endless night was cold and vast but slowly warmth crept forth, invited in like a reluctant guest. The heat brought awareness, consciousness and a sense of being.

Her eyes flickered open, though only the irritation of the caked dust in them allowed her to discern between open and closed. The blackness around her was complete. She was overcome by an intense thirst and hunger, which ripped through her guts like a knife. Her mouth was as arid as the Pyrian dunes. She moved to explore her surroundings when in horror she realised she was trapped.

Weight pressed on her legs, a dull pain that mirrored the throb of her shoulder. The air was stale and dank, and the smell of burnt wood was all around her.

She was buried under the inn.

The hibernate spell had worked its magic. An enchantment rarely used by even the oldest druids, it slowed metabolism and functioning down to a semblance of death. Yet in this suspended state the body healed rapidly, repairing torn tissues and rent bone as industriously as ants would repair their colony.

Panic began to pulse through her as her senses returned. Marthir was entombed, probably in an air pocket, with no way out. She had no comprehension of the passage of time; she could have been here for hours or days or weeks. The panic seared one thought across her young mind: how in Nolir's name could she get free?

The air felt abruptly thin and she began to sob in desperation. She did not want to die, not in this place. When she had been younger and visualised her end it had alternated between heroic and peaceful. In one dream she was a brave warrior, charging against insurmountable odds like a true Artorian. In the more tranquil alternate she would be lying on a bed of moss with the green haze of the woods around her. But choking on dust as the air gradually thinned? She could not imagine a more dismal end.

Tears mixed with the fine powder on her face and began to sting. Damn it, she could not die. Her life was far too bright. I burn with primordial energy, she thought, I flame like the brightest star. I am a furnace of passion and life, with too much yet to achieve, too much yet to say and with too many regrets in my short span of years.

She reached out her aura to the earth around her and with despair realised how scanty the earth force was. The place was barren; its deeper soil was leached and drained, like animals in a slaughterhouse with their flesh white and cold. Tiny tendrils wormed to the surface, enough to sustain the weeds and stunted trees that choked the city, but true nature was yet to return. If she died here would her soul permeate the ground the way it must? Or would she be trapped for eternity floating across the surface like dandelion clocks on the early spring breeze.

"It's not fair," she said and her throat felt as if it were cut. Goddess, she needed water or she would die of thirst before the air ran out. If I get out of this, she prayed, I will repair the torn tapestry of my past.

But how was she to manage that? She could not move and the transformation to a lion or a horse would crush her before it shifted any masonry. The answer came to her with a grip of cold dread. There was another transformation she could attempt—but it carried great danger. Was she ready for it? In the months before this mission she had practiced and honed the change, but she had only undergone the preliminary rituals, not the final. She could still recall the agony of the venom as it coursed through her shaking body. She could still remember her insides on fire as she lay exposed before the high druids, their cold eyes as impassive as the great pines that loomed above them. The taste of the warm serpent flesh was even now a rubbery memory in her mouth; the blood had run hot down her chin as she completed the Rites of Eris Fe. But the final ritual, the sealing, the joining of human and beast, was not yet performed and to transform prior to that risked losing oneself in the mind of the creature you became.

Yet what choice did she have? A guarantee of death in this dark tomb, leagues from the bosom of Nolir, versus the possibility of becoming a serpent in mind as well as body. In the end it was no choice.

Marthir focused, blocking out the pains from her legs and shoulder. She recalled the sensations of scales on her flesh. She remembered the smoothness of slithering through the leaves of the forest with her tongue flicking to catch a taste of the world. She visualised the kaleidoscope of scents, as bright in her mind as the vibrant shades of a new summer's day as the gold of the corn meets the emerald of the hills under an azure sky.

The pressure on her legs eased as her limbs shimmered and warped. She had become the snake. The feeling of the rough stone slipping under her as she slithered across it was exquisite—like silk robes drifting from her body as she stepped into a warm bath. Her senses were magnified immensely: sight was of little use yet her sense of smell and taste guided her through the warren of crevices and cracks, the tang of fresh air tantalisingly close.

She hungered still. She hungered for fresh meat, perhaps a rodent, one that she could kill with a poison bite. She would eat it whole and enjoy the richness of its flesh melting within her gut. She hungered for a mate to seed those eggs that lay within her belly so that she may find a nest and bring forth new life. In the rear of her mind she knew there was another drive, another purpose. It was something to do with men, with friends, who unlike her had legs and arms. They were in danger. Yet if it was dangerous she would need to flee, slithering away through the dark corners of this place to seek safety for her and for the young she must yet bear.

She slowed as a pungent smell assailed her. It was the scent of burnt and decayed flesh. Was it dangerous? It would seem not, for it had been dead for a long time. She approached with caution, her tongue and nostrils evaluating the corpse. It was crushed under this mountain of rubble. A name came into her serpentine mind: Iogar. Big and stupid, not slim and smart like her.

The flow of air caressed Marthir's scales as she slid past Iogar and she squeezed through a tiny gap following its direction. It was fresh air, imbued with a rich aroma that was moist and welcoming. The stone dust powdered her green skin as she breached the surface and emerged into the night air. Her eyes adjusted swiftly as she peered around, desperate for prey.

A dead man was next to her, half buried in the rubble. There was no flesh just dry bone. It had just rained. She drank from the puddles avidly. Now she must seek prey before making her nest.

No, Marthir thought, I must find my friends.

No, she replied, with her serpentine mind. This place is dangerous; I must find prey and then a mate.

With a supreme effort Marthir took control and battered down the instincts of the beast. In truth, a large part of her did want to flee this dead city, eat greedily and even seek the warmth of a man. But the strongest part of her consciousness knew that this saga had only just begun, and with a wrench of pain she began her change back to human.

She lay in the rubble for ten minutes, staring at the speckled sky and savouring the sensation of the night air on her tattooed skin. A patter of rain on her face reminded her of her thirst and she opened her dry mouth wide and relished the moisture as it trickled down her throat.

She rose with a groan and strode to a shattered water fountain on the perimeter of the square. It had once resembled a stone serpent, the dried up water spout being inside the snake's open mouth. Rainwater had collected in the corner of the basin and Marthir drank slowly, mindful that quick consumption would cramp her stomach. An ebony statue of an old woman was crouched over the fountain and Marthir found herself staring at the gnarled face frozen forever at the moment of its annihilation.

Next she crept through the dark brambles that spilled from several of the ruined shops, weaving amongst the small purple flowered bushes in the square. Her deft hands sought out berries and with delight she found some sourberry, one of the few plants to bear fruit this early in the year. She picked a dozen berries carefully and, steeling herself, slowly munched them. Their piquant taste made her shudder.

She returned to the ruins of the inn to contemplate her next move, easing past the toppled statues that littered the square. A dead knight lay partly crushed by the rubble. Marthir bent and pulled off his helmet, on a whim. His head was now a grinning skull, its yellow bone pock-marked from acid.

She held up the helmet, turning it in the light drizzle as the red and silver moonlight struggled to illuminate the square before her. The workmanship was excellent; subtle curves and seamless joins. The faceplate was carved into a demonic image, breached only by two eye holes and a mouth slit. She had heard the flesh of the knights was bound to the metal. It was impossible to know for certain. When the knights died the armour was rigged to release acid that seared off their flesh leaving naught but bones inside the metal suits.

"Who are you strange warriors?" Marthir asked, thinking aloud. "You come from the darkest reaches of these wastes, for years only ever seen in passing or skulking around the peaks of the mountains. And now you plan something—but what? You ally with the undead and with sorcerers. You keep slaves to drive your abomination of a machine. Your armour and weapons are rigged with devices unlike any I have ever seen."

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 pretense 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. At least there tracking them would be a challenge and the dark knights would be far fewer than on the two roads that ran from Erturia to the other parts of Artoria.

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 longsword in a vicious arc. Emelia spun 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 longsword 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, 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.

Well they're not here now, Emelia, Emebaka grumbled, probably they're laughing at the situation you've landed yourself in. Emelia squashed the irritating voice of doubt from her mind; she would need to stay focused for this escape.

The din of swords and armour was echoing from the stairwell on the other side of the door along with the screams of the one-footed guard she had left in her wake. A dozen guards burst onto the wide flat roof as Emelia ran and jumped. Her feet thudded onto the slick tiles of the sloping roof and she slid down at a frightening rate towards the edge. The roof was some fifty feet above the courtyard below. Its wet surface passed in a blur and then suddenly she was launched into the air, the ground looming below her.

No room for doubt now, she thought. In an instant she had cast her spell. Once again she sensed the tendrils of the Web around her, seeing its glowing fibres crisscrossing the night air out of the corner of her vision. She felt the ripple of energy through her body as she pulled the Web tight around her to slow her fall. She drifted like a feather down the fifty feet to the gravel of the courtyard.

Emelia suppressed the wave of nausea accompanying her migraine and ran. Each step reverberated through her bursting head as she sprinted through the gardens. She stole a look behind her at the villa. The fire in the room had caught and was lighting up the west wing admirably. Atop the roof a dozen guards tossed spears at the grass behind her. From across the grounds she could see the glow of torches and hear the baying of hounds. Ingor's nuts, she swore, she hated dogs.

Emelia weaved through the statues and hedges, her breath burning in her throat. It hadn't seemed quite so far on the way in. She hadn't run this fast since the night she had left the Keep, dragged along by the new companions she had met that fateful day. The pace had not slackened until they had found refuge in a farmstead and had allowed a few days rest prior to slipping over the border into the barley fields of Midlund.

She was into the orchard as the hounds closed on her, panting as she ran through the trees. She reckoned there were at least six of the brutes. She focused on the stone wall ahead. She'd hated dogs ever since getting a nip from Captain Ris's surly hound as a child. She could still recall the sharp pain then the ache of the bite on her thigh. Her legs now ached for a very different reason.

The perimeter wall was good thirty feet tall with a crown of rusted spikes. Generations of rain had worn it as smooth as glass and getting a foothold would be impossible even for a monkey from the Sapphire Isles. The dogs were snapping at her heels as she ran full tilt at the stone.

Emelia had never settled with the sensation of phase-shifting, despite repeated practice with Jem, who regarded himself as an expert in the magic. She felt a wave of tingling energy strike her as she passed through the thick wall. Her momentum carried her stumbling then tumbling down the embankment on the far side of the wall and she grunted in pain as she thudded to a halt on the edge of the muddy road that circled the estate.

Emelia clambered to her feet with a moan, the road around her lit by the blue moonlight. The hounds frustrated baying brought a smile to her face, hidden under her muddy balaclava. Two horses trotted from the shadows of the trees bordering the road.

"Well that has to be the most covert burglary I've ever witnessed," Jem said.

"Give the girl a break, Jem. The important thing is that she did it with panache," Hunor said. He offered a hand to Emelia who, legs screaming with protest, vaulted onto his horse behind him.

"And the fact I got the papers," she said as they began to ride along the road.

"Your magic?" Jem asked.

"Got me out of a few scrapes, Jem. You both have my gratitude for all you've taught me," Emelia said, lifting the balaclava off her face. Her eyes shone like twin opals in the moonlight.

"I'm sure we'll be rewarded when you keep us safe in our dotage, young lady," Hunor said as the wind built up around the galloping horse. Emelia held tight to his back, pressing against the black leather of his armour.

"Well here's the start of your retirement fund," she said and passed Hunor the pouch of gems. She sighed with exhaustion as the three galloped towards the lights of Bulia.

***

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 purpose 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.

***

Even in the springtime twilight came comparatively early to Azagunta, and nowhere more so than in the lanes of Bulia. At dusk lanterns and lamps were hung on hooks outside all the houses facing the street, giving the dingy thoroughfares an amber glow. There were few concerns over fires as it was rare to find a completely dry day in the dank northern isle.

Emelia navigated with expertise through the townsfolk who milled along Market Street back towards their hovels. She was returning from Marshtown where she had sold her gems and purchased a present for Jem. The small silver eye piece was tucked in a pouch at her side, wrapped safely in a soft cloth.

As she neared the southern end of Market Street she had an intense feeling of déjà vu. Instinct drove Emelia into a vacant doorway. She had learnt to trust such odd feelings over the last few years of training with Hunor and Jem. Her eyes darted amongst the sea of merchants, children and travelers, and then she saw him.

Hooded and oblivious to her gaze was a black-cloaked man with ghoulishly white skin and jet-black hair. He slid through the folk around him like oil, exuding an air of malevolence. There was no doubt in her mind that this was the same Dark-mage that she had seen the night in Cheapside four years ago.

Emelia felt wracked with indecision, the desire to forget that time of her life battling with an intense curiosity to follow the stranger.

Emelia, this is foolish, Emebaka said, we are supposed to meet Hunor and Jem soon. This is part of the past, so leave it there.

Sensible advice, Emebaka, she replied, but some I'm not inclined to take. Aren't you supposed to be my wild side?

The sides of you change like the wind, Emelia, Emebaka answered. This is a dangerous path we are to follow.

Emelia eased into the crowds and began to follow the dark cloaked figure. He moved purposefully along the main road then turned down a small side street. Emelia hung back slightly, using the gathering shadows as cover whilst she trailed him.

At the end of the side street he walked across a gloomy cobbled avenue and then down a second street, glancing back as he strode. Emelia hugged the dark recesses of the crooked houses that loomed over the streets.

Emelia soon reached a small square with a crumbling fountain in its centre. A green stained statue of Asha had once spouted water into its interior but now it was dry and coated in moss. On the far side of the tiny square were the metal gates to a small cemetery, and a shudder ran through Emelia's body as she crossed towards it.

She crept through the gate and into the graveyard. Azaguntans buried their dead in coffins, a tradition that had something to do with keeping the deceased flesh away from the soil. It was an odd practice but they were an odd people. The coffins were often sealed with metal clasps to foil grave robbing, which had once been a lucrative trade in Azagunta.

The dark cloaked figure was hunched over an open grave, the sides of which were muddied and slick. He was muttering mystical words and had a small coffer before him. Ever so softly Emelia drew her sword from its back scabbard. Despite her subtlety the mage stiffened and rose, turning slowly.

A light drizzle had begun in the twilight as the two faced each other in the graveyard. The gibbous blue moon provided a cool ethereal luminescence to the scene, the damp of the rain shining off the cold stones of the graves.

The mage regarded her with his dark eyes, his corpse-like skin contrasting with his jet-black hair. His eyebrows arched but then he regained his composure.

"You are far from home, little housemaid," he said softly.

"Well I was just in the neighbourhood. I'd always wanted to ask you about the night I caught you playing with corpses in Coonor," Emelia said, trying to sound braver than she felt.

"This is not a child's business, girl," he said. "Yet it is an added bonus that I will get to savour your soul as you join those corpses. I will relish the gasp as my blade slits open your belly and I carefully decant your essence out for consumption."

"I can see why you travel alone with manners like that," Emelia said, rain dripping off her chin. "It's not 'girl', it's Emelia, and it was a polite question. What's your business with the dead?"

The dark mage hissed and thrust his arms forwards. Emelia was prepared for his attack, the memory of his evil magic still vivid in her mind. She raised her left hand as he moved and cast her own spell. The torrent of darkness that poured towards her met the surge of magical force from her arm and flowed into the wall of the mausoleum with a crackle and hiss.

Emelia leapt forwards, her sword slicing through the rain at the mage. Although surprised by her counterattack, he was swift and dodged away from her slash. His long knife with its cruel serrated edge was in his pale hand and he whirled and stabbed at her side. Emelia twisted and brought her sword up to parry the thrust with a clatter of metal.

The two opponents circled each other slowly, the rain now heavy and making the ground slick and treacherous. She caught sight once more of the strange funnel tucked into his black belt. Emelia's heart was thumping. She was on her own here. There was no Jem or Hunor around the corner keeping a brotherly eye. No quarter would be given if she lost to this foe.

The mage stepped back into the gloom of the shadows cast by the mausoleum and his body dissolved away. Emelia looked around urgently; the graveyard was a patchwork of shade and light, he could reappear anywhere.

Emelia grasped her sword with both hands and stood stock-still. This was her true trial by fire and Hunor wasn't even here to observe its outcome. Every lesson with him culminated in this instant. How he had taught her to stand and to wait. How he had taught her to become aware of every nuance of the world around her. She saw each drop of rain as it tumbled past, heard each tiny splash as it struck the cold stone of the graves. She could feel the flow of the wind around her, sense the echo of sounds from the hard surfaces reverberating in the night air. She had to become one with the world around her.

She could sense the Web surrounding her as her mind relaxed. Its taught magical threads were woven in a matrix of energy. She felt its pull, its tiny constant motions when she sensed a disturbance.

He came from behind, stepping from the blackness and aiming a deadly stab towards her kidney. She spun as the attack came, lengthening the gap between them. His thrust, designed to gut her, scraped along the hardened leather armour, nicking the underlying flesh only superficially.

In contrast her sword slash was far more productive. The enchanted steel flashed in a deadly arc and severed his right arm at the shoulder. The limb span through the air, a torrent of blood in its wake as it flew into the pit of the open grave. The mage screamed and clutched frantically at the spurting stump. Their eyes met briefly and then he stepped back into the shadows once more and was gone.

Emelia slowed down her breathing and her pounding heart and suppressed a deep sob. She leaned back against a tall gravestone, feeling the cold surface press her sweating back. Blood trickled from the small cut in her side and she pressed on it as she re-sheathed her sword.

In the small coffer sat a black opal, its impassive surface catching the little blue and silver moonlight that forced past the rain clouds and devouring it. Emelia's eyes seemed to ache as she peered at it. She reached into the coffer to grasp the gemstone.

Excruciating pain seared up her arm like acid and she screamed. Her fingernails felt as if they were being ripped out and the muscles of her forearm cramped and twitched. A flood of images roared in her mind's eye: grinning skulls, fleshless arms clawing at her, wet soil clogging her nostrils and worms burrowing into her warm flesh. She collapsed onto the mud of the graveyard, her hand scrabbling at the slick stones of the graves around her. More images flickered in her mind: charred corpses frozen in time, blood pouring like a foaming stream into her gasping mouth, a slender figure with eyes as dark as the night.

From deep inside her she could hear Emebaka yelling and cursing. A panic consumed her as she sensed she had to flee, to escape this city and this country and return to the safety of her old life, to the warmth of the basement kitchen and the security of servitude.

Whispers were all around her, murmuring from the graves—the call of the dead. The flat stones of the graves warped into leering faces that spat awful threats. The undead were coming alive to drag her soul to the depths of the Pale.

No.

A single word, ringing with the clarity of a bell, instantly stopped the fear. She opened her eyes, the rain now having plastered her blonde locks to her face. The world looked fragmented through her wet hair. She sat up, pulling it back to a tight ponytail and looked around. The graveyard was still the same: wet and muddy in the pale blue moonlight. The black opal sank slowly into the thick mud at the edge of the open grave, its coffer tilted over.

Blessed Torik, what had she done?

Chapter 3 The Trap

Blossomstide 1924

Hunor shoved the warped shutters closed and twisted the clasp, the roaring wind opposing his actions. Despite being only open for a minute they were dripping with rainwater and had soaked the unfortunate drunk who lay slumbering on the table by the window. His mangy hound had skulked under the table for shelter and sat snuffling in a light sleep.

Hunor returned to his usual seat in the corner of the Black Lamb Tavern. The poor weather had reduced the usual market day crowd to a dozen sodden men who now sat close to the roaring fire in the back recesses. The musty pub had the smell of wet dog about it and he anticipated a tirade of grumbling from Jem when he arrived. Hunor had slung his own cloak on a peg near the fire, the steam rising from its fibres. He glanced around the inn's common room, searching for Lelen, the barmaid whose blushes at his nightly flirtations provided much of his entertainment these days. The place was sadly devoid of any female charm.

Hunor leaned back in his seat, taking a gulp of ale from his pewter tankard. Habit meant he chose tables with panoramic views of whatever inn he drank in, preferably with the added advantage of some shadows and privacy. This particular one was one of his favourites and he fondly recalled hatching many a heist with Jem, and latterly Emelia on this spot.

He shifted to get comfortable on the chair. His sword was slung in its baldric on the rear of the chair. Hunor's mood was elated despite the soaking weather; he'd wangled a great price on the document with Grisk, the go-between for whichever councillor wanted its contents so much. It had commanded enough Azaguntan gold groats to wipe the slate clean with Igred, pay Jem and Emelia handsomely and leave him some left over to send back to Thetoria, via the usual covert channels in Artoria. Not that Jem ever seemed bothered about the gold, providing he was kept in books and cogs for his clocks. But it was the principle: there was little honour amongst thieves but there was loyalty between friends. Well within reason—he had planned the whole thing so it was only fair that his cut was slightly more equal, and one had to take into account the poor quality of Azaguntan coin compared to purer mainland gold.

Hunor sipped his ale thoughtfully. His gut was still full of the mutton pie that Olthik Slanteye had fed him an hour ago. If the truth be told he was sick of bloody sheep and pastry, but only a fool, no only a fool who had sustained a particularly nasty head injury whilst gargling mercury, would dare to taste fish dishes from the river Dun. The dish was likely to come back to life and attempt to eat you. He had a hankering for the hake and monkfish from the wild seas near Kir. Perhaps a quick excursion back to that shipwreck of a town this summer, just to keep out of the way if Hegris Grach started hunting for the arsonist that had cost him half a villa.

It had been in Kir that this whole escapade with Emelia had begun. That night they met her in Coonor his every instinct had said to leave her be. Yet in the years before and after that day he had only seen Jem so insistent once, and that was in his decision for them to leave their old gang.

They'd spent the first winter as a trio together in Kâlastan, conning merchants while the weather improved enough to sail across the Sea Of Mists and upstream to Bulia. There had been a few times there that he'd considered she'd be worth more sold off to one of the carpet traders. After all she possessed an instantly amiable persona and one of the most distinctive faces he'd ever seen. All of which weren't characteristics favourable to a thief, although an asset if you were trying to flog a gigantic rug to a reticent Pyrian.

Jem's fascination with her had put pay to that notion, and in truth he had himself come to care for the girl. Her eagerness to learn was akin to a newborn puppy and she assimilated every new experience with zeal. Emelia hungered for every nuance of life and took it all on board with an unnerving intensity. He had taught her his sword craft and a pang of jealousy had risen in him when she took to it so immediately that within two years she was far more skilled than he had been at her age when Master Hü-Jen had instructed him in the traditional Shorvorian style. She had been an apt pupil when it had come to thievery also, her slim fingers deftly opening all the locks he had made in his workshop.

Hunor looked up from his ale as a group of hooded strangers entered the inn, the water running in rivulets down their travelling cloaks. There were four of them, two of whom were bulky in appearance, perhaps armoured under the large concealing cloaks. They spoke quietly and went to the long bar to order drinks. Still no decent company for a game of Kirit's eye; he could feel the craving in his gut, like an itch he could not scratch.

Where were Jem and Emelia? Hunor sipped from his ale and glanced at the door. He was excited about the loot and felt the need to tell them about it, to garner some praise for his canny profit. Jem would probably be nonplussed about the cash. Hunor had a vibe of him of late that he was gearing up for another crisis of conscience.

In his best estimate Jem had them about bi-annually. The last occasion had been after a trip with Emelia, then perhaps seventeen, to Port Multir in Goldoria to steal a set of jewelled eggs from one of the port's many churches. Goldoria was always a touchy place for Jem. If you added the dark trauma of his past in the country to the fatal risks of getting caught performing magic it inevitably set the Wild-mage moaning about life in general.

Hunor recalled Emelia being quite perturbed that there were more noble goals than the acquisition of wealth. After all, it had been his primary teaching for the preceding two years. Jem had started hankering after embarking on an altruistic quest or some such nonsense. Hunor saw Emelia's young eyes light up with the idea of knights, giants and ogres. Naturally there was little choice but to quash all further discussion with a subtle reminder that it was Jem who had made them leave that life behind six years before. He felt a little grim doing it, any mention of her remaining unspoken but implicit, but it was for the best. After all he and Jem were a team and foraging for goblin gold was high risk both in terms of his general health and the low profit margin. Let the knights of the world take on noble quests; that was how they got their thrills. He owed the world no debt, well with the exception of two or three moneylenders in Azagunta still waiting to settle.

Jem and me, we are a team, he considered, but what of Emelia, our apprentice? Last night she'd shone; she'd pulled off the job when it all started going britches up and had shown a perfect distillation of his and Jem's tutorage. But could he see them as a trio: burgling, robbing and scamming? An apprentice could never really be a contemporary. His affection for her, despite her beauty and charm, was like that of an older brother. Was that it? Was she a surrogate sister for him, in the absence of his own? That was not a healthy dynamic in the heat of battle or the crisis of a heist gone awry. He'd asked himself this a number of times of late: would he put his neck on the line for her? Jem, he'd bail him out no question, but Emelia? Was she all that much to him? Of that he was still uncertain, and last night when the robbery began to go wrong he had been concerned the decision was about to be thrust upon him.

He rubbed his head, the ale was starting to seep through into his common sense and that wasn't so advisable before Jem arrived. Too much ruminating—that was his problem. Maybe it was time to cut Emelia loose and let her make her own way. It would be difficult but perhaps it would be for the best.

"You look pensive, Hunor," a voice commented.

Hunor's head was instantly clear as he looked up at one of the strangers who now stood before him. He was slim, perhaps about forty years old, with a scruffy blond ponytail. He had left his cloak at the bar and wore a voluminous white shirt, brown leather belt and brown woollen trousers. The style was Thetorian but his complexion and pale eyes spoke more of Aquatonian origins. Hunor tried to place his face and was dismayed that, despite its odd familiarity, he could not remember where he had seen him before. A long wooden pipe jutted at a jaunty angle from his mouth. A thick curl of pipe smoke weaved like a serpent around his head.

Hunor shrugged, noting that the stranger was unarmed.

"The muddy climes of Azagunta are a place to be pensive about, my friend. I see as a stranger in this place you seem to have mistaken me for someone else. Perhaps I may take the liberty of directing you to another inn where such a man may be found?"

Unperturbed the stranger pulled a stool to the table and sat, dragging on his pipe. The rich scent permeated the air around the pair. It smelt of warmer lands, its odour like a mulled wine or a hot bath at the end of a long weary day. Feldorian tobacco from the Nimgor peninsula, Hunor guessed, but intermingled with pipe weed from the stormy Scattered Isles. An odd mix, he thought, perhaps similar to the man who smoked it.

"I've had the misfortune of being too long on this filthy island to be so easily diverted, Hunor," he said. Hunor's eyes flicked across the inn; the man's companions were loitering near the bar, still hooded.

The blond stranger's face contorted in a strange spasm, the muscles in his neck taut. He twitched then resumed the conversation as if nothing had occurred.

"In fact I've travelled a hundred leagues from Port Kir to have this chat, Hunor, so yes, I'm fairly sure it's you. You are a fair thief, perhaps bolstered by the arrogance of youth and a strong belief in the ability of your companion Jem. Of late you've commenced the tutorage of a young girl who you no doubt hope will keep you comfortable in your retirement. Shall we dally around further or get to business?"

Hunor sipped his ale and met the man's stare; he had a manic quality in his eyes. The thief sensed both a repressed danger and air of power about him. His nerves were beginning to jangle a little; it was time to stall in the hope that help was on its way.

"Then you've got me at a disadvantage, mate, as I've not the foggiest who you are. Perhaps you're in town for the 'Annual creepy mad man pipe-smoking' jamboree? Or is it the 'collect debts that have been paid off several years ago in The Barnacle' away day? If it was your sister I got into trouble then my heartfelt apologies; I was always a sucker for arm pit hair and pipes."

The stranger grimaced once more, this tic lasting a good ten seconds. It held a certain fascination to watch, as if one was inwardly betting as to whether he would come out of it or stay with a contorted expression forever.

"Your wit is wasted in this place! Perhaps a career in the music halls of Kokis would have been a wiser option for you," the stranger said. "I do forget my manners, I'm afraid. I have had more names over the years than days of the week but today I am Thintor, though my friends refer to me as Lemon-bite. I was asked to convey regards from Scarseye in Kir."

Hunor's mind raced. Was Scarseye a Guildmaster in Port Kir now? But even if that were the case, what did the Kirian guild want with him?

"Scarseye? You know, Lemon-bite, I've never had the chance to really get to know the guy, let alone owe him cash. What would he want of me? Last time I was in Kir it was when Linkon was running the West Avenue Boys."

"I know, Hunor, I saw you then. Did you hear what had happened to Linkon? Crazy story, my friend, just crazy.

"Scarseye had had his warped eye on the Guildmaster spot for a few years and truth be told was warming up to stage a coup. Then in spring time of 'twenty one' these two assassins pop up to try and take Linkon down. Now here's the irony. He sticks two quarrels in the first and a hatchet in the skull of the second... then drops dead. No poison. No wounds. Not even some dark death spell. His big fat heart had packed in, probably with all those cakes that rotted his teeth to little yellow pegs. Isn't that a cracker?"

Lemon-bite guffawed, his eyes rolling in the manner of a rabid dog. Hunor cracked a smile at the tale. He was gauging the distance to the window he had shuttered earlier; with a quick sword slash he could be there and through it before the three at the bar could move.

"Anyway we couldn't find who'd sent them. The Silent Knife denied it flatly, decrying them as rank amateurs from overseas. They looked Artorian to me—you know, that sandy brown hair and earthy features. Well the one with a head left did anyway."

Hunor very slowly eased his legs from under the table.

"That's sad stuff, mate, sad stuff. I imagine it must be the Black Brotherhood wandering off their patch. Pardon my apparent hardness when I ask what in Ingor's nipple clamps this has to do with me?"

"No need to apologise, my cutpurse chum. When Linkon snuffed it all his dirty little secrets went with him and unfortunately one of them is of great interest to the three companions I have with me. So Scarseye sent me here with them—so as to get them out of his hair and, in truth, to save his scrawny neck."

Hunor's mouth was dry now; his arm eased towards his sword.

"With due respect to your cabbage faced crime lord, he has no sway down here in Bulia. I'm tight with Igred in the Northridge and..."

"My new friends aren't ones to be diverted by gangsters, Hunor," Lemon-bite said. "You're in deep crappola to be honest."

Hunor's eyes met Lemon-bite's and the two stared at each other for what may have been an age. Over the blond man's shoulder Hunor caught sight of Jem entering the inn followed by a dishevelled looking Emelia, running to catch his attention. The three hooded figures by the bar turned and Hunor saw the trap sprung.

"Jem, it's a trap!" Hunor yelled, his hand lunging for his sword.

Lemon-bite's hands darted forward and he uttered arcane words as Hunor's sword slid from its scabbard. The table shot backwards into Hunor's abdomen with the force of a charging horse and sent him crashing into the wall behind.

Jem and Emelia jumped forward as Hunor yelled in pain, Emelia drawing her sword in a flash. The hooded figures were upon them in a heartbeat. The shortest figure thrust a twisted hand outward and shouted an incantation. Wind whipped his wet cloak around him, as if the shutters had flown open once more, then a sizzling bolt of lightning hissed from his fingers and into Jem.

The shower of sparks lifted Jem off his feet. He slid across the inn floor and smashed into the table where the dog cowered in fear. A stench of burnt flesh permeated the air. Emelia roared in fury and leapt into attack, her glittering sword slashing at the hooded mage.

The clatter of steel sang out in the confines of the inn as the second hooded figure parried the blow. Pulling back the hood the combatant stepped to protect the mage. Emelia gasped as she saw that her foe was a tall stern faced woman with grey hair tied in a bun. Her cloak fell back to display plate armour; she wielded a longsword adeptly.

Emelia attacked in a blur, her sword darting like an extension of her arm. The woman's step had inferred her next move and Emelia reacted, reversing her slash at the woman's exposed neck. Her opponent had feinted, however, and parried the slash then twisted her blade to try and disarm Emelia. The young thief grimaced as her wrist seared with pain but held on to her weapon. She felt the stinging dampness of her side wound under her tunic.

The third figure was moving to outflank her or perhaps to finish Jem. Emelia swung several sword slashes at her foe then pointed her left hand at the third man. A surge of magical energy slammed into him, sending his armoured form flailing against the hooded mage.

The distraction had dropped her guard and her opponent moved swiftly and professionally. Emelia saw the sword flash towards her and parried with her own weapon, but was unprepared as the woman's mailed fist smashed into her jaw. An explosion of pain erupted in her vision and she reeled back, desperately trying to concentrate. Her sight returned with a roar of thumping blood as the woman pressed her advantage. Emelia parried two then three blows, backing into the bar. A sword slashed at her arm and she whirled away, aiming a low attack to the abdomen of her foe. Her blow skimmed off the woman's sword and cut into the cloth and the armour, carving a furrow in the plate mail.

But the slash had left her open and the woman brought the pommel of her sword up into Emelia's chin. The impact was savage and Emelia bit her tongue, tasting fresh blood as she overbalanced. Her sword clattered to the wooden floor and as she lunged to retrieve it the woman struck her on the side of her head with the flat of her blade.

A hood of blackness descended over Emelia, as brief as a thought or perhaps as long as an eternity. Her hearing came back an instant before her vision but soon enough to tell her all was lost. She lay flat on her back with the tip of a sword pressed to her neck. She could see a floppy Jem to her right, being hoisted to his feet by the muscular warrior she had struck with the magical bolt. He was also grey-haired and stern, his loosened cloak revealing a silvery suit of plate armour.

Hunor was pinned to the wall like a butterfly, his face contorted in pain and turning purple with the effort of breathing. His assailant was smoking a long pipe as he rambled on to his captive. The other mage slowly lowered his hood and a chill came through Emelia as she saw his face.

It was Ekra-Hurr, the Air-mage from Coonor.

***

Twenty minutes later the situation had deteriorated from simply grim to totally hopeless. The inn had cleared during the skirmish with the exception of Olthik, who was wisely keeping to his side of the bar. Jem had been bound at the wrists with the same thick rope that secured Hunor's hands. Emelia's head felt the size of a house and her jaw and tongue were so painful that she found it difficult to talk.

It was evident now that the two warriors were Knights of the Air. They were in a hushed discussion about their plans. The two mages, the Wild-mage Lemon-bite and the Air-mage Ekra-Hurr were clearly not amiable companions and stood separately, both keeping a close eye on their captives.

At a nod from the female knight Ekra-Hurr produced a small bottle and proceeded to pour a drop into Jem's mouth. He coughed and shuddered. Emelia's blood ran cold—was he poisoned? Jem took a deep breath but otherwise seemed unaffected. The Air-mage limped towards her.

"What poison is that you feed us?" she asked.

"It is Goldorian Pure Water, little witch," Ekra-Hurr said. "I've already told Lady Orla that it's a waste on you. It'd be cheaper to allow me to flay the flesh from your deviant bones with a hurricane."

The Air-mage grasped her bruised jaw and she gasped in pain; he dropped a splash of the clear liquid into her mouth. The taste was bitter, like a concentrate of almonds. Emelia felt a warmth course through her body. The pain in her jaw and tongue eased. The warmth dissipated and a strange empty feeling remained, like part of her had been ripped away.

"You've clearly not picked up any manners from hanging around with the tin britches," Hunor said.

Ekra-Hurr slipped the bottle back into his robes and turned to fix his blue eyes on Hunor.

"Their code of honour precludes them simply executing you here and now, thief, but be aware that I am not bound by such a protocol. Your blade left me with this clawed hand. Make no mistake that my magical power is enough to slowly burn your body to an impudent crisp."

"You allow his incisive wit to cut you far too readily, Ekra-Hurr," Lemon-bite said, dragging on his pipe. "Are all of you Air-mages of such a stormy temperament?"

"A minor penalty for mastery of the skies, Wild-mage. Recall that our allegiance is but a temporary necessity."

"That's enough, gentlemen. Leave your petty magical quibbles for another forum," a crisp voice ordered. The female knight was approaching the prisoners, pulling her cloak back around her shoulders.

She hesitated to glance at Emelia and then turned formally to address the three captives.

"Thieves, my name is Lady Orla Farvous, captain of the Silver Wing of the Knights of the Air. I have a warrant for your arrest signed jointly by the High Commander and the Council of Eeria. Your crime, on this occasion, as I don't doubt there are many more, is the burglary of the property of Lord Talis Ebon-Farr. More precisely you have stolen a crystal heirloom, an antique sword and one of his contracted servants, the maid Emelia. In addition the damage to the property you wreaked was extensive and shall be duly punished before a court in Coonor."

"The room was trashed by baldy head here, not by me and Jem," Hunor said with a shrug. "And we didn't steal Emelia—she decided to elope with our handsome selves."

"Impudent dog!" the male knight said and slapped Hunor across the face. The thief staggered and then righted himself, a dangerous glint in his eye.

"Sir Minrik, control yourself!" Lady Orla barked. Minrik flushed and nodded, stepping back.

"Make no mistake, thief, you shall pay for your crimes," Lady Orla said. "It would go well for your case if you divulge the location of the crystal you stole."

"Sorry, darling. It was a need to know sort of job and I didn't need to... if you catch my drift," Hunor said, blood oozing from his split lip.

So that was what they were after, he thought. It would give him some leverage perhaps. He caught Lemon-bite's eyes, which were peering at him with a strange intensity.

"I'm positive he's lying, Lady Orla. He is tricky to read though. It's probably the association with these other Wild-mages that has given him some resistance," Lemon-bite said. Ekra-Hurr snorted with derision.

Hunor cursed the Wild-mage inwardly and did his best to look innocent and simple-minded. Lady Orla sighed and nodded to Sir Minrik, who grabbed hold of Emelia.

"My warrant is for the arrest of you and your fellow thief Jem. You are bestowed a certain degree of courtesy on the basis of the Treaty of Parok, albeit primarily a trade protection act and the Declaration of Birin.

"The errant house maid Emelia, formerly of the House of Ebon-Farr, however, enjoys no such leniency. As a contracted servant under the Statute of Servitude she is conferred a diminished position within Eerian law. This is further modified by the Proclamation of the High Commander, supported by the Master of the Rolls, that in the course of reclamation of a magical treasure of significance to Eerian national security that whatever measures necessary may be undertaken."

"I love it when you talk in long words, love," Hunor said. "It's far more stimulating than Jem's patter."

"In summary—it is permissible, though regrettable, for me to execute the maid here and now for her escape."

Emelia struggled furiously as Minrik drew his sword. Hunor kept his expression neutral as he stared at Lady Orla. His mind raced as he weighed the knight up: was she bluffing?

"Where is the crystal?" Orla asked.

"I have no idea, love," Hunor said, trying not to look at the sobbing Emelia.

Minrik pushed her to her knees on the floor of the inn.

"Once more, where is the crystal?" Orla asked, her voice still even.

"I haven't got a clue, knight."

Minrik looked pale and grim as he raised his sword. The lantern light glittered off the polished steel. Olthik was muttering a prayer behind the bar.

"Then you leave me no choice. Minrik, make it swift," Orla sighed.

Hunor's yell mingled with Emelia's scream as the blade swung down towards her neck. With a grunt Sir Minrik halted its deadly descent and the chill steel rested on her neck.

"You cold-hearted bitch," Hunor said, rage in his eyes.

Orla regarded him coolly and then gestured for him to continue.

"It's in Thetoria, in one of the Western Baronies," Hunor said, his voice flat. Emelia shook like a leaf, the sharp edge of the sword still pressed on her neck.

"How do you know this?" Orla asked.

"When we took the job from Linkon Arikson in Kir I noticed the seal on the scroll on his desk. I recognised it. It's the seal of one of the Western Barons. Let us go and I'll tell you which one."

Lady Orla approached and grasped him under the chin. Despite the tension, her haughty beauty intrigued Hunor and he smiled as her grey eyes met his.

"You take me for a fool, Hunor. I would say a better idea is that you accompany us to the Baronies and to the noble patron that has procured my uncle's property. And given that we will be flying there at a height of a thousand feet I would strongly advise against any escape attempts."

"As you say, m'lady," Hunor said. Tension hung in the air between them and then Orla let his chin go.

Lady Orla handed Thintor Lemon-bite a bag of coins. His face contorted with another tic before he spluttered his thanks. With a cheery nod at Hunor he began to stroll out, then halted before Emelia as if seeing her for the first time. Emelia looked up at the scruffy Wild-mage, her body still shuddering and the two silently observed each other. Lemon-bite abruptly walked away, his usually cocky demeanour not as apparent, and left the Black Lamb Inn.

Ekra-Hurr turned to Lady Orla, the tension in his pose diminishing.

"Captain, we should perhaps make haste to the common and to Sir Unhert and Sir Robert. Loath as I am to say this but the thieves are likely to be well connected locally and we would not wish a further unnecessary skirmish to delay us."

Orla nodded and indicated to Sir Minrik. He hoisted Emelia to her feet and shoved her to join Hunor and Jem, who was now beginning to stir.

"Come, my trio of thieves, we have a long journey ahead of us this week. Plenty of time to contemplate the errors of your ways and make peace with whatever gods patronise you," Orla said. She flung the door open with a swirl of her travelling cloak, the stormy air lashing against them all.

The six strode into the whistling Azaguntan storm, the shutters rattling behind them. Olthik Slanteye forced the door closed with a sigh, bolting it securely and peace once more settled in the Black Lamb Inn.

Chapter 4 The Half-Ogre

Blossomstide 1924

On the first night out of Bulia they struck camp amongst the rocks that loomed high above the mouth of the river Dun, ninety miles south of the city. The rocks were the site of the ruins of an ancient lighthouse, now but a shell of its former magnificence. Ivy had weaved its tendrils around the worn stonework, which still glistened with the rain that had dogged their journey south.

The remnants of the tower provided shelter from the incessant wind that whipped from the sea to the south of them. The Sea of Mists ran from its western shores on the coast of Goldoria, bordering the north coasts of Mirioth and Midlund until it crashed against the western coast of Eeria. Its name was apt: for much of the year thick sea mists would roll in without warning, precipitated by the strange currents that ran its warmer waters up into the icy Northern Ocean.

On this night the mists hung low, far below the heights at which they had camped. Amber light shone from a new lighthouse on the rocky island out in the bay. Its derelict predecessor now glowed to a different lustre: a campfire lit by the knights and their companion, the Air-mage Ekra-Hurr. The griffons rested a short distance away, weary from their laborious day in the air. They tore at the flesh of a deer seized towards the end of their journey.

The three prisoners were jammed in the rear corner of the shattered building, their backs against the damp stone. Emelia could not recall having ached so much from a day's travel before. Her legs were constantly cramping and the limitations to the positions she could adopt, due to the thick rope that bound her wrists, did not help matters.

The nearest guard was Sir Unhert, a young knight who had carried Emelia on his griffon that day. He sat idly sharpening his sword with a blade stone, the golden firelight reflecting from his armour. His helmet was at his feet and his chainmail coif was rolled back around his neck. Emelia had already evaluated that he was perhaps the kindest of the knights, in obvious discomfort about the manner in which the patronising Sir Minrik addressed the prisoners.

"I'd say at this pace, once we're through the rains of this crappy island, we'll be looking at a week or so to get to North Thetoria," Hunor said to the other two in a subdued voice. "Might be that I can stretch that a little with my directions, I don't think they are too familiar with my old homeland. Might give us more opportunity to jump ship, if you know what I mean?"

Jem regarded him coolly. He was dishevelled and obviously irritated. "I'm not so sure how much credence we should place with your plans at the present time, Hunor."

"Eh? Oh... look, I've said I'm sorry. Seriously, Emelia, I didn't think that she... she'd take it that far."

"They almost beheaded me, Hunor," Emelia said, eyes as damp as the stones. "What in the Pale's name were you playing at?"

"I... I... look I'm really, really sorry. Really! I underestimated these knights. I promise you I'll never put you in that situation again."

Emelia jutted out her chin, a tear appearing at the corner of her eye. Damn it, she thought, she wanted so much to put on a braver face for her mentors.

Jem interjected, his voice low but hard.

"This isn't a game of Kirit's eye, Hunor. We can't afford to gamble with these characters. The Air-mage won't need much of an excuse to accidentally kill us all, stolen treasures aside."

Hunor looked forlorn at Emelia and her anger diminished at his expression of pain. "It's just... that I'm, I'm concerned. I'm concerned that I'm a liability to you."

Emelia could feel a wave of emotion bubbling like a hot spring to the surface. Get control of this, Emelia, Emebaka hissed, they will not respect you if you show such frailty.

"That's ridiculous," Jem replied, a touch too swiftly. "We are a team. You've proved your worth time and again and will no doubt continue to do so. No, the problem is our lifestyle."

The silence that followed weighed as heavy as their aching limbs. Emelia looked with puzzlement at Jem, his normally neat hair matted to his forehead by the rain. He had a fervent look about him.

"How do you mean?" Emelia asked.

Jem shuffled with discomfort against the stones. Green moss coated the relic of a large fireplace. Emelia was reminded of that night they had first met in the Keep, at Jem's disgust of being covered in ashes and dirt.

"This existence," Jem said. "This limping from one job to another, enduring times of boom and bust. We live the life of vagabonds, content with a scam well run and a bloated purse of gold. Yet we know ultimately our mark on the world is as instantly forgettable as footprints in the sand erased by the incoming tide. We need some purpose, some task, something to aspire towards. We need something worth dying for."

"This again? No one forced us into the way we live, Jem," Hunor said. "No one put a crossbow at our heads and made us thieves. We decided eight years ago when... all that madness happened, that digging around ruined temples and wading knee deep in goblin gore wasn't for us anymore. You decided that too. You seem to forget that during the tricky times."

"What would you fight and die for then, Jem?" Emelia asked.

"What would I die for?" Jem said, taken aback. "I'm not certain, but I know we have a greater direction than this. The gods gave us our gifts, you and me, for a higher reason than lightening the treasure chests of Azagunta."

Jem and Emelia's eyes locked for an instant and she saw in his thin pale face a fervour that she had not witnessed before; perhaps it had always been there, she had just being looking in the wrong light.

"Well in the interim," Hunor said. "While you're waiting for a glowing tablet of stone to descend from the clouds and proclaim our quest to end all quests you'll forgive me if I work out how we're going to live long enough to fulfill our greater purpose."

"How? That elixir the mage has given us has somehow taken our magic away."

"Indeed, it's Goldorian Pure Water, taken direct from the Spring of Goldoria," Jem said. "It costs a fortune—they must really want to take us back alive. Perhaps that will weigh in our favour."

"Is it permanent?" Emelia asked.

"No, no. I think a sip will last a day," Jem said. "Mind you whilst we're tied up we can't use our spells even if they hadn't dosed us up with the potion."

The three suddenly became aware that the knight had stopped sharpening his sword and had turned to face them. Emelia noted his chiselled features and well-groomed moustache that he now smoothed with discomfort.

"I think that's enough chatter from you three. Get some sleep, tomorrow's journey will be more wearying than today's. And don't let the captain hear such talk—she'll separate you at night and dangle you from the griffons by the day."

Even Hunor was silent at the prospect of a day's flight suspended by rope from the underside of a griffon. The knight returned his attention to some wood he was whittling. Noise drifted like smoke on the breeze from the four others who sat around the fire fifteen feet away. Emelia rested her head on a damp sod that had grown between the scattered stones. The fire made a flickering show on the walls and soon her eyes were heavy.

She drifted uneasily into a slumber, vaguely aware of Hunor and Jem muttering. Loose thoughts weaved through her mind, like the amber ghosts on the towering walls. Hunor had meant his apology with earnest, she was certain of that. He had made a mistake and in truth she accepted that it happened. The harsh realisation was that she was angry with herself. She was angry at being used by the knights in such a manner; angry about being the weak link in the team. She was frustrated at not facing imminent death with more valour, ashamed at her fear and her tears. This whole situation was so unfair, she thought drowsily. To have tasted freedom, like the finest nectar of summer's bloom, then to have it wrenched away so cruelly. Was this some curse, laid upon her for challenging that Dark-mage? His white face flashed in her mind's eye again and her palm throbbed in recall at the vile sensation of the black opal. The darkness of sleep seemed that shade blacker this night. She still hadn't got around to telling the others about the Dark-mage but she felt so weary now.

***

As Emelia's breathing changed Jem and Hunor sat looking at one another in silence. Sir Unhert had risen and was talking to a second knight, Sir Robert, as he ate his meal.

"So what are your musings on this blue crystal, mate?" Hunor asked, his voice a whisper. "I knew it was worth a bit of coin but nothing to warrant this business."

Jem glanced at the two chatting knights then shuffled nearer Hunor, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. "I'll concur—it's a mystery. I could sense magical power within it back in Coonor but nothing that exceeded a minor enchantment. It would appear that its true value has only become apparent after we stole it."

"Aye, it's a meaty response all right. Quoting treaties and proclamations at us—thought they were going to bore me into a confession."

"Any word of more than three syllables is likely to do that, Hunor. Personally I think the response is disproportionately small."

"Come again?"

"Well if this item is so valuable as to warrant the High Commander's 'anything goes' approach that nearly cost Emelia her head, then why send such a small group of Eerians? And why the mixture of knights and mage? Three air mages would be a more subtle and effective force."

Hunor stretched his arms against the ropes and shifted to get comfortable. The two knights were still chatting.

"Well perhaps when they set out they were uncertain where they would end up. Three baldy wizards are little use if the crystal was tucked away in an Archbishop's cupboard in Goldoria."

"Indeed," Jem said. "With the talk of treaties and so forth I wonder whether this crystal is of such value that they do not want the rulers of whichever nation it has ended up in to be aware of its presence."

"So this is a covert mission? Jem, you've got the eyesight of the much feared mole demon of darkest Foom, a creature so visually ignorant as to lose its way in its own infernal burrow. They're Knights of the Air—they wear plate armour and ride griffons."

"Pyrian witticisms aside, I do agree to a point," Jem said tartly. "But the griffons allow them to travel at a rate that only magic can emulate. They can snatch the crystal and make good their escape without being long enough in a nation for an international incident."

"Aye, I see that now. The diplomats can then spin some choice yarn and smooth over the snatch in keeping with whatever treaty is in place. And whoever had the crystal—assuming the knights don't kill 'em—would be most unlikely to make a fuss over something they've stolen in the first place."

"Indeed. This mixture of mage and knight indicates some compromise in evidence at the higher levels of Eerian politics. I don't sense they are content bedfellows either."

"All good for us then, mate."

Jem was silent for a minute. The distant flicker of the knights' fire twinkled in his eyes. Unhert had finished his food and was returning to his duty.

"We cannot underestimate them again, Hunor. They are extremely well equipped. Goldorian Pure Water comes at a significant price. We are clearly vital to their mission but let us not overplay that hand."

"Well we are. Emelia doesn't seem to enjoy the same privilege."

"Her safety is essential to me," Jem said, his voice rising. "That's a given."

Hunor looked past Jem's shoulder, his gaze flitting like an excited moth.

"Emelia can't replace her, Jem. You do realise that?"

Jem stiffened in surprise. "That is an outrageous thing to say. I am the girl's tutor and her mentor. Dragging your mind away from the sort of women you entertain for just an instant would allow you a realisation that that is not how it works. Not for a teacher and pupil."

"How would you know that though? Exactly?"

"I'm not sure I follow your odd line of thought," Jem sighed.

"Well your mentor and tutor was a four foot Galvorian monk currently living in a cave in the Silver Mountains. That's not quite the same as a six foot blonde protégé is it?"

Jem flushed a deep scarlet. "Damn it, Hunor, you are totally off the mark here. For a start he doesn't live in a cave. And for another thing perhaps you should focus on one of your famed escape plans rather than idiotic speculation about what you think, erroneously I shall emphasise a last time, is going on in my patronage of Emelia."

Hunor began to reply then hesitated, seeing the steely glint in Jem's eyes.

"We will not have this talk again. Am I clear on that?" Jem said, glancing at both Sir Unhert and Emelia. Hunor nodded in acknowledgement and then turned to try get some rest, shading his eyes from the glare of the camp fire behind a moss-coated stone.

***

Emelia swam through a turbid sea of darkness, thick like oil, its black depths infinite. It engulfed her, its weight pushing against her eyes, her mouth and her nose: a cloying, stifling totality. She screamed, but no noise came forth, for the ebony sea greedily soaked up the sound. In her mind she sought for the cynical reassurances of Emebaka but she was not there. Emelia was alone and that feeling terrified her far more than the liquid night that she floated within.

She became aware of a tiny dot of light; her mind tried to assess whether it was a speck of red light inches before her eyes or a gigantic fireball a million miles away. The speck flickered and then a second appeared followed by a third. In an instant there were hundreds of them, all around her, twinkling bright in the void.

The night coalesced into cavorting shapes and figures. Sound struck her all of a sudden, like a punch to the face, a primordial clamour that seared her ears like the hottest sun.

She was being dragged through a mass of hideous creatures, chained with rusted links to a half-dozen warriors. They were armoured in scale mail, sown to worn leather armour. Their muscular arms were tattooed with spirals and circles and their hair was a rich brown colour, braided and hanging down their broad backs. A glance at her own body indicated she wore the same armour and bore similar tattoos.

Emelia looked beyond the screaming hordes that surrounded her and she could see hills and mountains looming in the distance, snow adorning their hazy summits. The plane that she marched across was a filthy mire of mud and waste, its epic expanse trampled and torn by the clawed feet of the army that now occupied it.

It was a goblin army. Their dark green faces and burning red eyes were contorted with hatred. Crooked noses dripped with mucous and rotted mouths drooled stinking saliva. Their raggedy armour and spiked shields were decorated with arcane symbols, daubed in crimson paint. They teemed like cockroaches as the prisoners were led forth, flowing back and forth like the edge of the sea.

Their jailors were stranger creatures, the servants of chaos named cravens. Emelia was uncertain how she knew this or indeed how she had recognised goblins. She had the sense she had always known about the creatures. She could almost recall the first time she had felt goblin blood pouring down her sword, thick and green.

The cravens were seven foot tall monsters, boasting four powerful arms and the head of a black wolf. They bore two serrated longswords strapped to their backs. They tugged with irritation at the line of prisoners and Emelia stumbled, her knees spattering into the thick ooze. Panic surged in her as she desperately tried to regain her feet. She twisted on her chained hands as she was dragged through the foul mire. It ran into her mouth and she gagged and coughed, fighting for breath.

The dragging stopped and she looked up. The scene rippled and flowed like molten glass and she was stood in a wide tent, the filth cleaned off her.

The interior was opulent yet garish; the drapes that hung from the apex of the tent were scarlet cloth weaved with gold in macabre patterns. Six braziers lit the room with a hellish luminescence, belching forth thick smoke, making the already warm air of the tent stifling. A suit of armour stood in the corner beside a wide rack of weapons: an assortment of swords, maces and morning stars. The plate armour was huge, its enamelled breastplate fashioned in the likeness of a leering devil.

Emelia felt a mixture of terror and excitement as she observed the figure sat on the chair before them. She sensed three others with her and their fear was palpable. Sweat ran in rivers down their rippling torsos.

Although sitting it was evident that when stood he would be perhaps seven foot tall. The ogre blood that flowed within his veins had conferred him a dark blue skin tone though not nearly as dark as the four ogres that stood guard at his side. The human blood had served to tame the harsher ogre features. His eyes were less slanted and wider; his mouth narrower and his teeth less sharp; he had a nose, unlike the two reptilian slits that adorned the faces of his guards. Despite being a foot shorter than his guards he radiated the menace and power of a coiled cobra. Magic oozed from his pores like sweat.

He stood and approached the captives. With an odd jolt Emelia realised she watched the scene now from above, as if she was part of the drapes.

"You are warriors of Gondland I see," he said, his voice rich and seductive. "You are brave fighters, no doubt, and have bathed in the blood of goblin and ogre for many a year. Perhaps you are the bravest of the seven nation army that strives to halt the advance of my brethren. Yet Mortis is a fickle deity and he cannot help you now. Tell me why Gilibrion trusts the other kings to lead his people and why he does not ride the fields against me?"

The warrior furthest from Emelia spat in the face of the half-ogre. "Gilibrion will return to dance on your bones, half-breed."

The huge half-ogre laughed. He grasped the Gondlander with his huge hands and whispered arcane words. Emelia looked in horror as the warrior erupted into green flames. His screams echoed in the confines of the pavilion as he shuddered and died.

The half-ogre turned and spread his arms out in a wide shrug as if performing at the theatre and laughed to the four impassive ogres. "My brothers! To you I am half-human, to them half-ogre. It is evident why my upbringing was so traumatic."

He gestured at another captive and the warrior jerked as if he had received an electric shock. Wisps of a grey mist began flowing like water from his nose, mouth and eyes through the air towards the half-ogre. Emelia had a strange feeling of watching the events simultaneously from the ceiling of the tent and through the eyes of the female warrior standing at the side of the jerking prisoner.

The smoke thickened and pooled in the half-ogre's hand. Emelia could see within its swirling depths the face of her comrade. There was a look of terror on the ethereal features. The half-ogre brought the cloud of smoke to his face and seemed to lap it up like a cat would with milk. Then he wrinkled his nose and shook his head before clapping his hands; the ball of mist dissipated and the warrior to Emelia's right gurgled and collapsed on the floor of the tent.

"He knows nothing. Well obviously he knows nothing now, as his brain is as desolate as the deserts of Pyrios. To be precise he knows nothing about King Gilibrion. Take them for target practice or supper or for whatever the goblins fancy. Don't let the cravens wear their bits as jewellery though; I'm not a monster after all."

A black armoured ogre began to pull them out of the tent. The half-ogre raised his hand and pointed at Emelia. "Wait. Leave the girl. There's something curious about her."

With a sudden wrench Emelia was within the female warrior's body again. She now felt acutely aware of every sensation, whereas before all the occurrences seemed almost abstract and unreal to her. Get a hold of yourself Emelia, this is just a dream, she thought with a tingle of uncertainty.

She was sat on an expanse of cushions. Her armour was gone and she was dressed in a black satin gown. Her hair was pinned up with three golden pins. The half-ogre was sat next to her and it was apparent that something about the dream had changed; he was looking at her in a very curious manner.

"Do I repulse you, girl?"

Up close his dark blue skin had a velvety quality to it and Emelia had a strange urge to stroke it, to feel the smoothness. His features were bulky and crude, as if he had been carved from marble by an inexpert sculptor. Yet his eyes crackled with intellect and with menace, burning with a pale blue fire. Emelia felt a perverse pang of attraction to the demonic countenance.

"No. Not exactly," Emelia said. "Rather the things you and your troops have done to this land repulse me." The words seemed a mixture of her volition and a script that she was reading.

"You are different to the other Kisarti that your king places so much faith in. There is some aberrant quality to you that I am unable to ascertain. Would you care for a drink?"

Emelia shook her head and observed silently as the half-ogre rose, poured some wine and then returned to the cushions. His skin radiated heat like a furnace and she was conscious that his body was now closer to hers.

"The gods have given me a destiny, a role in this world. It began when my mother, a feisty woman from the lands on the far side of the Khullian Mountains, was taken in a raid and given as a gift to my father, Nggin-Ak-Tor. As you surmise he was an ogre and also a shaman, yet he surprised all by keeping my mother as a slave rather than utilising her as a sacrifice to Ingor.

"That was nothing compared to the surprise when my mother gave birth to me. I entered the world in a torrent of blood and pain, a half-breed to both my kin. Nggin-Ak-Tor refused all demands to drown me in the bubbling streams of the Khullian Mountains and raised me as a shaman, as a mystic.

"It is said man may not wield magic, for that is the privilege of those born of the elements, those fashioned from the Great Crystal by the Elder Gods. Yet the mix of ogre and human blood within me has allowed me to do what no man in this day can do; to use the flow of magic to my own ends. The Trimenal lands shall yield to me and I shall rule as a black king for all time."

In his passion he had spilt some wine and it ran in dark red rivulets down the cushions, like blood from a wound. Emelia was transfixed by this creature; what was she dreaming of? Man could wield magic, both with the aid of the gems of power like the Air-mages or without, such as she. He had said Trimenal lands; the phrase rang some distant bell that she could not place.

"I see you think of me insane," the half-ogre said. "How may a creature of flesh rule forever? How may one such as I laugh at the rot of time, the decay of the decades? The whole truth is too terrible for your ears, but suffice it to say the answer flows warm and salty within your veins."

A creeping sense of dread began rising within Emelia. The dream was so vivid; she could feel the texture of the cushions beneath her and the wispy brush of the black satin.

The blue skinned half-ogre leant forward and held on to her arms. She was helpless, her body paralysed with fear and with excitement. She could feel his breath burning the skin on her neck as his teeth brushed tantalisingly against her.

His whisper in her ear was as loud as the roar of a lion.

"Who are you? Who are you to come into my dreams?"

Terror surged within her and suddenly the tent disappeared into a black chasm. She felt a surge of motion, as if the world was being pulled away from her at the speed of thought.

She awoke covered in sweat beneath a rough blanket. Her face was pressed against a damp sod of grass. The shattered walls of the lighthouse loomed above her and she could see the glow of the campfire and the glint of the knight's armour nearby.

Emelia shivered but not from the cold. Her bound wrists were cramped and chaffed and she felt tearful.

It had been many years since she had had a dream that vivid and the last time she'd had one, a friend had died.

***

The wind had turned by morning to favour flight in a westerly direction and soon after dawn the camp was packed and strapped to the huge flanks of the griffons. Emelia was seated behind Sir Unhert, the knight who had watched them the prior evening. Her wrists were secured to a small mount on the saddle such that she had little ability to move. In addition, any abrupt attempts to disturb the knight were likely to result in her tumbling off the saddle and being suspended from the flank of the griffon. That prospect did not seem appealing. They soared hundreds of feet above the craggy south coast of Azagunta and Emelia gripped the saddle with her thighs almost continually.

The knights flew in a wedge with Lady Orla at the apex, her maneuverability improved by the absence of any captive on her saddle. Despite her dislike for the uppity knight Emelia could not help but be impressed by the magnificent sight of the glittering armour and the golden wings of the griffon. As a girl she had stood each morning peering through the tiny window in the dormitory, at first on tip toes as she had pushed her little face to the cold windowsill. Perhaps she had seen Lady Orla and these other knights embarking on dawn patrol; the irony of returning with them as a prisoner was not lost on her.

At Orla's side flew the Air-mage, his robes fluttering in the wind like the wings of a misshapen bird.

Jem was secured to the saddle of Sir Robert, an ox of a man with bristling sideburns and a slim scar that ran across his cheek. He wore a helmet with a lowered visor whilst flying, to shield him from the incessant impact of small insects. Robert gave an air of intense boredom with this assignment and appeared to spend his days dreaming about more glorious missions than the current one. To his credit he had dressed Jem's lightning burn with a clean cloth and salve, muttering that if they were going to fly half way around Nurolia he wanted a live prisoner at the end to show for it.

Of the three of them Hunor had drawn the shortest straw. He was secured, perhaps more restrictively and uncomfortably than was necessary, to the saddle of Sir Minrik. The saturnine knight's dislike of the thief was evident in his every action. When the griffons put down for lunch atop some cliffs he deliberately twisted Hunor's arms as he untied the securing knot from the saddle causing the thief to grimace.

By dusk they had flown a good distance and Hunor commented to Emelia that they must be near Bomor. They made camp on a hill overlooking a tiny cove and Hunor was untied, to be allowed to feed the other two with a thick porridge. Minrik loomed over him with his hand on his sword, looking for an excuse to draw his weapon. Ekra-Hurr sat consulting a spell book, slightly apart from the knights. Sir Unhert tended to the griffons and then cooked a delicious smelling rabbit stew for the knights that set Emelia's stomach roaring.

The opportunity to talk was curtailed that evening by the presence of Sir Minrik standing watch. He took great delight in cuffing Hunor at every attempt he made to speak such that after an hour even the thief's usual stubbornness had diminished and he accepted that he must sit in silence. Emelia was still conscious that there was more to be said between the three of them, but clearly these unresolved issues would have to wait. Hunor often tried to catch her eye and smile, like a small child trying to gain approval. Despite his efforts she still felt angry and avoided his gaze.

Emelia slept better that night, dreaming once more of running through a purple stone city. Jem slept fitfully, the pain from his burn precluding a good night's sleep, and his restlessness disturbed Hunor also.

At perhaps an hour past high moon Hunor awoke, his blanket having worked off him and his bound wrists numb from being trapped under his chest. The waning green Orion moon to the west provided poor light but the northern Aquatonian blue moon was full and the hillside was lit by a cold glow.

Lady Orla sat on a small boulder staring at Emelia. The blue light made her appear cool and distant. Hunor tried to read her expression but one may as well have tried to guess the boulder's emotions.

Orla sensed Hunor's gaze and turned her head to look at him. Her humourless stare met his twinkling eyes and for a whole minute they looked at each other, neither willing to break away. Finally Hunor winked and rolled over onto his side.

***

On the third day of flying they left the coast of Azagunta and flew over the sea. A gentle wind was trailing them and Emelia began to actually enjoy the journey, despite the jolts that sent her face bashing off Sir Unhert's metal clad back. They soared over the frothing waters of the Whitewater Strait. Emelia saw a group of dolphins break the waves and play with chattering excitement in the surf. Unhert turned and pointed and Emelia wondered whether he smiled beneath his full-face visor.

"The girls in the Keep thought I was part mermaid," she said over the wail of the wind.

Unhert laughed and yelled back, "Would you like me to drop you in with them then? For a quick swim?"

Emelia pulled a face and he chuckled again. A curt glance from Sir Minrik curtailed any more pleasantries and the pair slid into silence again.

For most of its course between the horse lands of Kanshar and the isle of Azagunta the Strait was approximately a hundred miles across. It widened naturally at its southern end as the southwest coast of Azagunta curved away. In this area the waters were particularly treacherous. Jem had taught Emelia only a tiny amount about seafaring but she recalled that many of the seas around Nurolia required a member of the Guild of Navigators to safely guide the ship. A few even required the magic of the Water-mages to avoid a short trip to the ocean floor. Jem had explained it was something to do with the drag of the four moons and Emelia had lost interest at that point; she couldn't think of the moons without thinking of the times when she feared she had the Moon's malady.

The griffons had begun to tire by late afternoon with the additional weight of the captives. As they flew lower and lower, the choppy waters below seemed more and more menacing. If any of them fell they would not swim for long with their hands bound and the knights would undoubtedly sink like a stone.

The knights had become serious in the final hours of the journey, pulling hard on the reins and bridle to encourage the griffons to rise. At mid-afternoon Ekra-Hurr rallied the winds with his magic and the additional boost of the gale he created elevated them another two hundred feet above the ominous waters.

Dusk approached and they finally came within sight of land—a strip of golden sand edged by green. Emelia could see early spring flowers flecked like paint across the grass. A delta of shining blue rivers weaved like a spider's web across the landscape below them as they dropped lower to land.

The grasslands were damp and boggy and moisture impregnated the air. Thin columns of smoke weaved skyward to the south of them and when Emelia nodded inquisitively to Jem he said, "Anor's Delta, it's a town at the southern edge of the Goldorian Delta."

Jem did not volunteer any further information and Emelia could sense a tension within him, so she did not enquire.

The campfire was welcome that night as the chill of the journey had worked down to the bone. Once more Hunor fed the other two, whistling as he did so. Emelia's wound was stinging much less and Jem seemed comfortable with his shoulder too. Sir Robert stood watch as Ekra-Hurr approached to dose Jem and Emelia with the Pure Water. One arm was tucked close and clawed.

The potion was still bitter and daily dosing had not eased the astringent taste.

"Does this vile draught come from the waters near us?" Emelia asked with a scowl.

Ekra-Hurr sneered at the query. "Does your little pet know naught about magical lore, Wild-mage?"

"She knows a great degree more than you could fathom, Air-mage, as indeed do I. It's my misfortune to hail from these pious lands and you would do well to rein in your sharp tongue whilst we travel across them."

Ekra-Hurr looked furious but then surprisingly turned to Emelia. "The Pure Water comes from the Holy Spring in Goldoria City, little maid. It is the source of the unique power that has made the Goldorians the bane of the magical world over the ages and indeed gives them the arrogance to feel they can stipulate that none of a magical bent may cross their lands."

"Or they will toss them on a large fire whilst singing praise to the sun god," Hunor said.

Emelia's eyes evaluated Ekra-Hurr. "Air-mage—exactly why do you hate us so? Inkas-Tarr the Arch mage appeared quite civil the time I saw him at the Keep."

"Inkas-Tarr no longer holds the position of Arch-mage," Ekra-Hurr said with a smirk. "The scandal that erupted after your theft of the crystal with my own covert presence in the Keep forced his standing down and his position was taken by master Bardit-Urr, who it must be acknowledged is far more forward thinking. Certainly he would give no mercy to the likes of the Wild-mages."

"Or probably to your Codex, I'd imagine," Jem said. "The reason that the four schools of magic dislike us so passionately is one of simple prejudice, Emelia. The schools sit atop piles of gold and silver gleaned from all the profit their magic can bring them, whether it is Air-mages altering the weather or Water-mages the tides. There is a good reason the majority of their Orders are simple bureaucrats. They are populated by the privileged but not always the knowledgeable, the riches of their pompous mothers and fathers securing them a place. If they have a spark of aptitude then they are embraced and relieved of more gold. Why do they hate us? Because I am a clockmaker's son and you are a servant. Our magic comes from within us—something that was never thought possible when the god Umar the Wise gave the first Gems of Power to those four pilgrims in the Monastery of Helix. Ekra-Hurr cannot wield his spells without that diamond seared into his flesh and that makes him bitterly jealous of us."

Ekra-Hurr was flushed and angry, his bald head covered in bulging veins.

"You go too far, Wild-mage," he said. "How can one who has dedicated his life to the furthering of knowledge such as I do so with just a bag of gold and societal connections? The magic burns within me; the gem is simply the gods-given focus. Your kind knows no rules, knows no boundaries. You were turned over to us by a Wild-mage, with less loyalty than a rat on a floundering ship. How can I respect a mage who knows no discipline?"

"Not being dictated to by those with naught but pecuniary interest is not lack of discipline, Ekra-Hurr," Jem said. "I was taught meditation by a Galvorian monk and it is that calmness and focus that guides my magic. You would do well to seek tranquility yourself for your anger consumes you like a pestilence."

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 judgment 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 griffons 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 asked '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 breathe 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 shook his head 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 faraway 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 distant 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 peasants 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."

A sneering laughter interrupted the conversation as Ekra-Hurr strode to the side of Unhert.

"You're surprisingly coy with the prisoners this evening, Sir Unhert. The answer, little witch, is that you will be returned to the Ebon-Farrs, hopefully with their other lost property. What they choose to do, well, that is Lord Ebon-Farr's business, but I expect he'll have to make some example of you. Head on a pike sort of thing."

"Mage, there is no need..." Unhert said.

"There is every need. Don't be drawn in by her pretty face and twinkling eyes. She's a common thief like the others. No, far worse, she's a thief, a Wild-mage and a servant who has repudiated on her contract."

"You go too far, sir. My honour..."

"Is best left to challenge angry giants, not to make condemned prisoners feel better about their fate."

Sir Unhert flushed a deep scarlet and for a moment Emelia thought he would strike Ekra-Hurr.

"Your male accomplices will undergo trial by the Eerian council," Ekra-Hurr said. "If Engin is with them then they may escape with life deep in the rocky prison of Iyrit Crag. If not, then I shall take my front seat at their execution; perhaps sell souvenirs to little Coonorians eager to see some rogue's head parted from its shoulders."

"I'll make sure to bleed on your best robes," Hunor said.

Ekra-Hurr bent forth over Emelia and grasping her cheeks began to pour Pure Water in her mouth. A surge of anger bubbled to the surface and Emebaka hissed, let us see how the mage likes the taste of his own medicine. She spat the potion full in Ekra-Hurr's face and he reeled back, spluttering.

Ekra-Hurr snarled and backhanded Emelia. The slap spun her around and she felt the cool grass press on her burning cheek as she struck the ground. Ekra-Hurr frantically pulled out a second bottle from his side bag and washed his face.

Feeling her split lip beginning to swell, Emelia rolled back over and grinned at Ekra-Hurr. She could feel her head pumping with adrenaline.

"It's clear that Sir Unhert is the honourable one here. Does it make you feel brave having such rough fun with a bound housemaid?"

Sir Unhert wavered, eyes flitting between the pair. Hunor began to rise to rush towards the Air-mage. Unhert drew his sword and pointed its tip at Jem and Hunor, shaking his head.

Ekra-Hurr leered, wiping the water from his face. "So are we playing this game then? Such a jest. I trust you will repeat your infantile actions when I try the next dose?"

Emelia, the defiance of Emebaka rising to the fore, glanced at Hunor and Jem, who watched the scene tensely. She laughed and nodded.

Quick as a flash Ekra-Hurr had seized Jem. Before she could conceal it a flicker of concern came across Emelia's face.

The Air-mage gripped Jem and then dug his long fingers into the healing burn on his shoulder. Jem gasped in pain as Ekra-Hurr's thumb tore open the blistered flesh.

"Torik curse you, mage. Stop that!" Emelia cried.

"Another's pain can often be as exquisite as our own. Any more resistance in taking the Pure Water and I shall drive my rather grubby fingers deep in this burn and as sure as night follows day it will begin to fester."

Emelia glared at Ekra-Hurr; she could feel the rage burning within her. Hunor's eyes darted from Ekra-Hurr to the sword of Sir Unhert.

"That's enough, mage," Orla said.

The three other knights had approached to investigate the ruckus. Minrik smirked whereas Sir Robert had his hand ready on his sword. Orla strode forth and pulled Jem away from Ekra-Hurr and slid the dressing back over the burn.

Orla turned to Ekra-Hurr, her voice clipped. "We are an ancient order that prides itself on our honour and our decorum. I will not advocate you torturing or assailing prisoners in my charge, is that clear?"

"As I recall your honour does not extend to rebellious miners."

Emelia could hear a sharp intake of breath from the knights. Orla's face paled to such a degree that Emelia thought the blood had been magically drained from her body by an unseen demon.

Orla's voice was laced with controlled fury. "Your recall does not interest me, mage. If ever you insult me again then I shall have no recourse but to restore my honour with cold steel. Take this as your warning; there shall be only one."

Ekra-Hurr dropped his gaze.

"Stop your childish behaviour, girl," Orla said. "For one who brushed with death but days ago you act with a foolhardiness in keeping with a village idiot. Any more displays of resistance and mark my words I shall seek the nearest Goldorian Godsarm and hand you over as a witch. I am sure your companions will regale you with the quality of treatment you may expect off them. Is that clear?"

Emelia met Orla's eyes, her jaw clenching and unclenching. The two women locked their stares for several tense seconds.

"It's perfectly clear," Jem said. "You won't get any more difficulty from us."

Emelia looked aghast at Jem. "Damn it, Jem. Damn you all."

Ekra-Hurr smugly leaned over her and fed her the drops of potion.

Orla turned now to Unhert, indicating for him to re-sheath his sword. She addressed Hunor. "Thief, I have need of an audience with you. I wish to clarify the details of our journey in greater detail on my maps."

"Captain, you can't be serious," Minrik said. "The dog should simply tell us all he knows, now. Any more foolery and we shall surely deliver Eerian justice sharply and without mercy."

Orla rounded on the impudent knight.

"Enough! Enough and thrice, enough! There seems to be some misunderstanding here in whom is in command. I am a third lance of the Silver Wing, lest you forget, and am not in the practice of discussing my orders with those of an inferior rank. If I have one more hint of subordination from any of you then I'll have you on charges. Torik fly me far to save me from prattling wizards, eager to taste my sword's edge and moronic corporals who feel themselves worthy of my position, hard earned on the field of battle.

"Hunor, over here, and one quip from you—in the tainted version of Imperial that pours from your Thetorian mouth—and I'll forget the whole mission and head straight back to Coonor, where I guarantee you'll part company with your pony-tailed cranium!"

The knights busied themselves with any task that did not involve eye contact with Orla. Ekra-Hurr gave the Pure Water to Jem then melted back into the shadows.

Hunor walked over to Orla who then led him, his hands still bound, to her griffon. Her saddlebags were full, at least partly with the weapons that she had procured from them when they were captured. Her knights had done a good job of finding all his concealed arms and picks, tucked away in a dozen secret pockets on his person.

Orla pulled out a bundle of maps and then indicated for Hunor to be seated. She knelt next to him and unfurled a large map of Goldoria and Thetoria.

"I estimate we are here, about ten leagues past Valikshall. With the wind behind us we shall make the Vale of Ukôr south of the river Parok by nightfall tomorrow. We shall then fly over the Silver Mountains that run between Goldoria and Thetoria."

"That's the best place to cross to avoid any attention," Hunor said. "The passes through the Mountains have had garrisons stationed ever since the Summer War. But that route is pretty dense mountains with only a few goblins and bandits."

"I do not regard goblins as a concern," Orla said. "Nonetheless your advice is accepted. That takes us then into northern Thetoria, over the Silver Hills and near the town of Silverton. What is our route from there? Cooperation will weigh heavily in your favour when we return to Coonor."

Hunor smiled and looked at the knight. The yelling at the other knights had put a flush on her marble cheeks and a strand of hair had fallen across her face, like a sliver of the moon.

"I understand, m'lady, and as Jem said you won't get any more difficulty from us. Silverton is in the lands of Baron Exiki, a fat boorish man whose gustatory excess is matched only by his disturbing love of androgynous young Feldorian singers. The next barony west is that of Latimer—he in contrast is as thin as a pole and has no interest save that of hunting in the deer lands north of Balki. He and Exiki seem to get together every decade and kill a few dozen of each other's men over some long running feud involving a great, great aunt they share."

Orla raised her eyebrows at the thief's prattle.

"Anyway, there's always a fight to be had in Thetoria as they say. The barony we seek is the in the north-west corner, that of Baron Enfarson. The baron was a fair warrior in his day—he soldered his reputation by culls of the goblins that nibble at his borders like starving mice. His lands are surrounded on the west, north and east by hills and run as far south as Greenford and the Falls of Sork. The bleaker lands have bred a sterner people than most Thetorians. He won't be a simple man to deal with. Just flashing the shield of a faraway nation won't have much effect."

"I pride myself on greater diplomacy than that, thief. Are you certain this is the noble we seek?"

"It was definitely his coat of arms on the seal in Kir. I know it all too well. How on earth are you going to find your crystal if it's there? I mean, I suppose me and Jem..."

"You and your roguish friends will do nothing save direct us there. Do not think me so naïve as to leave the finding of my uncle's crystal to pure chance. We will find it if it is there and we shall bring this baron to task! Recall the reach of the Eerian Empire, in days long past, was to the Emerald Mountains. King Dulkar values our trade and treaties far too much to support a thieving nobleman against our demands, should it come to that."

Hunor shrugged and a silence fell upon them, interrupted only by the crackles of the fire. The thief got an insane impulse to lean over and give those serious lips a nice warm kiss, but he wisely suppressed the urge.

"Do you regret almost executing Emelia, Lady Orla? You don't strike me as the murderous type."

Orla blinked at the question and for an instant Hunor saw past her mask. A flash of guilt, a flicker of uncertainty and a spark of anger danced across her face. Then the façade returned as she looked the thief up and down.

"Not that I need to explain myself to a prisoner any more than to my subordinates, but, no, of course not. It was necessary and a totally appropriate course of action. Make no mistake; she is bound by the Statute of Servitude and Eerian law and I would not hesitate to carry out my threat if it became vital to this mission."

"That's what I thought, of course, m'lady. A soldier first and all's fair in love and war, as they say. I'll make certain you have no recourse to behead my friend at any juncture. Is that all?"

"Indeed."

Hunor smiled as he returned to sit next to the other two. Emelia nursed her fat lip and Jem his throbbing shoulder. Perhaps the knight's armour wasn't as robust as it first seemed.

Chapter 6 The Crypt

Blossomstide 1924

"Master Aldred? Master Aldred? Begging your pardon, sir, it's almost midday."

Whilst he lay completely immobile Aldred's headache was controllable, but the mere contemplation of lifting his head from his pillow sent lancinating pain through his brain. He was aware of a rank smell in his nostrils, which he rapidly realised was his breath, condensed into a little pool of dribble.

His awareness spread out from him, rolling out like the early morning mists he had seen on his return to the castle. He was face down, on his bed, fully clothed and his left arm was trapped under him, numb and useless. With his one functioning arm he strained and rolled over with a gasp and then a moan as the nausea struck. The room swam and he sank deeper into what must be the ocean of all hangovers.

Aldred scrabbled for some vessel to vomit in; his hands clasped around the wash bowl that his manservant, Jirdin, had just brought. He had just enough time to gesture Jirdin back before heaving into the water.

Jirdin waited for the retching to cease.

"Would the master want a fresh bowl for his ablutions this morn?"

Aldred nodded sheepishly, an acidic trail trickling down from his nose. He glanced with dismay at his bedchamber: mud streaked bed clothes, his knee length leather boots still on his feet, two shattered chamber pots, his best Feldorian cloak torn and tossed across his mirror and the remnants of some bread and cheese he'd scrounged from the kitchens on the way back in.

He cringed as he considered what Jirdin would be thinking. Jirdin had been Aldred's manservant for so long that he couldn't imagine him ever having being young. No, in all honesty, he speculated Jirdin had been born wrinkled, that he'd emerged into this world with skin looking like a dried apple.

The sun was streaming through the curtains. Flecks of dust danced as if at a ball. He had a similar recollection of spinning and weaving the night before, a blur of velvet ball gowns and towering wigs.

Jirdin re-entered and approached the table in the corner of the room. He placed a fresh porcelain bowl and towels atop it. The steaming water had been flavoured with rose, its odour as warm and fresh as a summer's day.

"May I assume the Spring Ball a success, master?"

"From what I remember. The blisters in my boots attest to my exuberance on the dance floor and my head to the hospitality of Lord Ordon. Half of father's barony was there and a good proportion of Baron Benrich and Latimer's lords."

"And the ladies I am sure," Jirdin said, carrying a crisp white shirt, leather trousers and wool jacket to the table.

"Latimer's niece was there, for certain, and her friend, Lady Gizele Harken. My word, what a pair. They can scent a plump purse from eighty paces."

Aldred hobbled over to the table, slipping his dress shirt off.

"Did Livor return with me in the carriage?"

"I'm uncertain, Master Aldred," Jirdin said, bending to help Aldred remove his mud-caked boots. "One could quite appreciate he might feel reluctant to return to the castle. I imagine the carriage took him back to the estate near Oldston."

Aldred sighed and nodded. Livor's father, Lord Korianson, had been dismissed from his residence at the castle whilst Livor and Aldred were studying in Thetoria city. The circumstances seemed mysterious but Aldred was under no doubt that Quigor was somehow involved.

The young lord finished his wash, scrubbing the dried sweat of the prior night from his skin. He dressed in a fresh outfit, choosing a favourite pair of brown leather boots to compliment his dark leather trousers.

"There's precious few of you old guard left, isn't there, Jirdin?" Aldred asked, as he selected an apple to eat for his breakfast.

"As you say, master, the baron has seen fit to entrust the care of his castle to a fresh pair of hands. Those of us that remain are, of course, honoured to continue in his service. Will there be anything else, master?"

Aldred shook his head and watched the servant hobble out into the corridor. Jirdin's answer no doubt concealed bitterness at the systematic deconstruction of a staff that had taken generations to form. Aldred had been back from the city for only two weeks and this castle full of strangers still disconcerted him. It was as if the gods had taken the skeleton of the fortress, stripped it of its flesh and blood and then filled it with some facsimile, some imitation of the place he once called home.

None within the echoing corridors talked of the changes. Yet ten minutes ride from the walls of Blackstone Castle the tongues of the peasants flapped like thirsty dogs. It was the dark Azaguntan at the root of it all, they said, bringing in his ebony-hearted cronies.

Aldred was inclined to agree. He had been sat with Livor on the college common, reading poetry with gusto to an audience of society girls, when the missive from Lord Korianson had arrived. He had seen the flicker of hurt on his best friend's face despite Aldred swearing there must be some mistake or misunderstanding. But the letter was very clear; the master of arms was no longer in service.

With that letter something altered between Livor and Aldred too. The letter had tainted their friendship and Aldred's dislike of the Azaguntan Quigor had gained far greater momentum.

The midday sun seared his eyes as he pulled back the curtains. He looked out from his mullioned window, with all the relish of the undead. His room commanded a view over the courtyard and its walls and down the steep hill of Garan's Motte. From the base of the Motte the bailey spread outwards, a green carpet stretching from the dry moat to the dark stone of the curtain wall. The grass was smattered with buttercups and bluebells and Aldred's mind drifted to the riverbanks of the college he had just left.

Aldred wandered out of his chamber into the corridors of the castle, smiling in reminiscence. He drank in the view as he passed each window, tasting the air, feeling the tranquil scents corrode his hangover like brine on an ancient anchor.

Oh, to be back on the college greens in the air of anticipation that spring created. Thetoria city was spectacular at this time of the year. Across Nurolia it was known as the City of a Hundred Bridges and Aldred fancied that he had punted under every one and jumped naked off a fair few as well. The bifurcation of the Whiteforce River created the River Birin and divided the city into three sections. Alcansford College sat within the south-eastern segment, its expansive estate enjoying the warm winds that drifted from the Bay of Thetoria some two hundred miles to the east.

Aldred had thrived in the college, ricocheting from lessons on literature, art, economics, history and philosophy to tutorials on swords craft and war. He soaked up the teaching with the eagerness of the young, as if he had been starved of life's entire colour in his monochrome home.

Many were the lessons learned in those three years and many the lips he had kissed and laughter he had heard, catching the giggles of the maidens like butterflies in a net. He could still smell the aroma of spring flowers, still hear the bubble of the river, still sense the last kiss planted on his lips almost absent mindedly, like a post-script on a letter. An aching for those vibrant times arose in him and he paused to gain his bearings in the gloom of the castle.

He looked around with a twinge of annoyance, momentarily confused as to his whereabouts. Had he been gone so long that he got lost within his own home? Then he realised that a rearrangement of tapestries had changed the appearance of the hallway he now stood in; he was at the south staircase, a spiral set of steps that descended within the circular tower deep into the depths of the castle. He had just decided to retrace his steps when he realised that he had not visited his mother since he had returned.

Guilt crept into his heart at this oversight; he was sure a day had not gone past without his morose father descending into the crypts and paying his respects. Yet his father, the baron, was a man of dark places, hewn from the same stone as the castle. The meals at night were agonising, a selection of topics spread as thin as pauper's butter. His father smiled thinly at Aldred's tales of Thetoria and, in return, Aldred nodded politely at the ever present subject of goblins on the borders.

He began to descend the stairs. Sputtering torches gave illumination to his path. Aldred reached the base of the stairwell and walked forth into the crypt, taking a torch from its sconce.

The crypts under Blackstone Castle were vast, a half-dozen corridors sprouting from the central hall like the legs of a giant insect. The oldest part was the central hallway and its statues flanked the aisles like a silent army. These were the mighty lords of old; the first warriors of a castle built to withstand the onslaught of the goblins and trolls of the mountains. Their appearance was distinct: exquisitely detailed faces with smooth almost featureless bodies, imposing and proud. This was the style of the First Empire, the Eerian, and contrasted with the warrior poses of the second Artorian Empire.

His mother's tomb was at the neck of the sixth corridor for she was its first and only occupant. Aldred considered whether that had made her lonely in the afterlife. His fingers traced the inscription on the black stone:

Cecila Adrelia Enfarson

1885-1919 post-magi

A mother and wife for eternity

Your wisdom and love remains

Father Mortis guard your soul well

She would have been thirty-four when Mortis had taken her to his iridescent arms. What wisdom had he lost in his mother; what would she have taught him? Would she have counselled him to leave this cold place and forage into the far reaches of Nurolia, to explore its myriad lands and see its many creatures? Or would she have advised prudence, to take a seat at the right hand of his father and one day rule his lands?

He shook his head in frustration. Four years away had filled his head with such romanticism; his place was surely as the future baron.

A strange sound interrupted his thoughts, echoing eerily in the chamber. He placed the torch on the floor and doused its flame with his foot. He peered out into the gloom, around the corner of the sixth corridor and into the wide central hall.

A vestige of light was entering the chamber from the base of the stairwell. Just enough illumination was provided to see a figure emerging from behind one of the statues. Aldred's heart leapt into his mouth as he caught a glimpse of the pale features of Quigor. What on earth was the Azaguntan doing down in the crypt?

Quigor shuffled out into the centre of the hall, looking furtive and rat-like. He turned to walk towards the stairwell then paused and slowly turned to look over towards where Aldred was concealed.

Aldred caught his breath, feeling a trickle of sweat worm down his spine. He was certain Quigor could not see him yet he still shook.

After a minute, Quigor turned and slipped off towards the stairwell leaving Aldred alone in the crypt. The statues stared at him, as if to call him craven at his decision to hide. He emerged shivering, and then curiosity pulled him towards the statue that Quigor had just emerged around. It was smoothed by time and lichen had settled across the face giving the stone sentinel a ghoulish demeanour.

Behind the statue was an alcove, a recess with a worn granite seat. There was nothing else. Aldred looked in confusion; had Quigor simply being skulking in the shadows of the Castle or was he missing something?

Unbidden, he had a recall of his mother's bedtime stories. A lump came to his throat as he remembered her soft scent and smile. She had spoken of Blackstone Castle in its earliest days, in the Era of Empires. She had told of the Castle's many mysteries: hidden rooms and passages that wormed through the rock of the fortress, whose secrets died with the builders and architects.

His breathing quickened as he examined the alcove. The light was poor. His hands probed for any irregularity, either in the stonework or on the granite seat. The rock was chill and before long his fingers were sore and aching and his headache and nausea were sidling back.

Then Aldred's hand found a small divot under the seat. He pushed his fingers into it and there was an audible click. With a faint hiss the back wall of the alcove slid open, the rock door retracting into the stone wall. A faint red glow emanated from a passage on the other side. Aldred's heart was pounding like a blacksmith's hammer as he stepped over the seat and into the secret passage.

The passage was short and it emerged into a low ceilinged chamber. Crimson light shone from a dozen lanterns that seeped acrid smoke into the room. The scent of the smoke did little to conceal the stench of the chamber, the sickly sweet smell of rotted flesh. Aldred looked with wide eyes around the chamber.

The room was cluttered with stained oak tables and cupboards that leant against the walls. Every surface was home to a collection of dirty bottles, jars, bowls, tubes and tiny braziers. Aldred leaned to look at the filthy jars then recoiled in horror as he saw floating viscera suspended in turbid yellowish liquid.

He staggered back, his eyes overwhelmed by the sight of pickled animal foetuses, jars of long green tongues and bottles of unseeing eyeballs. He put down his hand to steady himself and felt it sink into something soft and slimy. Snatching his hand back he saw the dripping green of a goblin brain on a wooden board.

Aldred heaved and scrabbled to grab a bowl from the adjacent table. For a full minute he retched, sweat pouring from his face. It finally ceased and he took a deep breath then sat shaking on a seat in the centre of the chamber. It was plush and comfy with a high carved back. A small table adjacent to it was clear of the foul receptacles that characterised the rest of the room. On it was a platter of bread and cheese and a flagon of red wine. Aldred peered with concern: at least he thought it wine.

Aldred surveyed the rest of the room from the chair. It was square, with numerous alcoves and recesses secluded from the light of the lanterns. One corner was residence to a battered cauldron. The opposite corner contained a long table with the goblin corpse atop it. Then his eyes fixed on the contents of the third corner and he shuddered.

On a black stone plinth was sat a large book, bound in dark crimson leather. Aldred rose and approached the book and as he did so he brushed against a tall object covered in a black cloth.

Aldred jumped in terror as a loud squawk sang out and split the silence like an axe. Ingor's nuts, he cursed, there was a bird underneath the cloth. The caws rang out with hideous volume and Aldred turned to run; he did not relish Quigor returning to find him here.

The contents of the room blurred past as he bolted for the exit. He sprinted into the passageway with such speed that he could not stop before hitting the rock wall. The impact sent him sprawling, the breath expunged from his body. He gasped like a landed fish, whilst the calls of the bird mocked his helplessness.

Aldred gradually recaptured his lost breath and limping he returned to the passage. The door was closed and there was no apparent way of opening it from this side.

He was trapped in the lair of a necromancer.

***

Eight hours later and two hundred miles to the east the contrast to the silence of the crypt could not have been greater. The north Thetorian town of Silverton was in a riotous mood as the Spring Festival began in earnest. Thousands of lanterns twinkled in the streets of the mining town, lighting the hordes of revellers. The din of the drunk mixed with the pipes and horns of the street musicians.

The Silver Hills rose sharply above the town, a sombre brow frowning at the merriment. The eight thin towers of Baron Exiki's castle could be seen on the horizon, lit by the blue light of the waning Aquatonian moon. The castle was a parody of a baron whose obesity was legendary and who only infrequently deigned to honour his chief town with his corpulent presence.

Droves of entertainers would nonetheless migrate the eight miles to the castle to seek a fraction of his wealth, a product of the rich iron, silver, and even gold mines that populated the hills to the north.

Like a corpse would attract flies, the rich excesses of nobles compelled those with an eye for exploitation and money to Silverton and the merchant Kurgin Goldersen was no exception.

The dark figure who eased past the revellers that evening contemplated all this and more. He gravitated to the shadows, much of the time the only hint of his presence being his shaven head. He paused at a well in the square, observing eight drunken miners whose coarse songs were making a gaggle of girls blush and giggle.

Goldersen's buildings ran along a lane two streets removed from the main road south out of Silverton. The seven buildings were a mixture of heights and sizes. The shuttered windows were barred, giving some clue as to the fact they were used for the storage of Goldersen's vast stocks; not that any fool would seek to steal from a man whose influence ran from the world of commerce to the world of crime as smoothly as a river runs to the sea.

Yet the price for crime was that your opponents don't play by the rules, considered the black clad man. He slipped into an alleyway then leapt to grab a handhold on the irregular stone of the building. He scuttled like a spider up the wall then pulled himself onto the slope of the one storey roof. A twinge came into his left elbow from an old wound, the memento from a card game gone wrong four years ago.

He bounded across the rooftops, leaping with ease from one to the next and landing with barely a sound. The clamour from the streets would allow him a large margin for error but he was a professional: this was his vocation, this was business.

He spotted the first guard as he peered over the edge of the two story roof he lay on. The guard was a big man, armoured in a chainmail hauberk and holding a spear. He stood alone at the edge of a small courtyard between three buildings. The dark man loosened a rope, threaded it through the eaves with a loop and then carefully lowered it.

The noose slipped around the guard's neck and the dark man rolled from the roof and dropped. The guard shot upwards with a splutter, his legs kicking spasmodically. The dark man landed and then held tightly onto the rope, his left foot neatly catching the shaft of the spear as it toppled, before easing it to the ground. Within a minute the jerking on the rope stopped and with some effort the black garbed man lowered the dead guard to the ground. He rolled him quickly behind a collection of six barrels.

The guard had left a crossbow propped against the wall which the dark killer procured. Then he slowly opened the door and entered.

There was a small hallway beyond which then opened into a large warehouse, some two stories high and thirty feet by fifty feet across. The interior was a maze of barrels, sacks, chests and crates, stacked into columns, like a temple to commerce. Sounds of laughter drifted along the avenues between the containers. Light was scanty, provided by a few smouldering lanterns. This suited him perfectly.

The two guards at the door at the far end of the warehouse were chatting as he crept around the corner, discussing the finer points of the cathouse they were to attend later that night. Had he been a kinder man the idea that their last thought may be of such carnal pleasures may have given him some joy. But he had never been accused of kindness, even by the few he had ever called friend.

The first guard died silently as the crossbow bolt transfixed his head to the wall; the second managed a gasp as the dark man was upon him, slicing his blade across the guard's neck. He crumpled to the floor with a grisly gurgle.

Wiping his blade on the cloth of the guard's trousers the dark figure pushed open the door into the next room. It was a small chamber, with a door on the far side and dark mahogany furniture cluttering its interior. Its sole occupant was a short bearded man dressed in a crimson silk shirt and black silk trousers. His stumpy digits glittered with gold and jewels. He rooted through a pile of papers on his desk. He glanced in irritation at the interruption.

"Who in the Pale's name are you?" Goldersen asked, his beady eyes glancing at his possible escape routes.

The dark man smiled, the pale scar on his face creasing. "But a thespian, treading the boards of the intricate saga of this life. A player. But a professional player, at that."

"Your visit surprises me then. I have only a ten-year old claret from the nether regions of Feldor to offer you."

"Your hospitality is not in question, sir. Sadly I refrain from drinking whilst I work, though it would please me immensely if you indulge yourself."

Goldersen shrugged and poured a goblet of the blood red liquid.

"Surely you mock me with talk of theatricals?"

The dark man stepped forwards, his cold eyes fixing Goldersen's.

"Indeed not, sir. I have long subscribed to the philosophy that we merely act on the whims and designs of the many gods that direct us through this mortal charade. One day our scene may be as doting husband or furious father, yet on another we may stand alone in the tranquility of a soliloquy, contemplating the purpose of our allotted time. For you I understand the higher purpose has been that of gold and as many men before you and after you, your desires have clashed with those far more devious."

Goldersen was shaking as he sipped. "We are all slave to the seductive touch of wealth, for all it is a mistress. Do not pretend you do it for another purpose, assassin. I will triple what they are paying you."

"Your final scene should perhaps be better spent recounting words that shall live beyond you, a condensation of a lifetime's wisdom. Instead you bow out to misguided attempts to divert the inevitable. The long rest comes to all, merchant, and for you it is now. There is no honour amongst thieves, it is said, but there is a code amongst brothers of the Silent Knife."

"Then tell me who? Who sent you so I may damn them with my last breath?"

"That is a far greater swan song! That's the spirit! 'I damn them as I die.' That would be a great line. A touch of panache. A bit of venom. Sadly I'm not at liberty to reveal my guild's client, but you could narrow it down to one of perhaps twenty given your many indiscretions over the years. One of your six sons, greedy for their inheritance? Your grasping wife? Another merchant, eager for your stock? Perhaps the king, bored at court with the parade of powdered wigs and wanting the metallic smell of blood on his hands? Who can be sure? All have roles and all will have their own grand exit."

"You sadist," Goldersen said and flung the goblet at the assassin. He bolted for the door, his feet slipping on the stone flags. With a sigh the dark man drew back his arm and threw his knife. It struck with a thud into Goldersen's spine; he floundered and then fell against the door.

The assassin strode forward as Goldersen lay twitching on the floor. He retrieved the goblet and filled it with wine then sipped with a surprising daintiness as he bent over the dying figure. He placed one gloved hand over Goldersen's mouth, his strong fingers sealing the airway. Goldersen feebly scrabbled at the arm as the assassin looked into the fading light of his eyes.

"I know, I know. I don't drink on the job. Yet it is festival night and the zenith of spring is upon us, the chill stroke of winter but a faded memory. No, don't fret, kind sir, there is no dint in the armour of my legendary professionalism. For, to be fair, the job's over. Please realise it was nothing personal. It was just business."

A mist had begun to form in the street when, five minutes later, he emerged in a differing garb. Gone were the dark clothes and in their stead the brighter outfit of a circus man. He patted revellers on their backs, all smiles and laughs, entertaining passing girls with his dexterity and juggling.

Life was a charade indeed.

Chapter 7 Escape into the Mist

Blossomstide 1924

The mist was heavy on the hillside above Silverton. They had made camp after a hard day's flight over the Silver Mountains and Sir Robert stood watch with a look of intense boredom on his face. Ekra-Hurr loitered at the fringes of Emelia's vision, like an itch that could not be scratched.

Jem was regaling the pair with some dull details on the centuries old feuding between Goldoria and Thetoria. Despite her weariness, Emelia was nervous about sleeping as she feared a recurrence of the dark dreams.

"Although the nation was born through an alliance of tribes against the threat of the goblins, the ogres and their half-ogre mage leader, it was always going to lead to descendants that would evolve differing philosophies. I mean the split from Goldoria was sixteen centuries ago, but the two countries have found an excuse to squabble ever since, like brothers arguing over a favourite toy. I suppose during the time of the Empires, when the silver and gold in the mountains was not strictly theirs to fight over they..."

Emelia jolted at Jem's words. "Jem, hang on. Sorry to interrupt."

Jem looked quizzically at Emelia.

"You mentioned a war with a half... ogre? Was that in Thetoria?"

"Yes. A half-ogre mage called Vildor raised an army of ogres and goblins that threatened the seven tribes. The tribes united under King Gilibrion, who became the first High King of what was then called Trimena. That was back in the Era of Legends."

"He was a mage? But I thought humans did not have magic until... well, the Era of Magic, centuries after that?"

"Again that's true. Ogres however are one of the races with intrinsic magical auras. Their magi have been wielding Dark-magic for centuries, well before human mages began to practice mysticism, whether elemental or dark. Why the curiosity about Dark-magic?"

"It's because she's a witch!" Ekra-Hurr called over.

Emelia scowled and lowered her voice. "It's all a bit strange, Jem. Dreams, I'm not really sure. To be fair I have met a Dark-mage twice now."

Both Jem and Hunor sat up at this.

"What do you mean you met a Dark-mage? When?" Hunor asked, looking at Jem with concern.

"The night that we got captured by the knights. I sort of bumped into one in a graveyard. I was all right though. I'd seen him before, years ago in Coonor, just before I met you two."

Jem's face was concerned. "That's why you looked so dishevelled when you caught up with me going into the inn. Why in Mortis's name did you not mention this to us?"

"Well to be fair, Jem, we were being battered around the tavern then hauled hundreds of miles away on the back of griffons. You were sulking and Hunor was busy not coming up with any way to get us out of this. Cap it all with the slightly worrying prospect of returning to servitude in shackles, hopefully still with my head, and you might appreciate why a tale of shadow slinging creeps might have slipped my mind."

Jem began to splutter a retort when Sir Robert approached. The mist had condensed to form tiny beads of moisture on his plate armour.

"Enough jabber about black magic you three; you'll bring a curse down on us. Thief," he asked, gesturing at Hunor, "your sword intrigues me. Why is a Thetorian cutpurse carrying around a Shorvorian blade? I understood they were only wielded by the Hârdan."

Hunor looked at the knight and Emelia noted a drawn look in his face, as if the memory was pained.

"I suppose you could say it was inherited, in a way. It's Shorvorian steel and magnate alloy, folded a thousand times and tempered in the ancient forges of the lonely isle. An old friend and mentor bequeathed it to me. He was the one who taught me to fight."

Sir Robert raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Magnate... god-silver... then it would be enchanted. So you say this Shorvorian taught you his fighting style also?"

Ekra-Hurr had wandered down the grassy slope and was stood by Hunor. He sneered and interrupted Hunor's reply.

"Clearly he left out the part about winning during his lessons. Listen not to his prattle, Sir Robert; he probably stole it from the grave of some Shorvorian warrior. No honour amongst thieves."

Emelia and Jem winced at the jibe, knowing Hunor's sensitivity about his deceased mentor.

Hunor leapt to his feet smashing his head into the mage's jaw. Ekra-Hurr staggered back, blood pouring from his torn lip as Hunor's hands were suddenly free from his bonds. Sir Robert reached for his sword, which was propped against the rock. The thief shoved the knight with all his strength.

Sir Robert overbalanced on the slope and with a cry tumbled back down the hill. Hunor whirled and kicked the Air-mage in the stomach. Ekra-Hurr folded and Hunor followed the kick with a swift knee to the face and two punches to the side of the head.

Emelia watched in astonishment as Hunor grabbed the satchel off the Air Mage and, with a wink, ran off into the mist. The three other knights came crashing onto the scene. Ekra-Hurr was spluttering shattered teeth and blood onto the ground. Sir Robert's shouts could be heard somewhere in the mists.

"In Torik's name, I am surrounded by fools," Lady Orla said. "Unhert, guard these two. If they as much as move then run them through. Minrik, get Robert and then pursue the thief. I shall attend to the mage."

"He'll be swift on foot, Captain," Minrik said.

"Then you'd better get to it."

Sir Minrik ran into the mists, his armour clanking. Twenty foot down the slope he found Robert trying to get to his feet. His sword lay on the grass beside him. Minrik heaved him to his feet and the pair descended the hill.

Ahead of them, Hunor slipped and slid down the hillside. He was running blind but then so were his pursuers. The mage's bag was slung over his shoulder and he had procured a small dagger from its depths. The incline was initially steep and treacherous in the gloom, but before long it evened out.

The base of the hill ran into a rough landscape of grass, boulders and bushes. His breath burned molten hot in his chest as he crashed through the foliage. His entire attention focused on the contours of the uneven land beneath his feet.

Such was his focus that he almost toppled headfirst down a ditch that appeared as if by magic from the grey air. About twenty feet away a stream ran across mossy stones. On the near side the blue moon had lit the mist sufficiently for Hunor to make out a path and at the edge of awareness he could hear sounds of revelry. His mind raced as he scrambled up the side of the ditch.

The thief paused on the road then glanced at the stream.

"Hunor, my lad, truly you are the Prince of Rogues," he said.

He ran to the edge of the stream and rummaged in the bag.

Two minutes later his task was done and he resumed his escape. In the distance he could hear the curses of the knights. Perhaps Sir Minrik would fall afoul of some ditch or divot or indeed a little present from the sheep that wandered the lands around here. He gauged their distance as about three hundred yards behind him. He began to run along the road, his feet darting between the fresh furrows of wagon wheels.

The mist was disorientating and his progress along the road was slow. All he could see was the road before and the road behind. It had gained a dreamlike quality, the sort of dream where you ran and ran yet never achieved the end of the trail. Jem's voice seemed to echo in his mind: the life of a vagabond, limping from one job to another, no purpose, no reason for being. Was this road some surreal trick of his mind? Was this a portent of how his life was, running to never arrive?

The dull glow of fires through the mist turned the monochrome world a golden hue. Hunor could hear laughter and the melodic voices of singers. Lyres and drums delivered a new comforting dimension of sound and Hunor slowed his pace.

He had entered a large camp that sat on either side of the road. The occupants were a bizarre collection of characters that trod the fine line between amusing and sinister. They milled around like an ant colony, each busy in their own small part of the carnival. Hunor smiled and nodded as he adjusted his walk from the scuttle of an escaping man to the swagger of a traveller.

A rotund lady approached him. She had a beard so large that Hunor feared he would be lost within it. With her strode a midget, his body a colourful collection of tattoos. They gave him the appearance of an animated painting.

"You lost, love? I haven't seen you in the troupe before. Sure I would have, with those puppy dog eyes," she said.

Hunor smiled his most charming grin.

"I've run away from me mum to join the circus, darling. How's about you show me the ropes?"

She giggled, flattered, but the tattooed dwarf looked at him with a strange glint in his eye. "Did you just say I was small?"

Hunor looked at him in confusion. The bearded lady shook her head in warning.

"Sorry, it's my accent," Hunor said. "My family are from further south in Thetoria originally. I beg your pardon for any mistake, sir."

"Because I could kill you. One punch. Take you down. You'd be so dead they'd use you to ford the stream with."

"No doubt, my friend, no doubt. I've been travelling a few days now; perhaps I could trouble you for a quick bite or a sip of ale?"

The pair led Hunor into the camp. Faces swirled around him in the smog, most indifferent to his presence. Two huge men walked past dressed in lion skins, the taint of goblin evident in their faces. A small man with no arms and legs was carried past, singing with drunken delight, his companion a black skinned Incandian.

"Fire-eater?" Hunor asked the dwarf.

"Good guess. No, he's an acrobat. The fire-eater is that scar ridden Artorian over by the wagon. Say... did you call me a stunty?"

Hunor sighed and began to apologise when he suddenly noticed a figure in the shadows of a caravan observing him. The thief paused and tried to get a better view of the hooded figure but all he could make out was a bald head and a pale scar running up the left cheek of his face.

A skinny man with a dozen earrings shoved a flagon of ale into his hands. Hunor raised the drink and began to slurp the murky ale with relish. His eyes darted over the crowds. The throng of bodies would give excellent cover and there were a hundred nooks and crannies to hide in. His escape was complete.

Hunor coughed as smoke began to blow in his face. A wind whipped up the fires. Cries of astonishment rang out as the mass of carnival folk scattered in the gale. A griffon descended into the middle of the camp. Hunor slipped from the crowd with a curse and ran towards the wagons at the edge of the camp.

Lady Orla's voice echoed, speaking in crisp Imperial.

"Circus folk, I seek a fugitive whom I am in the process of transferring under the name of the Eerian high council. He is a Thetorian thief—black garbed, six foot tall and with a ponytail."

"Fly back out, knight," the bearded lady said. "We owe you no favours, nor your stuck up kin. I'd welcome any fugitive from you with every hair in my beard!"

Orla waited for the jeers to die down before replying.

"Naturally I would not presume for such cooperation to be unrewarded. I have a bag of Eerian silver for the one who assists my request."

Hunor had made it to the steps of a red caravan, his head ducked low. He began tugging on its lock.

"Come on, come on. Just a set of clothes in my size and a secluded road to Silverton. That's all I ask."

It was then he realised that a pulsing blue glow had arisen around him.

The hairs on Hunor's neck rose and he quickly turned; Ekra-Hurr walked through the parting crowd towards him.

Ekra-Hurr yelled out, his words muffled by the swelling around his jaw. "Lady Orla, I have him."

Hunor grinned with a bravery he did not feel and closed his hand around the dagger in the bag.

"You have found me, but you don't have me."

"On the contrary, I most assuredly do," Ekra-Hurr said and clapped his hands together three times. A pulse of magical energy ripped the air with a deafening thunderclap.

Hunor flew back against the steps, his ears dulled by the noise. His chest ached from the impact and he struggled to get his breath. He felt a sudden wave of vertigo as he stood.

Ekra-Hurr was in front of him and Hunor lunged, the dagger in his hand. The Air-mage seemed to be laughing, though Hunor could not hear it. His attack slashed empty air. Then he felt a firm grasp on his shoulder and a sudden stench of ozone filled the air.

Crackling electricity wormed in rivulets of pure agony into Hunor and his body jerked and thrashed uncontrollably. Through the shroud of pain that surrounded him, Hunor could only see Ekra-Hurr's insane face.

The thief crumpled like a broken marionette to the muddy ground as Ekra-Hurr was pulled back by Lady Orla.

"That's enough. You're killing him."

As unconsciousness flowed over him he could see her stern face above him, with perhaps a flicker of concern on it.

***

The mist was sucking the warmth from Emelia. She had positioned herself as close to Jem as she felt able given that he was generally an individual whom struggled with personal contact of this nature.

Emelia broke the silence. Her head rested on Jem's non-burned shoulder.

"Why choose now to escape, Jem? Will he get far?"

"Hunor's good, Emelia, there's no doubt of that," Jem said. "It's a good night for natural cover and Silverton is close. It will be in the midst of the Spring Festival so if he gets that far they'll never catch him."

Unhert seemed to stir at this. His normally cheerful demeanour was suppressed, almost as if the escape had been a personal insult to him.

"Let us hope that he makes good his escape, Wild-mage. I bear him no malice but if he is caught by Sir Minrik or, worse, the Air-mage whom he battered so effectively, then I fear we shall be taking only two of you back to Coonor."

"But Lady Orla..." Emelia said.

"Is the captain of this mission and has taken a chance in coming to Thetoria. If this goes well she will no doubt receive accolade. If it does not, then... well, her reputation may suffer and her honour..."

"Honour?" Emelia said. "For goodness sake, you're talking about them killing Hunor. What sort of justice is it you Eerians follow?"

Unhert's pale cheeks flushed like poppies in the snow.

"Our justice is the oldest in the lands of Nurolia, young lady. It became the model for the Artorian Empire in its day and hence the lands you see around you. Dare I say even slaves and servants get a chance to speak at trial, although with your current performance I would advise prudence."

Emelia felt the anger rising within her. Her annoyance was augmented by the fact she liked Unhert. He was noble, kind and respectable: the very model of a knight. In truth she was furious at Hunor for escaping. If she were here alone, would he come back and rescue her?

Your fantasies about this knight are childish, Emelia, Emebaka mocked. It is his job to take you back to the so-called Eerian justice. It is the justice of the rich, meted out for their own interests. You are a housemaid who has mocked them with your escape; at best you will be breaking rocks chained to murderers and thieves.

I care not, Emelia retorted, though my friends are thieves they have shown me more life in these few years than ever I would have had if I had remained in the Keep.

Your friends, Emebaka griped, your friends? One friend has fled and you doubt as to whether he'll return to aid you. As for the other he is so wrapped up in his neat orderly world of legend and lore that he wouldn't see your obvious desires for him even if you paraded naked before him.

Enough! Emelia roared at Emebaka. How dare you! Jem is a good soul and my master and tutor. I respect him and his grace and his knowledge. Your twisted mind has warped what I have thought. I am not in love with him.

But Emebaka had gone silent in the face of Emelia's temper. The rage bubbled like a cauldron within her.

Five feet to Emelia's side a small rock rolled away and bounced down the hillside. Sir Unhert heard the noise and stood with his sword ready, surveying the mist.

Inside Emelia a tingle was arising. It was as if thousands of strands were being woven by an invisible spider in the air and connected to her. With a surge of excitement she realised the Pure Water must be wearing off.

But her hands were still tied and this precluded any coordinated magic use. Yet it occurred to her that perhaps she may still try wield it in an uncontrolled fashion, much in the way she had those years ago in Coonor. Emotion was the key; that had been Emebaka's strategy all along.

She thought at first of the Keep. She thought of Uthor and she thought of Sandila lying dead on the cobbles. She thought of Lord Ebon-Farr and how he would smugly hand out her just punishment. She thought of Sir Minrik and his vile attitude and she thought of the Air-mage torturing Jem. She imagined her shame at returning to Coonor then considered why should she be ashamed? She'd been sold by her own parents to a nation that deluded itself into thinking its policy of servitude was some form of charity. Spite flowed like lava through her veins and she could feel magic beginning to throb around her in the Web.

Sir Unhert was stood, sensing energy flowing in the mist. The forces built within her like a pressure cooker. Then, abruptly, into her mind's eye sprang the blue-skinned face of the half-ogre mage from her dreams. Once again she could feel his velvety skin and his hot passionate breath.

Her concentration broke and the pent up anger dissipated. Sir Unhert looked at Emelia sensing the break in the magical tension and realised that she was its source. In a flash he had moved before her and placed the tip of his sword on her neck.

"Don't force me into doing this, Emelia," he said.

An impulse to push forward onto the sword came into her mind. What would it feel like, staring into his eyes as her lifeblood poured down her neck? How long would the pain last? It would be far shorter than a lifetime in Iyrit Crag.

"Emelia, do as he says. Please," Jem said. "This isn't the way."

Her stubborn streak fading, Emelia slowly bowed her head in submission. Tears welled up in her eyes. She felt empty and drained.

The cry of a griffon overhead roused her as Lady Orla circled in the air. The mist swirled and turned an emerald green. It gradually coalesced into the bruised figure of Ekra-Hurr.

"Don't fear, little witch and warlock, your thief friend lives despite my wishes," he said. "Be grateful for Lady Orla's intervention."

With a crushing sensation of defeat Emelia watched Ekra-Hurr remove the bottle of Pure Water from his satchel. She wanted to scream and sob. Her magic was to leave her again.

She accepted the drops of the water on her tongue, the blade still at her throat. It tasted somehow different, somehow plain. Careful not to let her surprise show she watched as Jem took his dose, Unhert's sword now at his neck. To Jem's credit his astonishment passed like a shadow over his face, obvious only to those who knew the nuances of the prim mage.

The Pure Water had been switched.

***

Hunor had been dumped unceremoniously on the grass where Jem and Emelia sat.

"How is he?" Emelia asked.

"Alive. The mage did not hesitate to torture him. From what he says Hunor may well owe Lady Orla a favour."

"I can't see her needing to collect that in a hurry. The mage is insane. Why is he here with the knights? What's he really after?"

"I've wondered the same thing. In my experience that degree of malice only comes with greed or revenge. I hope it's the former."

"Me also, but I'm not so certain. By Torik, I can hardly think I'm that tired. Can you feel...?"

Jem shushed her, indicating the nearby Sir Unhert.

Emelia nodded and became silent. A wave of fatigue washed over her. The return of the magical sensation within her was oddly draining and the emotional plummet at the relief of seeing Hunor again made her realise how much she had been relying on adrenaline that night.

She slipped gradually into a deep sleep; at first a refreshing nothingness then a sporadic awareness of thought as she began to dream.

Emelia was in the Keep in Coonor walking down a long corridor. At the far end was the stained glass window, a blaze of distant colour, like the end of a rainbow.

She became aware of her feet becoming heavy. She noticed with horror that a stony hue was spreading from the walls and the floor onto her bare feet and from there trickling up her legs. She realised that soon she would become part of the building itself.

By the gods, this is like the dream of the beach and my father, she thought.

As she became more like the rock so the tapestries and statuettes that lined the walls of the passage began to come to life. A bust of Lord Ebon-Farr turned and snarled at her; she stifled a cry.

Emelia backed against a large painting whose colours had begun glowing with an intense light. The grey colour had spread like a mould over her abdomen and was now on her chest. She knew that soon she would be a statue, frozen in death for all time. She turned with great difficulty to look at the painting.

It was a large painting titled "Death in Erturia." So an Eerian painting of the Artorian Empire: how bizarre, thought Emelia. Its shimmering oil figures were in some sort of throne room, strewn with rubble and a noble looking figure was sat impassively on the throne with a crumpled corpse at his feet.

Emelia could feel the warmth radiating from the canvas. The heat was blissful, trickling through her body. The stone melted away from her as her ragged dress began to change. She noticed that her clothes had become liquid, running down her muscular body. The painting loomed and then instantly she was within it.

The throne room was huge and the artist had painted it in broad strokes giving it a blurred quality when one moved around it. Rows of carved marble columns soared to the vaulted ceiling. Statues of heroes were shattered like dolls on the black marble floor. Overturned braziers smouldered thick smoke into the chamber's air

The corpse lay on the floor next to where Emelia knelt. Emelia was dressed in a silk gown, a solid gold brooch on her breast and a platinum and jade tiara in her hair. Scattered around her were the torn bodies of a dozen elite guards, their features indistinct as if painted as an afterthought.

The dead body before her was richly adorned and a shimmer of holiness surrounded his glittering crown.

The figure on the throne was painted with as much detail as the fallen man. His garb was black satin interrupted by hints of silver. He radiated an aura of power from his shaded face. His eyes were oddly familiar, his lips tinted scarlet as if stained with blood. Yet despite the ghoulish appearance he was oddly charismatic and Emelia felt her pulse race as he addressed her.

"Princess, attend me. Leave your father now for he is beyond hearing your tears. I desire some light relief in this cascade of death," he said.

Emelia looked up tearfully and replied.

"My father, your Emperor, was a great man and your evil has robbed many lands of his wisdom and beneficence."

The pale man laughed. "Forgive me, Princess. I was under the impression that the soldiers of the Empire have slaughtered more in their time than the Plague of Dust. At least so I am told. I've been—shall we say—indisposed."

"May Egos and Tindor themselves convey your black soul to the Pale, you monster!"

"They'd be far back in the queue, jewel of Artoria. My soul has been bartered for like a merchant's carpet between Onor, Sirgos, Ingor and Nekra."

"Say not the names of evil in this palace, devil. What manner of Pale-spawn are you to invoke those demons so glibly?"

The dark robed man paused and then rose. His black robes flowed like oil as he strode towards Emelia. His face was deathly pale yet his eyes a vibrant blue.

"What manner of monster am I? I am the Darkmaster. I am a sorcerer. I am the past, the present and the future. I have risen once more as prophesised and great will be the sorrow of this mortal Empire. I am Vildor."

Emelia jolted at the name. This was the same mage as in her last dream but he was no longer a half-ogre. Why was he here in the Artorian Empire in this dream when he had lived two thousand years before?

"Well, Vildor, you will rue the day you crawled from under your rock and murdered my father. My two brothers will avenge their father and me if need be."

"Your brothers, Princess Coreline? Which brother would that be? The older one who staged this coup and is currently below us with his troop of rebels? Or your younger brother, the one who shudders with fear behind the gathering mages on the steps of this palace?"

"Those are lies, Prince of Evil," Emelia said, her voice trill. "Lies to turn me against my kin. The Empire's sorcerers will slay you and your vile servants; even the Codex allows them such action."

"Indeed it does, Princess. My, you are more than just a clothes horse! My own mages are not bound by such sensibilities, only the four schools of fools. Ah, my day was so less complicated than all this. Humans did not wield magic and everyone knew where they were. Now we have humans spraying fire storms, Galvorians raising magical towers of stone, Subaquans and humans squabbling over salvage. I hear, whilst I was dormant, that human magicians managed to annihilate two countries! All credit to you, the ogres never dreamt of death on such a scale. What a race!"

Emelia, or rather Princess Coreline, looked with hatred at Vildor.

"You speak as if you were not human, sir. It is your race as it is mine."

Vildor's smile chilled her to her marrow.

"Oh, but I am so much more than that now. Come, my friends, we shall prepare for this magical battle and perhaps a little instruction for the princess on our nature."

From the fringes of the throne room they came, dark shapes with snow white faces and red lips. The artist had painted them far in the background and horrifically as they neared Emelia their faces remained near featureless blobs of white.

"Xirik, my freshest disciple. Please demonstrate for the princess," said Vildor.

The blank faced figure retrieved a long sword from one of the dead guards and turning it around thrust it through his chest. Emelia screamed as the sword emerged from his back and he gasped, a mixture of pain and ecstasy, before standing very much alive before her.

"What are you? What in Egos's name are you?"

"We have many names," Vildor said, prowling around Emelia. "Certainly we are dark wizards, sorcerers who bring our magic from the black opals that have seared into our chests. Yet amongst that cohort we are the truest masters of evil. We have forsaken our eternal souls to taste the sweet nectar of immortality. We are the undead, feeding off the warmth and life that was once ours to hold. We are called by some the vampyr lords, by some the ghasts."

"You cannot be! That is but a tale told by wet nurses to frighten their children," Emelia said, sobbing.

"And frightened you should be, Princess," Vildor said. He stroked her cheek. A tingle of excitement ran down her.

Xirik approached the pair. "Word has arrived, my lord, from the usurper Prince Corillion. He claims the assembled mages have access to a prism."

"Then this should be a battle to be proud of my protégée. For whereas their prism has but four colours, ours has five."

From his robes Vildor brought forth a triangular prism, about the size of a large orange. It throbbed with magical energy, its blue, red, green and yellow crystal casting tiny lights around his hand. On the base Emelia could see a triangular fifth side of black crystal and the darkness was so deep that her eyes hurt to look at it.

Vildor paused as she looked at the crystal and something in his manner changed. His blue eyes met Emelia's as if he was seeing her in a different light.

"You have seen this crystal before, haven't you?" he asked.

Emelia felt a surge of panic and a strong need to escape. The painting around her felt claustrophobic and stifling. Her legs refused to move as Vildor came closer.

"We have to stop meeting this way. How are you in my dreams and my memories?" he said. He was very close now; his pale skin seemed almost translucent.

"Tell me where you have seen this crystal, my dear. I need to know." His voice was like silk in her ear, in her head, in her mind.

The surrounds began to melt away, the colours flowing together then separating in some arcane whirlpool. The throne room was gone and instead the ground beneath her was a green hill, the back drop mighty purple mountains. The painting was becoming Thetoria as Emelia looked on helplessly.

Out of nowhere a small figure appeared. About four foot tall its face was identical to Emelia's, down to the glittering eyes. Its hair was wild and rippled like water and its immature body was covered in green fish scales.

"Emelia, you stupid girl. Wake up. Now!" it shrieked. The voice had been within her head for so many years: it was Emebaka.

Vildor turned with anger in his face and lashed out at the impish creature. Emebaka ducked and then punched him square in the gut. He spluttered in pain, the prism flying from his grasp.

The world around her exploded in a cloud of paint and suddenly she was awake.

She was lying on the cool grass, her head inches from Hunor. Jem slept soundly at her other side.

Hunor was looking at her as the sweat ran down her forehead. "Another bad dream, love?" he asked.

Emelia nodded slowly. "They're really disturbing me at the moment, Hunor. I'd been having this one about being lost in a city of purple stone for months but now... well now they're... dark."

"If you ask Jem he'd probably analyse every part of it. Me—I don't think the content matters at all."

"So you don't think dreams matter?"

"It's not that, no. It's more the details are irrelevant—if they're some message sent by the gods then who are we to understand them? I reckon it's how they make you feel that is important."

"I don't understand."

"Well that's kind of my point. How does the dream make you feel—in your guts, in your heart, as you come around?"

"It... well, it made me feel scared, but excited and... curious too."

"So there's the message, the meaning. Sometimes you've got to go with your instincts, Emelia, go with how you feel. Forget the rational voice and... just act."

Emelia screwed her face up. "You all right, boss man?"

Hunor smiled his charming grin, "Apart from my insides feeling like the private spittoon of some syphilitic whore monger, yes. You knew I was coming back for you didn't you, love?"

"Yes... of course. We stick together don't we?"

"Sure we do. Get some rest, Emelia. Today was only the dress rehearsal. Tomorrow the plan comes together," Hunor said in a whisper.

Emelia lay her head back down, although not to sleep. She had an uneasy sense that escaping from the knights wasn't going to be their only problem.

Chapter 8 Darkness rising

Blossomstide 1924

The tribesman skidded on the marble floor as he rounded the corner at speed. He charged down the narrow gap between the vast bookshelves of the Great Library. In his hand he clutched a glittering silver dagger.

His breath seared in his chest as he slowed towards the end of the gap. Sweat coated his broad tattooed chest. Why had the sorcerer given him the weapon?

The shadows behind him coalesced into a slender shape. The ripple of the air disturbed the tribesman and he spun, dagger flashing. The pale figure side-stepped the attack; his hand swung up into the tribesman's jaw. The blow sent the tribesman spinning back into the bookshelf.

"Come on, savage, make me work for my food at least," the pale man said.

The tribesman hissed and stabbed again. The pale man evaded the dagger and grabbed the tribesman's arm. The sound of bone ripping through skin echoed down the narrow gap. The tribesman screamed, blood pouring from the wound. He jabbed the dagger again wildly and the blade plunged through the pale man's hand.

The moment was frozen, black blood trickling from the white palm. The pale man's laughter was shrill. He twisted his hand around, pulled the dagger from the tribesman's grip, and then slashed it across his throat.

Blood sprayed in a fan and the pale man stood in the shower of crimson droplets, his tongue protruded. The tribesman slumped back, sporadic twitches running through his dying body.

The pale man knelt and dragged his fingers through the growing pool of blood. He grasped the dagger and slid it from his palm with a shudder.

"Master, you are wounded," a voice said from behind him.

"A deserved wound, Xirik. I am still slow."

"Why did you give the barbarian the silver dagger?"

"To feel, Xirik. To sense. Four hundred years I was trapped beneath the palace, a spirit locked to a scorched collection of bones. No feeling, no sensations—simply an awareness."

Xirik stepped over the corpse of the tribesman and walked out into the centre of the library. The pale man strolled with him, regarding his bleeding palm with fascination.

"And do you know what I did during that time?"

"I... I am uncertain."

"I dreamt, Xirik. I dreamt. And my dreaming became my all. When your entire existence is dreaming, reality becomes defined by your mind alone. And, now I have returned, reality seems somewhat mediocre, somewhat bland."

"Did you perceive the passage of time, master? Did you sense the days above you?"

"Time has no meaning without reference. No, I did not. Was each of my dreams a heartbeat or a lifetime? I cannot tell you. But that in itself was nothing new—time does not pass normally before my eyes, even now. We stand—the ghasts—unaging in this world of decay."

"And if our plan is true, then all shall join us. All shall bow to Vildor."

Vildor and Xirik halted before a large table, covered in maps and tomes. Vildor tossed down the silver dagger onto the table with a clatter.

"Have you located the totems—the plague masks?" Vildor asked.

"They were where you said they would be. Fascinating objects—they reek of demonkind. But surely we do not need to invoke demons in our plan. The drain on your power..."

"May prove necessary."

"But, master, we have five other ghasts, a score of Dark-mages and an army of black knights at our disposal. The ogres of the Gyrt-Herr caste are also to join our plan."

"We require the totems because there is a flaw in your plan."

Xirik froze and gawped. Vildor could see a flicker of anger in Xirik's gaze. That was good.

"A flaw? I assure you... after two centuries of planning... what is the weakness?"

"In time. First tell me again of the Fall of the Empire."

Xirik gestured and two gold goblets materialised from the air. He passed one to Vildor who sipped the thick red contents. His free hand drifted to the opal in his sternum. Its surface was like ice.

"The Emperor's two sons fought for dominance of the Artorian Empire upon his death. He had foolishly continued the division of the Empire's territories into an east and west domain. The western Praetor was quite insane, and ambitious. He excavated the remnants of the prism that we had wielded during the coup two hundred years before."

"Aah, now this is important. Was it the exact same prism?"

"Not exactly. It had lost the black face—the one we had used at the end of the coup."

Vildor nodded, tapping the rim of the goblet on his teeth.

"You did well to survive that conflagration, Xirik. It was misjudged on my part—the demon I invoked was not easily bent to my will. No matter. So the prism that the Praetor of the West used was four sided, as I presume was the one that the Praetor of the East brought?"

"I was not here in Erturia," Xirik said. "It was during the time that I gave the Gift to Garin, in Keresh. But the magical explosion was felt throughout the Empire. The sky turned the colour of a rainbow and the world trembled. I assumed the prisms were destroyed."

"That may be an erroneous presumption. The legacy of the Cabal has a tendency to survive all manner of threats. And, in the wake of the Fall of the Empire, Artoria split into two countries?"

"Yes, master. North Artoria is an easy target—the king is an old fool and his court decadent and self-indulgent. South Artoria is the greater challenge. The queen is a formidable woman—but you are aware of the plans there."

"I am, and am content with them. Tell me, who do we have in Thetoria?"

"Thetoria? Several Dark-mages but none of the Gifted. Can I ask...?"

"It is one of the benefits of dreaming, Xirik. The most curious insights come to you. Now if there is nothing more...?"

"If I may, master? There is one more matter I thought would interest you. We have captured a druid near the Ebony Tower. I have had the knights bring him here."

Vildor drained his goblet and nodded. The shadows drifted from the corners of the room towards him.

"Let us go see what the child of Nolir has to say then, shall we?"

The pair melted into the shadows.

***

The bowl of spirits had turned a deep red with the blood soaked cloth. The fumes swirled around the dark room, mixing with the stench of rotted flesh.

Utrok had piled the four corpses by the window to vent the odours. Despite their near mummified states there were still some viscera with enough moisture to putrefy. The stink had not yet entranced the flies of Bulia to enter the room; even the insects had enough sense to avoid the air of evil that surrounded Utrok.

The pain from the severed arm was indescribable. He still felt the limb, still perceived the fingers and the hand. He continued to experience searing agony in the end of the arm but with no way to alleviate it. Each sliver of red-hot pain he grasped and hid away to return in kind to the little whore who had done this to him.

How had she beaten him? He had twenty years of dedication to Dark-magic, ten of which he had served in Xirik's black cult. He could dissolve flesh with a flick of his wrist, could drink the very essence of his victim's being. He was within a finger's breadth of the Gift, the ultimate accolade for the practitioner of the Dark-magic.

The Gift: the sacrifice of the eternal soul, the transformation to a ghast. Then such wounds, unless delivered by silver or magnate, would never trouble him again.

She had been trained, that was obvious. But by whom? He had seen the seeds of Wild-magic in her that night in Coonor four years ago. She had slid through the wall like it was smoke and into the arms of that Netreptan ranger. It had remained in his mind as nothing more than a curiosity; as far as he knew she was to go under the watchful eye of Inkas-Tarr, an old adversary of his.

The hate had kept him alive through the pain and the shock. The hate and the Dark-magic—its black energy sustaining his empty heart as he fled across Bulia and sought refuge.

The sound of boots in the alley outside the room jolted him from his thoughts. He dropped the cloth in the bowl and tightened the dressing on the stump. A golden funnel was on the table next to the bowl.

The door opened and a scrawny man entered. His eyes danced across the room and his nose curled in distaste.

"Haven't you shifted them bodies yet, Utrok?"

"Obviously not. It may have escaped your attention, Redern, but I only have one arm. Besides, I pay you for such menial tasks as waste disposal."

"I'm an entrepreneur, not an assassin. The Silent Knife does that business in Azagunta."

His eyes were flitting about between Utrok, the corpses and the window. Droplets of sweat dotted his forehead.

"Did you find her?"

"No. There's no sign. Seems this girl—Emelia is her name—is an apprentice to a Thetorian called Hunor and his partner Jem, a Wild-mage. They are well connected with the Northridge guild."

"The petty machinations of the thieves' guild are of little interest to me. Where have they gone?"

"No-one knows. Perhaps underground? Why do you want the girl? I know where you can get..."

"Idiot! I do not sully myself in carnal weakness. It is not your concern why I am interested in her. Now have you secured me passage?"

Redern licked his lips and began rummaging in his tunic. "Sure, sure. There's a ship leaving for Thetoria at high tide in an hour. I've sorted a berth for you..."

A gold coin clinked on the table. Redern's eyes widened.

"An Eerian guilder..." Utrok said.

Redern bolted for the door but Utrok was too quick. A shadow flew from his hand striking the thief in his back. A cloud of vaporised flesh erupted as he tumbled to the filthy floor.

Utrok was upon him, pressing his serrated knife at Redern's throat.

"Who gave you that, you little worm?"

"Oh... gods... please, Utrok," he sobbed. "I had no choice. It was a Fire-mage, an Eerian. Please don't..."

Utrok slid the knife across Redern's neck. The blood splashed on the floor followed by Redern's head.

A blasted Fire-mage earning his sash by hunting down Dark-mages; that was all he needed. Utrok grabbed his funnel and made for the window. He had to flee Bulia tonight and get across to Ligor in Thetoria. He needed blackest sorcery to regenerate his absent arm.

And then he would find the girl, wherever she was in the world, and make her pay.

***

To their credit the two black-armoured knights hardly flinched as Xirik and Vildor emerged from the shadows of the dungeon. The knights bowed and one moved to fetch their captain. The second stood awaiting orders.

"The druid, where is he being kept?" Xirik asked.

"The end cell, m'lord."

Xirik nodded and he prowled with Vildor down the corridor. They passed a half-dozen cells along the corridor. Vildor stopped abruptly and peered through a grill into an empty cell.

"The Artorian tracker and the Fire-mage—where are they?"

Xirik turned and slowly approached Vildor. "Master, I thought you knew. They... they escaped, not long after you came to the dungeons... just after your Return."

"Of all the prisoners to lose," Vildor yelled. "Where is the captain of this dungeon?"

"M'lord?" a voice said behind Vildor.

Vildor turned, his dark cloak swirling. A knight stood before him trembling.

"How did they escape?"

"We... we are not certain, m'lord. There was some animal down here that killed several knights. We have sent a party after them—with a craven hunter."

"Why are you concerned?" Xirik asked.

"I had much planned for them, Xirik. Get them back."

Xirik nodded and indicated for the captain to leave. Vildor stood head lowered, grinding his teeth.

The captain had managed three steps before Vildor struck. His arm punched out into the captain's back and the metal screeched as the pale hand ripped through it. Vildor lifted the captain into the air, blood pouring down his arm, then tossed him across the floor of the corridor. The captain jerked several times before becoming still.

Vildor stalked off down the corridor, little pools of blood marking his path.

The druid was slumped in the corner of a cell, heavy manacles around his neck, wrists and legs. His face was a mush of bruised and bloodied tissue. The spiral tattoos were interrupted by burns and cuts over his torso and belly.

The knight pulled him to his feet as Vildor and Xirik stood silently. A few slaps brought the druid back to consciousness.

"Druid—you have a name?" Vildor said.

"Farsan, fifth tier druid. You waste your time if you think I'll tell you anything, ghast."

"Oh, words are not the only way to discover what I wish. Why were you in the Wastes, near the Ebony Tower?"

"Go to the Pale."

"It's on my list. But I have been away for such a long time that I have one or two things to sort out first. One or two little mysteries to solve."

"You speak madness," Farsan said. Blood dribbled from his swollen lips.

"I am madness! Sanity is overrated, it limits one so. My mind has travelled to the fell niches of this world, contemplated sights that would drag your feeble intellect into gibbering lunacy. But my query is rather rational, all told. Xirik tells me that you spied upon us in the shape of a stag?"

"It is the gift of Nolir to the blessed. A divine power..."

"Yes, yes, blah, blah. Praise be to the saggy breasted harlot of nature. How can you utilise magic, as a human, without a gem of power?"

"It is a matter of faith. It comes from the soul, the heart..."

"The heart you say," Vildor said. He drove his hand into Farsan's chest, the bone fragmenting like glass. A spray of blood coated Xirik as Vildor ripped the beating heart out.

Vildor rolled it in his blood-soaked hands, watching as the pulsations faded. He put it to his mouth and began to chew it, the strips of muscle dangling down his chin.

"Master?" Xirik asked.

"There is something different, Xirik. A subtle taste, like an old friend. There is much more to this druid paradox than meets the eye. But we digress, my disciple. My dreams tell me our attentions should be directed east of the Khullian Mountains... to Thetoria. Tell me what young Garin has been plotting these last few years..."

Chapter 9 The Necromancer

Blossomstide 1924

Time had little meaning for Aldred in the secret chamber. He sat regarding his bloodied knuckles, slumped against the sealed door. Smears of blood on its surface marked his efforts to escape.

Aldred rubbed his sore eyes. His tears had eventually dried, much in the same way they had when mourning for his mother. The room was as silent as a tomb.

"Come on, Aldred," he said. "This is no way for a true Thetorian to act."

He got to his feet to explore the chamber further. On the tables were a selection of blades and sharp instruments. He picked one up and weighed it in his hand.

"Well that'll be a lot of use against Quigor, won't it?" Aldred said. "Steel against a necromancer. As useful as sand in a desert! Come on! Think less impetuously and more logically."

A chill came with the thought of being discovered by Quigor. It was much the same as that feeling of trepidation one would get as a child when you had broken some expensive parental possession and awaited the wrath of discovery.

He dismissed the fear and continued ferreting through the chamber. The numerous shady alcoves that bordered the rooms were a good choice for concealment.

"Let's hide some of the evidence first, eh?" he said to himself. His voice gave the room a sense of life.

His first move was to clean the silver bowl he had vomited in. A rudimentary sink was tucked in an alcove with a tarnished tap, presumably piped from the castle well. It creaked alarmingly as it sputtered water into the bowl.

"No point starving before Quigor arrives is there? Let's hope this is really wine."

Sipping from the goblet he strolled around the shelves, reading the grisly jars. A myriad collection of fantastical labels sent his mind spinning: ground Troll's teeth, gullet of Craven, hair of maid, heart of a spurned lover, breath of a fresh grave. A long trestle table held a collection of jars, tubes and bottles, full of brightly coloured liquids.

He had wandered to the plinth the book sat upon. Aldred realised it was bound with skin, stretched taut over the thick pages. The language was completely alien to him, its runes written in blue ink. The yellowed paper was decorated with unsettling illustrations: twisted representations of humans being tortured by tall blue creatures. There were pictures of corpses rising from graves and black beams pouring like liquid night from the hands of sorcerers.

Such was his fascination that he almost forgot to replace the open book to its original page. It depicted a blue stone held aloft with a dotted line passing to a body with all its organs showing.

"Oh father, what in Mortis's name are you letting Quigor do?"

He left the plinth and slumped in an alcove. The wine made him feel weary. He rested his head against the stone.

He had perhaps had a transient nap when he heard the click of the door opening and to his credit was instantly alert. His hand gripped the dagger he had taken from the table.

From his hiding place he saw Quigor enter the room, the reddish glow lighting his greasy face. Across the chamber he could see the door wide open.

Quigor seemed preoccupied and walked straight past his plush chair and diminished cheese-board. He took a large jar from a shelf and placed it beside his alchemy bottles on the table. He pulled out two eye balls, a severed nose and a long tongue, and then placed them on the table.

Quigor stepped back and held out his hands. Strange words came from his mouth, macabre and convoluted.

The collection of pickled flesh began to glow a purple colour and then rose into the air. Aldred stared in fascination. Although he had met a number of mages socially at the prince's functions, he had never seen true spells and as a consequence it was a greater shock when the floating eyes, nose and tongue began to speak.

"You have responded promptly to my message, Quigor," it said, the sounds slurred.

"Naturally, master, the voice was especially strong. I must commend your ability at dream-speak. I confess I am perturbed as to what warrants such a drain on your powers. Surely a black-hawk is more traditional?" Quigor said.

"This is true and less conspicuous than you rising at such a dark hour for the missive. However circumstance forced my hand. Word has come from Master Xirik that the Darkmaster himself has taken an interest in you."

Quigor grasped the table and his voice croaked as he spoke.

"The Darkmaster? Surely he has greater concerns as he heals from the Return than I? I mean, of course I am honoured, Master Garin, but... confused."

"The Darkmaster's reasons are ever his own, as are Xirik's. Suffice it to say that his attentions focus in part on Thetoria and on the crystal that you experiment with."

Quigor eyes darted about the chamber and Aldred wondered whether the horrible face could see this.

"Master, you know that the infernal crystal is resistant to every charm I have utilised to establish its true nature. It may be simply a lucky charm crafted to entertain some vacuous Eerian noble."

The face stared at Quigor, its bobbing eyeballs unrelenting in their observation of him. Aldred could see sweat trickling down the mage's forehead.

"Charm or no, the command is clear. I know not how the Darkmaster learnt of our experiments nor why he is interested in you, and not Ligor in Thetoria City or Ajacre in Nulor. You assured me that your tracks were well concealed those years ago."

"Indeed, Master. I sent assassins to silence the guildmaster that we had utilised for the procurement of this crystal and the other four blue stones. He was overseas in Azagunta, far removed from me. It was foolproof. I don't understand."

"No matter, it may yet play to our advantage. Xirik commands great support but such a service for the Darkmaster may swing things to our favour in the new order."

"But to take the crystal now? After all this work I have performed here to determine its nature. I will struggle to get the baron to allow me to have it. He keeps it well hidden and close."

"There can be no mistakes, Quigor. He commands you take the Elixir of Thrall so that he may sense your progress."

"The Elixir? Well, of course, if that is the command."

Quigor bowed whilst the magical glow around the floating pieces of flesh faded and they fell with a splatter onto the table.

Aldred emerged from a daze as the grisly spectacle ceased. He slipped from the alcove and moved towards the door, keeping low behind the cabinets.

He was ten feet from the door when the treacherous avian cawed loudly once more. Aldred's blood froze as Quigor whirled and stared in disbelief at the young Thetorian. Aldred bolted for the open door.

He never made it.

A flash of purple light engulfed him and it felt as if every nerve on his body was washed in acid at the same instant. He tumbled to the stone floor, skidding into the wall with a thud.

An instant that may have been an eternity passed before the excruciating burning stopped. Aldred found himself staring at the smiling Quigor.

"My lord, if you had given me a little notice I would have tidied up. I'll confess I did wonder where you had wandered off to yesterday but naively assumed you had gone searching for another celebration with your vacuous comrades. It would seem I underestimated you."

"You devil," Aldred said and clambered to his feet, his dagger glinting.

"I see four years in the big city haven't improved either your manners or your Thetorian temperament," Quigor said.

He gestured and the dagger in Aldred's hands transformed into a red snake. Aldred screamed and dropped the creature and it slithered to Quigor's feet then up his black robes.

"Now please be seated."

Aldred felt his body sear with pain. Tears sprang to his eyes as he staggered to the chair and collapsed into it.

Quigor leaned against one of the stained tables, rubbing his pale chin. His dark eyes bore into Aldred's.

"I will assume you were party to my communications with the master... which does now present a certain dilemma."

"Damn you and your slippery words, Quigor. My father will have you executed for this sorcery in our house."

Quigor laughed and shrugged.

"My dear little lord, how touching your trust in your father is. No—no—he is more than aware of my talents. That is why he asked his cousin to arrange my coming."

Aldred flushed, a creeping sense of dread arising in his gut. "The Pale take your lies and deceit."

"The Pale has an ample supply already, Aldred. Did you think your father such a saint? Ah, the faith of children. No, your father required me here to assist him in a spell, one he found transcribed in the ogre tome of sorcery. It's a vile book, you should read it. Bits of it make even me cringe!"

At that instant Aldred hated nothing in Nurolia the way he hated Quigor. If he had had his chance he would have risen and throttled the last breath from the sorcerer, savouring every last gasp and gurgle like the finest liquor. The fuel for such disdain was the simple fact that Aldred believed him.

"He would still never allow anything to happen to me."

"Indeed not. No, he still has love for you, although every look at your face drives a dagger into his heart. He sees your mother in every fibre of your being. None the less his desire for this magic is near total and I think he would not be distracted too long by your accidental demise. Well perhaps long enough for me to secure the crystal."

Aldred realised Quigor was pondering the method of his death.

"Quigor, please don't. I won't tell, I promise. I... I..."

"Sshh, don't fret, little lord. It won't be too painful. It's not something to rush into. I need a modicum of planning to make it appear an accident. Make peace with yourself and your god. When I return, you shall die."

The Azaguntan swirled his hand and muttered words of power. Black sorcery flowed from his robes through the air and onto Aldred. He shouted in panic as the oily substance flowed around him then solidified into bands of jet-black metal. It bound him to the chair as reliably as chains and manacles of iron.

The dark mage lifted down an hourglass from the cluttered shelf. He turned it over with a chuckle and the dark sand within it began to hiss through.

"When all the sand has passed, then I return."

Taking a small vial from the shelf as he strode past, the mage left the chamber.

Aldred stared at the grains of sand. His life was sifting away.

***

Holbek Gartson stretched as he leant against the shaft of his pike. It had been a long day and he relished the prospect of returning to his bed in the guards' quarters in Blackstone Castle. Duty at the front gate was always hectic, but today had been worse than normal. Lord Jerstis and his entourage had arrived for the feast and Holbek had been obliged to glance at every wagon that passed.

Despite his grumbles Holbek was proud of his post. He still carried within his chest a glimmer of the excitement he had first felt as a ten year old boy brought by his father—a cooper—to the mighty castle. He had been the envy of the other children in Eviksburg and when the chance came later to join the Baron's guard he had leapt at the opportunity.

Holbek turned and strode under the arch of the main gate and looked up at his castle of dreams. The curtain wall hailed from the time of the Artorians and drifted around a vast bailey. To the south of the bailey were the tournament grounds and tents, dormant until the Festival of the Sun in early summer. North of this area was a collection of cottages and workshops for some of the tradesman that chose not to live within the black walls of the castle. A small chapel dwelt amongst the buildings, the setting sun glinting off the spire.

The dwindling light framed the castle in flame. Holbek could see the distinct wings of the castle even from here. The large central wing was dominated by its four round towers, one at each corner. That was the oldest part: the original Eerian fortress built atop the smaller fort of the ancient Thetorians. To the north, south and east lower structures protruded, their walls less worn and their towers square with open roofs, not turrets. These were the Artorian additions. A bastion ran from the south wing and partly down the south-eastern slope.

The far side of Garan's Motte, the hill that the castle sat upon, was a steep drop to a small stretch of land between the base of the hill and the northern section of the curtain wall. On the north side of this wall ran the broad River Eviks, working its way from its source in the western mountains to the Bay of Thetoria in the south and east. Holbek could see why the castle had never fallen under attack, whether from goblin raiders or from squabbling barons.

A whistle broke Holbek's flight of fancy. His companion, a new lad brought in by the latest master-at-arms, was gesturing him over. The boy was too jumpy and his eyes were too close together, a sure sign of a disreputable heritage, Mrs. Gartson always said.

Six figures were approaching the gatehouse and Holbek could discern the glint of armour and sword pommels.

"Look lively, lads. Get the crossbows loaded."

Holbek could see that three of the figures were bound, one with manacles. They were lead roughly by a broad man in shining plate armour. By his side strode a female knight, the breeze blowing her grey hair behind her like smoke. She had two swords hung from her belt. Both knights were without helmets and wore loosened coifs around their necks like chainmail scarves. The final member of the group was a hooded man, lingering towards the rear of the party.

"In the name of Baron Enfarson, halt! State your purpose, if you wish to pass into the castle grounds," Holbek said.

To the guard's surprise it was the female knight who replied.

"You address Captain Orla Farvous, third lance of the Silver wing of the Knights of Air. I have journeyed with my men and our captives to this castle for an audience with Baron Enfarson."

Holbek did his best not to gawp.

"My lady, I beg your pardon. Is the... is the baron expecting you?"

"I am sure even a Thetorian watchman would appreciate the honour we bring upon this house from distant Eeria. Expected or not, I shall anticipate the audience forthwith."

With this declaration Lady Orla strode forth. Sir Minrik followed and dragged the prisoners with Ekra-Hurr behind him. Holbek looked in surprise and then jogged after the visitors.

"M'lady, please excuse me. Indeed such prestigious guests as you are a rarity. My watch is ended. Bestow me the privilege of walking you towards the castle on the Motte."

Lady Orla nodded and Holbek grabbed a lantern from a brass hook and propped his pike against the stone of the arch. He led them along the pebbled road that ran from the curtain wall's gatehouse towards the main castle on the Motte.

The unusual party progressed in silence. Holbek glanced at the dour knights, chewing his lip as he scurried by their side.

"M'lady, m'lord... I had always expected Knights of the Air to ride from the skies atop golden griffons."

"You are to be disappointed this eve then, guard," Sir Minrik said. "Our weary steeds are resting near the bridge east of your castle. We felt an unannounced arrival from the air may scare some of your faint hearted colleagues to loose a crossbow bolt or two."

"M'lord, I can assure you all of the baron's men are of the highest calibre," Holbek said.

"None the less, it would have been a discourtesy to not present ourselves in the first instance to the outer gate," Orla said.

Holbek nodded, his mind a whirl of protocol and etiquette. They were a touchy bunch these Eerian knights.

The group walked through the collection of cottages and small dwellings that sat either side of the road. Several children stopped their games to stare at the knights. Above them the silhouette of Blackstone Castle loomed.

"May I ask if any of you have visited the castle before?"

Holbek was surprised when the only reply came from one of the prisoners.

"I've been here once, mate, though it was a few years ago," Hunor said. "No, I know, I'm older than I look! It was when I was a lad. I came here with my father and brother. I can still remember the rush of excitement as I ran up this road. I thought this must be where Mortis himself rests his head."

Holbek smiled and said, "It fair takes your breath away, eh?"

"It does, mate, it does. Of course that was a few years back, when the baroness was still with us. I expect things have changed?"

"Sadly so," Holbek said. "Place is full of foreigners and southerners now, no offence meant. All sorts, even some bloody Azaguntans."

Hunor nodded with interest and caught Lady Orla's eye as he did so. She had pricked her ears up at the mention of the Azaguntans.

"So are you local, young man? Your accent seems familiar?" Holbek asked.

Hunor wrinkled his nose and said, "No, no. Way down south, nowhere you'd have heard about. Surprised that the baron..."

Sir Minrik cuffed him with a mailed hand on the side of his head making Holbek jump.

"Cease your prattle, Hunor. It's like having an insect trapped in my ear wax!"

Hunor glared at the broad knight and became silent. Holbek quickened the pace as they began to ascend the steeper section of road that lead to the castle's inner gatehouse.

***

Emelia kept knocking into her friends as they hiked upwards. An icy feeling gripped her gut as they neared the castle.

"It's just like the Keep," she said.

"The Eerians built it in the time of the First Empire," Jem replied.

"No, I mean that it has the same morose air about it. There's a pall surrounding the place."

Jem did not reply. They arrived at the second gatehouse and then passed under an iron portcullis and into the courtyard of the castle. It had stables to the right and forges to the left. They traversed the yard to the wide steps at the far end.

Jem isn't taking me seriously, Emelia thought. But I can feel it from the stones, like they are crying to me. There's an evil here.

And we walk into it with hands bound tight, Emebaka replied.

But with the Wild-magic pulsing again in my veins.

The steps ascended to a set of open oaken doors, decorated with the silver and black crest of the baron's house. The entrance hall was large and galleried with two stone staircases running up the left and right walls and a half dozen doors leading further into the castle's interior. Once more Emelia felt the memory of the Keep tugging at her mind.

A half-dozen guards were stationed on the first landing. They wore chainmail hauberks and round basinets with flat nose guards; their tunics were grey with a black castle emblem and Emelia could smell the scent of polish on their armour and swords.

"Is there some occasion?" she asked as they walked down the hallway towards a large set of doors.

Holbek jumped at her voice and paused. The knights, captives and hooded mage all halted. Orla looked with irritation at Emelia.

"The baron entertains Lord Jerstis, one of his oldest banner men and master of the lands near Greenford and the Falls of Sork. They travelled a good hundred miles to get here," Holbek said.

"Which is one good reason for him not to be disturbed," an accented voice said, from the shadows.

The colour drained from Holbek's ruddy face. A black robed figure stepped from the shade of a side passage, hunched as if the effort of addressing strangers in the castle was a weight upon his shoulders. His red hair was lank and greased back. Two dark featured guards stood behind him, their hands on their sword pommels.

"Master Quigor, I thought perhaps the baron would relish the presence of further noble guests," Holbek said.

Quigor's eyes slid over the group like grave mist. They lingered a touch longer on Emelia and she felt her skin crawl at his scrutiny.

"You are not paid to think, Captain Holbek, you are paid to guard. Certainly you are not paid to presume to know the baron's thoughts."

Orla did not bother to conceal her distaste. "Indeed, master Quigor, a servant may never truly presume to know a superior's mind. Speaking as a Lady of Eeria I am certain the baron will be forthcoming with some legendary Thetorian hospitality."

Orla strode forward abruptly, with Sir Minrik a fraction of a second later, such that Quigor and his two guards were shouldered aside. The knights and their captives reached the doors and pushed them open.

A cacophony greeted them as they advanced into the large hall. It was vast, with a vaulted ceiling from which three huge chandeliers were suspended. Rich tapestries and banners were hung from the curved columns that soared to the ceiling, conveying the feeling of walking into a gigantic tent.

At the far end of the hall was a dais. Two richly dressed figures sat on a pair of ornate thrones. Scattered at the fringes of the polished wooden floor were perhaps two-dozen Thetorians. Their attire varied from chainmail hauberks to voluminous white shirts and leather trousers. Emelia noted that almost all were armed.

In the centre of the hall two Thetorians were duelling with tournament blades. Both of the thrones' occupants had looks of intense boredom. As the six entered the Great Hall one of the duellists tumbled to the floor, blood streaming from a gash in his head. The victor roared and held his sword aloft.

However all attention in the room had focused on Orla, Sir Minrik and the four others. Holbek was pushed aside as Quigor stormed into the room. Emelia noted his two guards were no longer with him.

"Baron, I must beg your forgiveness. They were brought hither without my knowledge," Quigor said. He scuttled like a spider across the wide floor.

The baron sat upright with a look of intense curiosity. He was a solid man, early into his fifth decade, but still vital and strong. His curly brown hair had thinned at the top, yet ran thick down the sides and his beard was tinged with silver.

"Honourable knights, please forgive the churlish manners of my advisor. He is an Azaguntan after all and not versed in the art of courtesy," Baron Enfarson said. His voice was rich and charismatic and his jibe raised laughter in the hall.

"No apology is necessary, sir," Lady Orla said. "The tactless demeanour of the Isle of Thieves is renowned even in the heights of Eeria. Indeed our journey began in the rain spattered warrens of that land."

The tall man at Baron Enfarson's side smiled. "Then you are most welcome in the baron's halls, as you shall be in mine. It must be past my grandfather's day since our chambers have received Eerian knights. May we have the pleasure of your names?"

"It would be my delight, Lord Jerstis. I am Lady Orla Farvous, third lance of the Silver Wing, and my companion Sir Iyri Minrik, fourth lance of the Eerian Knights of Air. My other colleague is Ekra-Hurr, a scholar. I shall not trouble you with the details of our three captives."

"It is truly a shame my errant son is not present to witness your arrival," Baron Enfarson said. "I confess to some confusion as to why two Air Knights should be passing through my halls. I sense some purpose to your visit?"

"You are correct. We have come to reclaim the blue crystal that you had stolen from my uncle's residence in Coonor."

A gasp echoed around the hall at the statement. For the briefest of instants a flicker of recognition registered on the baron's face. Orla smiled.

"What slander is this, my lord? Eerian etiquette is a curious thing," Quigor said.

The baron laughed, perhaps a fraction too swiftly. "Ho, Jerstis, is this some jape you have arranged? Perhaps it is some comedy and drama hailing from the music halls of Kokis?"

Orla stood as still as the statues of the crypts. "It is no jest, Baron."

Emelia caught a blur of motion from the corner of her vision. The victorious duellist leapt forwards, drawing his sword. Lord Jerstis cried for him to hold but the Thetorian impetuousness was upon him.

"The honour of this house shall not be tarnished by your foreign lies! I shall deal with this as a Thetorian should," he yelled.

Yet Orla was no pampered fop clashing steel over the matter of some love quarrel. She moved like quicksilver as the youth thrust his sword towards her. Her longsword flashed from its scabbard and met the blow with a ringing parry. She stepped back and easily met two more slashes, then twisted her sword and sent the Thetorian's blade clattering to the floorboards. He looked aghast as she placed the tip of her sword to his chest.

Lady Orla lowered the blade and then, in a flash, punched the Thetorian in the face. His nose exploded as her mailed fist shattered it like a ripe tomato. He staggered back into the arms of his friends.

Orla gestured at Baron Enfarson with her sword.

"Surely Thetorian tradition is to duel only where there is dispute over some issue of honour. There is no dispute here, Baron Enfarson—you have my uncle's crystal."

The baron stood, placing his hand on his sword pommel. The action was mirrored by the two-dozen men in the room.

Hunor and Jem exchanged glances and even Sir Minrik was looking concerned; Emelia could see a sheen of sweat on his brow. Good, she thought, I hope he gets it first.

"Your knowledge of the Thetorian way is admirable, m'lady," Quigor said. "That is twice my baron stands accused. One would assume you have some evidence to support you in this accusation?"

"Speak swiftly, knight, for it is said only a fool stands before a Thetorian and a fight," Baron Enfarson said. A ripple of tense laughter rang around the room, like the rumble of distant thunder before a storm.

"A scroll bearing the baron's seal was witnessed by the thief who stole the blue crystal some four years ago, in the den of iniquity that is Azagunta," Orla said.

"Azagunta! Always Azagunta," Quigor said. "Was it a reputable thief then?"

"I've always thought so," Hunor piped up. "I mean obviously a lad's got to make a living. A bit o' this, bit o' that. But I've never screwed over someone who didn't deserve it, have I, Jem? Well, apart from that mad old fruit in Feldoni..."

Jem was shaking his head at Hunor and Orla was glaring. Minrik mouthed that Hunor's death was going to be very painful.

Baron Enfarson looked in disbelief at Hunor.

"You would come to stain my honour with the word of a cutpurse, knight? Has the wind god blown the sense from you? Believe me when I say that should you and your men survive the impending duel, then the ransom for your Order to pay will be more than your weight in Eerian magnate!"

Emelia too was astonished that the knight would hinge a potential diplomatic nightmare on the word of Hunor. She would think twice about lending him twenty Azaguntan groats.

"You stain your own honour, sir. The thief simply serves to point us in the direction of the quarry—we have more than one hound," Orla said.

Ekra-Hurr pulled back his hood to reveal his tattooed head. Quigor's expression fell as the Air-mage swept an arm in the air and magic glittered.

The base of the baron's throne glowed blue and a small compartment popped open.

Emelia got a sudden wrench in her gut.

"Jem, Hunor, something terrible is going to happen. Please, we need to get away."

In her head Emebaka was screaming. Emelia you need to get free, get out of here, now, NOW!

The moment seemed suspended in time, like the image captured on the darkness when one's eyes first close in bright light. Then the scene changed with terrifying speed.

Quigor moaned and his head and body curled, like paper thrown on a fire. His skin stretched as the bones of his face thrust forwards. His flesh became thinner and thinner until with a ripping noise it split, spattering a cloud of blood across the horrified Lord Jerstis.

The demon that stood before the throne in Quigor's stead had a shining metal head that dripped with blood and slime. Emelia felt a wrench of nausea as she realised it had the beaked design of a plague mask. From the black robes protruded two metallic hands: the left with long metal talons coated in rust, the right with a vicious metal hook. Shreds of Quigor's macerated flesh spattered on the floor.

The creature swept its glassy gaze over the hall and spoke with a shrill voice.

"I am Black Bile, first of the humours. I claim the blue crystal and the soul of any who stand before me."

Emelia had been right. Escaping from the knights was the least of their worries now.

Chapter 10 The Feast of Blood

Blossomstide 1924

Emelia watched transfixed as the humour moved towards the baron and Lord Jerstis. She stood with Jem and Hunor, all their hands still bound. Sir Minrik was positioned to the right of the group. Lady Orla had stepped several paces to the left, leaving Ekra-Hurr in the centre, the thrones forty feet before him and the door perhaps another forty behind.

"The crystal, mortal, or your flesh will adorn my shoulders like a widow's shawl," the humour said.

"You shall have no shoulders to bear it, Pale-spawn," Lord Jerstis said.

In a blur he had drawn his longsword and struck a mighty blow atop the demon's helmet-like head.

Green sparks erupted as the blade scraped off the creature's skull. The humour swung its hook with ferocious speed into Jerstis's armoured chest. The wicked barb plunged deep and erupted from his back in a cloud of blood. The demon flicked its arm and Lord Jerstis slumped dead on the throne.

A symphony of drawing steel rang around the hall. Baron Enfarson leapt to his feet, arms raised. "No! Hold your blades. We cannot battle this demon."

Hunor tugged on the bonds to get Emelia and Jem's attention. He nodded to the sword that had fallen on the floor two minutes earlier. They began to edge towards it, capitalising upon Sir Minrik's distraction.

Baron Enfarson was pleading to the creature whose glass eyes were like a window onto the Pale.

"Quigor, please. Recall our deal. Our plan. It was to make us magnificent. We would have lived for an age. Quigor, I know you are inside there."

"Stall me not, mortal. The crystal shall earn you your wish."

Enfarson reached into the drawer and pulled the crystal out. He held aloft the glowing blue crystal that Emelia had seen four years ago at the Keep.

"Blessed Torik, it's beautiful," she said. "Can you hear its sound? It's so pure."

"Come on, love," Hunor said. "This is no time for your daydreams. All I can hear is my bowels loosening."

Baron Enfarson, his hands shaking, held the crystal forth and the humour grasped it with its metallic claw. Little fragments of rust fell like pollen. The whole chamber held its collective breath.

"The crystal has been given freely, as is the way."

With a sudden swing the humour embedded the hook into the baron's belly. Baron Enfarson gasped and scrabbled feebly at the black robes of the demon as it twisted the hook upwards and into his thorax.

"Your wish. Your reward," it said.

The baron clung to the humour as his lifeblood ran in a torrent onto its robes. A halo of green fire seemed to dance around his head as he died, in contrast to the light of the blue crystal in the creature's claw. The humour held it aloft in delight.

The room erupted into chaos as the assembled Thetorians roared in shock and anger.

"Vile monster of the Pale," Ekra-Hurr said. "Four years of my life have been dedicated to that crystal and you shall not rob me of my goal. Its power will be mine!"

Ekra-Hurr's robes lifted around him as he summoned a hurricane. The air blasted forwards in a funnel towards the humour and sent it staggering against the steps of the dais. The baron's corpse flew over the throne, a trail of dark blood in its wake.

"Jem, it dropped the crystal," Emelia said. The humour was struggling against the gale.

Sir Minrik had released their rope and was running towards the demon. Lady Orla was on the far side of Ekra-Hurr, perhaps twenty feet away. Jem grabbed Emelia and pulled her down.

Hunor had grasped the sword. Jem was furiously rubbing the rope against the edge of the blade.

"Let's get your rope off first then you can spring these bloody manacles of mine," Hunor said.

"What in Torik's darkest storm is that thing, Jem?" Emelia yelled above the din of the winds. Either side of them courtiers ran past, heading towards the closed double doors.

"I am uncertain. In all likelihood it is a demon of the Pale, though how it comes to be here is anyone's conjecture. If it is a true demon then only magic or magnate may defeat it; normal steel will be as sticks to a rock."

Hunor pulled them further to the side of the hall into the cover of a billowing red drape. Jem's hands were almost loose.

"Whatever it is it's not our problem. Let's chalk this one down to experience and get out of here," Hunor said.

Lightning coursed from Ekra-Hurr, creating rivulets of blue electricity around the demon. Behind Ekra-Hurr a dozen courtiers scrambled for the door, crouching low and hoping that his magical powers would provide them with the necessary cover.

It was not to be so. The humour flung its metallic claw against the wind. From the depths of the black robes erupted a cascade of shrapnel. The edges shone golden as they blasted in a cone of death at Ekra-Hurr and the hapless Thetorians behind him.

Ekra-Hurr's sneer dissolved as the blades cut him to shreds and rained metallic death on all those behind him. Emelia averted her eyes, a splash of bile in her mouth as Ekra-Hurr's minced corpse hurtled backwards into the dozen screaming courtiers. Within seconds none were capable of any sound, as a mound of corpses piled at the doors.

Jem's hands were free and he rose and began to cast a spell.

Twenty feet before them Sir Minrik and six Thetorians were charging the creature as it turned its glassy eyes towards them. Once more it thrust its metal claw forth, in the direction of Minrik. The knight's reflexes saved him as he curled into a ball, turning his armoured back to protect the exposed areas. The Thetorians were not so lucky and the shards tore them apart.

Hunor pulled Emelia reflexively to him, his arm going over her head as the blades hissed towards the three. They abruptly stopped in mid-air. A curtain of blood ran down the magical shield that Jem had cast.

Through the bloody screen Emelia could see the humour was upon Sir Minrik. The knight rose and struck his sword uselessly into the demon's neck. Lady Orla was too far away to aid him.

A sharp pain distracted her as Hunor freed her. The warmth of magic tingled in her hands. In her mind's eye she saw the energy strands of the Web around Hunor's hands and with a tug and twist felt the manacles split and groan then fall to the floor.

"Cheers, love. Now let's find a wall to jump through," Hunor said, rubbing his wrists.

"But the crystal, Hunor, we can't let that thing take it," Emelia replied.

Hunor shook his head, his eyebrows arched. Jem was stood above them, maintaining his shield.

"Are you insane? That creature's making pies out of every living thing in this room and I for one don't plan on being the main course at the next party in the depths of the Pale."

Emelia looked back at Minrik fighting the demon. Every instinct and Emebaka's constant screaming urged her to flee with Hunor. This wasn't their problem; they were thieves and freebooters. Yet another voice spoke differently and as she glanced up at Jem, his long serious face furrowed in concentration, she realised that it was like his. Was this the purpose he had spoken of those nights ago? Was it time to stop running and to stand her ground?

The humour grabbed Sir Minrik with its metal claw, the talons screeching on his plate armour. Its hook punched into the warrior's hip and he gasped in pain as bone and blood burst forth. Lady Orla was yelling as she ran, yet she was still too far away to help her comrade.

The humour's face warped and a huge slavering mouth appeared, plumes of thick smoke spiralling from its corners. Sir Minrik stared in horror as a fountain of black liquid sprayed forth into his face. The tarry substance hissed as it dissolved his head in an instant.

Lady Orla was finally upon it, her blade flashing and fury in her eyes.

"Base demon! Minrik's soul will have cost you dear. The sword of my grandfather is not so easily put aside. Bite true, Ungrásst, bite true."

Ungrásst swung into the humour's side. The creature reeled as foul black blood spattered across the floor and Minrik's headless corpse. The humour spun and slashed its hook towards Orla; it clattered off her sword in a shower of sparks.

Emelia turned to her friends.

"We can't leave her. On her own she'll fall to the creature and it will get the blue crystal."

"Emelia, it's a demon," Hunor said. "We'll end up the same way. Little Miss Tin-knickers took her chances the day she clapped us in irons for her bosses. We owe her nothing. We need to go now."

Emelia looked to Jem with her heart sinking. Despite his intellect and wisdom he almost always deferred to Hunor's survival instinct in these situations.

Emelia touched his arm softly.

"Jem... please."

Jem looked at her, his hazel eyes a window of turmoil. Emelia heard a clatter as Orla was knocked backwards by the impact of the hook on her sword. The humour's face warped once more and the dreadful mouth reappeared.

"Your soul will be especially sweet this eve, Lady Farvous," it said.

"It's time to make a stand, Hunor. Time to find our higher purpose," Jem said to his friend.

Jem collapsed the magical shield with a gesture, the suspended metal shards tumbling to the floor. The air shimmered before him as a ripple of magical force blasted into the humour.

The impact sent it reeling ten feet backwards; the spurt of bile from its maw flew upwards and hissed against the drapes. Lady Orla regained her footing and looked in astonishment at Jem.

Hunor scowled at Jem and Emelia then ran across the hall towards Lady Orla. He tackled her and the two rolled across the floor as a rain of metal shards thudded into the area where she had stood moments before. The humour began to move towards Jem, an aura of magic around its dark form. Sweat poured down Jem's pale brow as he pushed with all his magical might against the oncoming demon.

Orla stared into Hunor's face as he lay atop her.

"My thanks," she muttered. "Can you get off me now?"

"Apologies, m'lady. Old habits die hard," Hunor said with a grin.

He rolled off the knight and stood, with her second sword in his hand. It shone a pale blue as he pulled Orla to her feet.

"It's magnate alloy. I assume your sword Ungrásst is too?"

"You are correct, it was forged in the days of the Empire. Let us restore some glory to these halls for I fear your friend is weakening."

Emelia had moved a short distance from Jem and prepared her own magic. Jem was weakening as the humour stomped inexorably towards him, its hook dripping blood.

The glow of the blue crystal caught her eye. It lay at the far side of the dais where the demon had dropped it.

"Well, Hunor, you said to be impulsive... to go with my gut," she said.

Emelia gestured and the crystal flew across the room to her hand. She sensed a beautiful sound in her mind as it touched her hands, like the perfect ring of a bell. For an instant she was unaware of the devastation around her and images flickered in her brain; a black mountain smouldering with fire, a vast green forest alive with the sounds of nature, an overgrown temple with a purple sky above it.

Emebaka jolted her consciousness back from her daydream. Emelia, focus your mind. The demon...

The humour had seen her procure the crystal and it changed direction abruptly. Jem, focused so intensely on repelling the demon, stumbled forward off-balance. The humour sprang towards Emelia whilst spraying a stream of blades at Jem.

Jem's reactions saved him as he dove. His slim body hit the floor and continued through it as if it were water. Despite his speed the fragments tore across his back as he descended.

Emelia tried to focus her mind on casting a shield spell but fear overwhelmed her. The humour was upon her and she recoiled in horror at the smooth metal plague mask, flecked with the blood and tissue of the slain. She felt a hard blow on her shoulder; a warm feeling flowed down her chest.

The demon's claw had passed through her leather armour as if it were paper and impaled her shoulder and chest. A wave of sickness rushed through her as she saw her blood running in little streams down its wrist. The creature lifted her off the ground.

Through the haze of pain she could see the demon's slavering mouth grow once more.

Oh Torik, she thought, guide my soul to your arms. Let Sandila be waiting with her wide smile and warm laugh.

Then Hunor was next to her, the sword that she had wielded for the last four years in his hands. He twisted as he struck, the sword slicing through the talons penetrating Emelia's shoulder. With his free hand he jammed a small bottle into the humour's mouth.

Emelia was aware of a jolt as she struck the floor. She could see the demon screaming and clutching its mouth as plumes of smoke billowed forth. Hunor was besides her, pulling her away.

"Goldorian Pure Water," Hunor said as he pulled her away. "Not the best for demon stomachs. I thought it a waste to pour it in the river so I slipped it in my sneakiest pocket."

The humour flailed backwards as Lady Orla charged forth.

"For Eeria! For the fallen!"

Her blow was mighty, driven by anger and pride. The sword sliced through the monster's head and it exploded in a shower of black blood, bile and brain. A monstrous scream echoed around the chamber as a spiral of evil energy surged from the spurting stump and then blasted to the ceiling. The humour's body convulsed twice then crumpled to the floor.

Emelia fought to stay conscious as Hunor pressed on her wound. Her mouth was so dry that the words croaked from her throat.

"Jem? Is Jem alive?" she gasped.

Hunor smiled and nodded. "Looks like he's had a roll in the hay with the tiger lady of Arax but he'll be fine. You rest, love, we've still got to get out of here."

Emelia nuzzled into Hunor's chest feeling the comforting smell of leather and sweat as she slipped into darkness.

***

Aldred's fears had ebbed as the sands slid through the hourglass. It is said of a condemned man that there comes a point when he realises his demise is inevitable and with that epiphany comes a sense of tranquillity. Aldred had turned his remaining hours towards reflecting on his life.

The gloom was near total and he strained to observe the sand as it slid towards his time of doom. The chamber was so silent that he found himself whistling an old melody: The High King's Cry. He would die with pride like a true Thetorian, without tears and without fear. He would look Quigor unwaveringly in the eye and curse the necromancer with his last breath.

Aldred was completely unprepared for the scream. It struck him like a punch in the face, blaring in the confines of the dank chamber. He was faintly aware that he too had begun to yell, as if his own noise may dull the searing discomfort in his head.

With a crash bottles around the room exploded, showering their grisly contents onto the wooden tables and shelves. Viscera spattered as green and purple liquor rained around him and his yell was replaced by gagging as the stench of putrid tissue assailed his nostrils.

Aldred fell forward off the chair and scrabbled for a table edge to grasp as he heaved and coughed in the acidic clouds. With a tingle of excitement he realised he was free: the bonds had dissolved into tiny clouds of smoke.

An abrupt flash of heat seared against his face as a pool of fizzing liquid ignited. Within seconds the blaze was spreading across the wooden shelves. Oily smoke rolled forth like an avalanche.

Aldred ripped the arm from his jacket, ran to the sink and soaked the material. He wrapped the damp cloth around his mouth and squinted through the smoke to locate the exit.

He crawled along the floor, the smoke filling the chamber above him. Smaller fires had caught and now spread to a dissected goblin corpse. It combusted with ease and was soon a blazing funeral pyre.

Aldred reached the small corridor that lead to the concealed exit. He could see nothing as he scrambled along the cold stone until he felt the end of the passage. His fingers probed for the hidden catch that must spring the door. His head was swimming and the world around him seemed strangely distant and unreal. He was so very, very tired and weak. It would be easy to curl up and sleep.

Aldred, wake up.

The voice was angelic and pure. It sang out like a finger circling the rim of a crystal goblet.

Aldred, let me guide your hands.

With supreme effort he rose and pushed his hands against the unrelenting stone. Damn Quigor! Aldred was a Thetorian and they did not die meekly. They did not go into the night drooling in their dotage. They kicked and screamed and fought to the last breath, proud and foolish to the end.

That's my son; now push your hand to the left.

He felt the click.

The door slid open and cold air washed over his face like the waters of baptism. He stumbled forward gasping, dragging the air into his aching lungs.

For five minutes he could do little other than cough yet they were the best five minutes of his life. He savoured every breath as if it were his last. Through the blotchiness of his vision he caught sight of his mother's statue. Just for an instant he fancied he saw a white luminescence around its head.

"Mortis be praised," he said. His voice echoed in the gloomy crypt. "How in the Pale did I get out of that one?"

A fit of giggles overcame him and then a few tears before he stood and wiped the soot from his face.

"Now, master Quigor, let us hear your declarations of innocence as I shove a sword through your black heart."

He took the stairs two at a time. Vengeance powered his limbs as he ascended to the main castle.

Aldred emerged onto the ground floor close to the barracks. He paused by a grand archway that was flanked by two suits of vintage Artorian armour. Aldred pulled loose the shield and sword.

It wasn't until he reached a set of stairs that lead to the first floor and his father's hall that the red mist began to dissipate. He paused halfway up the stairs.

Certainly I must face Quigor; after all the mage has vowed my death, he thought. The Azaguntan is evil—a necromancer—and all will surely see that, though most of the proof is now ash. But what of my father? Quigor said my father knew of his dark secrets. Surely that was all lies? And even if there were some truth to it, and I accept dark magic is terrible, my father would never condone my murder.

Wracked by indecision he was almost knocked over by five guards running up the stairs.

"Lord Aldred, thank Mortis you are here. There is battle afoot in the great hall. My lord, it's your father, and Lord Jerstis."

"Damn it, man, why do you stand jabbering to me? Let us go to their aid," Aldred said, gesturing with his sword.

He tore up the stairs and into the corridor leading to the great hall. A dozen castle guards were smashing a statue against the huge doors as a makeshift battering ram. A captain, one of the few older soldiers that Aldred still knew, saw him and turned to explain.

"We could hear screams and sounds of fighting, my lord. Not twenty minutes ago some visitors came: knights from Eeria and other folk. The baron and Lord Jerstis received them and then the screaming started. The doors are blocked by something, so we're trying to smash it down."

Aldred nodded then asked, "And Quigor?"

"Well I expect he's in with your father, as always. Why?"

"I can guarantee any mischief will be down to him, Captain, and whatever friends he's chosen to bring for his malign purpose."

The captain looked stunned at the venom in Aldred's voice. "Pardon me asking, m'lord, but are you feeling all right? You look a bit pale."

Aldred's reply was lost in a splinter of wood as the statue annihilated a section of door. The soldiers' cheers were immediately stifled as three corpses tumbled though the rent, their flesh hanging in bloody strips.

"Pull them out of the way so we can get through. Hurry, we must get to the baron," the captain said.

Most of the guards began tugging the corpses through the hole as two others began widening the gap with their swords. Within seconds the jagged wood edges were dripping in blood.

One by one they pulled the bodies through until towards ten were extracted and enough room was made for the guards to get through. Aldred felt a hand pulling his leg and he glanced down.

One of the mutilated men was still alive, albeit barely. Huge wounds decorated his chest and his chainmail was tattered. Aldred recognised him as Holbek Gartson, one of the longest serving guards at the castle. He was near death.

Aldred knelt by the dying soldier and rested his bloodied head on his lap.

"Holbek? It's me, Aldred Enfarson. Don't move—we'll get some help."

Little bubbles came from Holbek's lips and a faint mumble. Aldred realised the guard was trying to tell him something. He leant closer.

"Too... late... m'lord. All dead."

Tears stung Aldred's eyes: his father must be dead.

"Holbek, tell me. Tell me what happened. Who did this?"

Holbek coughed and dark blood ran from his mouth. With supreme effort he replied, "Demon. Quigor. Murdered... baron. Black... magic. Blue.... crystal. Hunor. Hunor... came when a boy... Barrowlands."

The guard's head slumped back onto Aldred's lap as a look of peace came over his face. Aldred gently moved Holbek's head then stood. He took a deep breath in anticipation of the scene he was to face and ducked through the gap and into the hall.

Chapter 11 Blackstone Bridge

Blossomstide 1924

The surf splashed against Emelia's legs as she ran giggling down the white beach. At her side was her sister whose blonde curly hair shone in the sunlight.

She came to a halt, her chest aching. Emelia looked to the sea in confusion. Why was she here again? She was dressed in a damp cloth dress. She was still a woman, but the girl with her—her sister—was a child. That couldn't be right.

Emelia felt the girl's wet grasp slip away and she dove into the oncoming wave. With a laugh, Emelia followed her. She noted with delight, as she struck the water, that her legs had become a long fish tail. She was part Subaquan—a mermaid princess—and the call of the dolphins played a beautiful melody in her ears.

The tide had sent clouds of sand and shells swirling under the surface. Her shoulder was aching as she swam against the current. There was another shape visible through the water; perhaps a porpoise to tickle and cuddle?

It came closer and with surprise she saw it was a small creature, with a face identical to her own, and wild hair spreading out into the ocean like the tendrils of a jellyfish. Its body was covered with scales that caught the little light like there were a thousand gems.

Emelia, it said, stay under. He is here looking for you. While you are at your weakest.

"Who is looking for me?" she asked.

"Emelia?"

She could hear the voices. They were distant but pulled at her like a fishing hook. By Asha, her shoulder really hurt now.

Cool air brushed her face. The sky above her was dim, the clouds tinted pale blue by the moonlight. A surge of nausea exploded in her; she was on her back; she was going to choke.

"I can't believe that was your secret escape plan," Hunor said. "Are you even sure that whistle works? I can't hear a damn thing except the horns signalling my imminent beheading."

She was sprawled on a cold surface. Emelia glanced to either side and could see battlements in a wide circle around her. They must be on a tower. To her left were four unconscious guards. A pile of rope had been dumped at her side next to the guards' swords and spears.

"It is tuned to griffon ears, you buffoon," Lady Orla said. "They can hear it two miles away, irrespective of any blasted horns or trumpets."

"To state the obvious, it would seem for some reason they are not responding," Jem said. "I think we should seriously consider alternative escape options. We cannot battle a whole castle of Thetorians."

"I still consider fleeing is an admission of guilt," Orla said. "I am almost certain they would take the word of a knight as to the circumstances of the... well, the slaughter."

Hunor laughed and turned with exasperation to Jem. "I told you and Emelia that we should have just fled. She's got the Moon's malady! If it hadn't been for the mound of corpses blocking the door and you fizzy walling us up here then we'd be decorating pikes on the gatehouse by now. As far as the baron's men are concerned we would be sword in hand for all those bodies. No trial, love, they're Thetorians. Once their blood is up they won't look at your Eerian Lady's club badge!"

"You go too far, Hunor. If I wasn't indebted to you..." Orla said.

"Well that's how it is," Hunor said. "That blue crystal is worth something special and we need to put as much distance between it and Blackstone, lest whoever sent that demon sends his bigger brothers."

"Hunor!" Jem said and Emelia was suddenly aware of him by her side.

She tried to sit to speak but pain seared through her shoulder and she retched. Jem turned her gingerly as she vomited onto the stone.

"Sorry, love," Hunor said, kneeling next to the pair. "I couldn't get any mint down you. If it's any consolation, Lady McPosh wasn't a fan of it either."

"How're we going to get out of this one, boys?" Emelia asked.

Jem stood and stared over the edge of the tower. "Well in the absence of our former steeds I suppose we need to go over the edge, although four of us will be a strain. Then perhaps north across the countryside."

Orla looked at Jem like he had suggested they all grow tails and begin eating cheese.

"It's several hundred feet to the base of the castle then a further four hundred down that sheer slope to the bailey. In addition there's a curtain wall to get over, although mercifully there seem to be no guards atop that particular section. Being a Knight of the Air doesn't convey me the ability to float, gentlemen."

"Only produce hot air," Hunor whispered to Emelia.

"That is, in actuality, my consideration, Lady Farvous. It's hardly as far down as the Keep in Coonor."

"We need to head back to the bridge where the other two are though, Jem," Hunor said.

"So the lady knight here can clap us in irons again, Hunor? That's hardly the most sensible option."

"You have my word as a knight that that shall not happen," Orla said.

"I can't leave my sword there, Jem. You know what it means to me."

"So be it. You will need to carry Emelia so I am free to use my magic."

Emelia began to protest and sit up but pain again gripped her and she slumped back. Hunor hoisted her over his shoulder. She bit her lip until it bled to stop crying with the agony.

Exhaustion flooded through her as Hunor clambered onto the battlements. The wind blew past her face as darkness soaked into her mind.

***

In the shade under the table she saw two figures. They were the size of children like she, but with adult faces.

Jem was knelt on the stony floor arranging cutlery in neat rows. He would return to the start as he reached the end of each row and adjust it ever so slightly.

Hunor sat next to the huge table leg, head in hands and muttering to himself.

"Why are we hiding?" Emelia asked.

Jem looked up. "It's not safe. He is out there in the darkness."

"Who is? Who are we afraid of?"

"The Darkmaster—he is coming for you," Hunor said. "Oh, Master Hü-Jen, I am so, so sorry."

Emelia felt the grip of terror stealing her breath.

"For me? Why for me? What have I done?"

Jem's face was gaunt as he whispered. "He comes because you have something he desires. He comes for he seeks to invade your dreams now."

"Help me then. Please."

"We cannot. We have our own demons to defeat, our own journey to make," Jem said. He returned his attention to his cutlery.

The shadows were extending slowly under the table. Emelia had the sense touching them would be a terrible thing.

She ran from her hiding place. She darted past cauldrons and pots, past the dog's basket and the tarnished urns.

Her breathing was getting more difficult. She slowed, her feet dragging and despite her fear she looked back.

Her blood turned to ice.

Drifting across the kitchen was a small man with a dark cloak and a white face. She knew him, but from where? Then it struck her.

It was the man from the painting.

***

Emelia jolted awake and scrabbled for a handhold on Hunor's back. He grunted in surprise and cursed. "By Tindor's meaty wand, Emelia, keep still! You almost had me washing my hair three months before bath day."

Hunor was waist deep in a river that buffeted against him as he waded through, Emelia over his shoulder and a rope tied around his waist. On the far shore she could see Jem with the other end of the rope.

Step by faltering step Hunor forced his way across. Only his remarkable balance averted a plunge into the waters. In time they achieved the far shore and Jem helped lift Emelia onto the bank. Hunor hooted a signal to the ghostly figure of Lady Orla on the far side. Jem snorted at the signal and Hunor shrugged.

If Hunor's progress was difficult then Orla's—in breastplate, gauntlets, vambraces, cuisse and greaves—was a living nightmare. Hunor braced himself against a tree stump. Emelia rested near Jem as they watched Orla crossing. The silhouette of Blackstone Castle loomed behind her on the river's south bank.

"Jem, I'm afraid. I need some help. My dreams..."

"We can't talk about it now, Emelia. You need to rest. The wound is severe and..."

"Damn it, Jem. Take me seriously for once. Something horrible is happening. My mind, I'm losing my mind."

"I do take you seriously. I do. Your wound's deep and filthy. It's poisoning you, making you delirious. Try and rest. I'll care for you, I promise."

"I care for you so much..." Emelia mumbled, and then closed her eyes again.

"Jem, some help?" Hunor called. His feet were slipping and suddenly Orla stumbled. In an instant she had plunged under the water.

Jem scuttled forwards but rather than grabbing the rope he waved his arm towards the submerged knight and spoke words of power.

Orla broke the surface with a small splash, spitting water and clutching the rope for dear life. She floated for a few seconds, suspended by Jem's spell, and then Hunor began pulling the wet rope. Within thirty seconds she was on the riverbank.

"Damn it, why didn't you just do that to start with?" Orla's hair was sodden into thick tendrils of silver over her face.

"After two weeks of tying us up and making us sleep with numb wrists, you'd begrudge us some fun, m'lady?" Hunor said.

"I am trying to conserve my magical energy, Lady Farvous, that is all. We are still uncertain how much it will be required tonight. My apologies for your discomforts."

Lady Orla nodded at Jem and glared at Hunor, before approaching Emelia. "How are you managing? Have you the strength to walk?"

Emelia squinted at the knight. "I can try. The bleeding seems to have stopped. I'd be little use in a fight, though."

Orla stood, turning to Jem and Hunor. "With luck, we may avoid any more conflict this evening. It is a mystery why Robert and Unhert did not respond to the whistle's call. I concur that this more cautious approach on the north shore may have been a sensible, if rather cold, idea. I have yet to see any signs of activity on the road on the other bank."

Hunor looped the wet rope into a coil. "The tree line obscures a fair amount of it, though, and the main gate was on the south east side of the curtain wall. Let's not get too cocky at this stage."

"Still it would appear our escape in this direction was the last thing to expect. Perhaps they still search the castle interior for us."

Jem helped Emelia stand. She slipped her good arm over his shoulder. A rush of dizziness came over her. For a terrible moment she feared she would pass out again, but a fierce stubbornness at Orla's words had bolstered her and she fought against it. This knight would come to respect her as an equal and not an escaped servant.

Hunor looked at her out of the corner of his eye and seeing her set jaw nodded subtly.

"Well we're not helping our chances standing out of cover in view of the walls. As they say in Kirit's eye, half a house is a house not worth having. Let's get to the bridge. It's a good mile off yet."

The four moved through the small thicket and then along the rudimentary trail east towards the bridge.

***

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.

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.

Epilogue Dreams of Darkness

Emelia dreamt of dark things. Within a maelstrom of pain and fever she traversed the dreamscape of the night, sometimes running, sometimes crawling.

The world around her warped and flowed, images of the past intermingling with scenes she had never knowingly beheld. The mercurial landscape threatened to engulf her, overwhelm her with its confusion and chaos.

The agony of her wound continually sought to drag her down into a darker place, somewhere unholy and wretched, transfixed between awareness and the void. It took all her strength to keep going, to keep moving; if she hesitated then surely she would be lost.

In the swirl of the dreamscape she could see a stable point, a tiny island of grey stone amongst the whirlpool of colour. Emelia focused past the pain and dragged herself toward the sanctuary.

A small girl sat in the centre of the island of stone. Her dress was grubby and tattered. Her skin was scaly and it glittered. Eyes as bright as the stars in winter regarded Emelia as she slumped in exhaustion.

"We need to keep running," the girl said. "If we stop then he'll win. If we stop he'll control you."

Emelia blinked back tears and looked up at the girl. "Emebaka? What's happening?"

"He's coming for you, in your dreams," Emebaka said. "Vildor—the Darkmaster. And at the moment, there's no awakening to save you."

Tears ran hot down Emelia's cheeks and then tumbled onto the grey stones.

"Then I'm lost," Emelia said. "There is no-one to help me. Jem... Hunor... they cannot aid me here."

Emebaka's scaly hand was cool as it held Emelia's. "All I need is your trust and your belief. I can help you escape to wherever you want to."

Emelia smiled. "You said that to me once before, when I was a child."

"Dreams are a game. You just have to know how to play them. We need to stay one step ahead of Vildor, to give the others a chance."

Emelia nodded, forcing herself to her feet. The dreamscape was coalescing into a tangible organized scene. To her left was a ruined city, its ancient stones coated with ivy and moss, its streets choked with weeds. To her right was a city of purple stone, pristine and clean.

"Which way do I go?" Emelia whispered.

"Let me be your guide," Emebaka said. The two leapt from the stone island and began running. Emelia glanced over her shoulder. Across the dreamscape she could see a dark figure, face bleached as white as bones in a desert. It was Vildor.

Her time was running out.

***

A small galley sailed through the wet grey air of the Sea of Mists. Its black hull concealed a far darker purpose, but the manacles of the slaver ship were empty on this voyage. On this night it had a single passenger, left well alone by the terrified crew who counted down the minutes until they made port in Thetoria.

In a cramped cabin the air was sweet with the stench of putrification and death. Two corpses drained of their essences regarded the occupant of the cabin with their rictus leers.

Utrok slept fitfully, tormented by pain and malaise. He dreamed of dark things; he dreamed of vengeance.

He dreamed of Emelia.

The story continues in Darkness Rising Book 2 – Quest.

Here is a sneak peek of Chapter 1.

Darkness Rising Book II- Quest

Chapter 1 The Farm

Blossomstide 1924

Hunor felt as if he sat atop the world. Behind him the foothills rolled westward towards the white-capped south Khullian Mountains that separated Thetoria from Artoria. To the north were the Silver Mountains, the range that ran between the pious Goldorians and their neighbours of Thetoria. Three nations with incongruous natures, fenced in by walls of rock with lofty passes and endless trails.

He watched his friend amble up the hillside toward the rocks. Hunor sat two hundred yards above a ramshackle stone farmhouse. A tendril of peat smoke wormed into the clear sky.

"Thought you'd be hungry," his friend said. He tossed Hunor a cloth bag full of seed.

"Do I look like a squirrel?" Hunor asked. He poured the seeds into his hand.

"Only one that's been mangled by a hound. Your posh lass is keeping the boy enthralled down there."

"Oh aye? She's full of surprises."

"I'll confess I was a bit worried when I saw a woman with a sword but she seems to know her business."

Hunor laughed then tossed a seed into his mouth.

"Onor's spit! They're hot!" he said, coughing. "Been away from home too long when I wolf down arynx seed like that. You'd be right about her knowing her business, Jaan. Eerian lasses are a different breed. Same with Emelia."

"The islander?"

"Aye. It's difficult to explain but she's got this aptitude at whatever she attempts. In four years she's picked up Wild-magic and can wield a blade like a veteran. It's strange. Physically she's amazing."

"You've got that right," Jaan said.

"Not like that, mate! Anyway you've got your own ball and chain now, what with the wife and the kids."

Jaan nodded, munching on a mouthful of seeds. The pair drifted into silence for a minute, soaking in the view.

"I've never regretted coming up here from the Barrowlands," Jaan said. "The times when I get a hankering for a scrap with the baron's lads from the fort, I just come up to this rock and stare. Humbles me, this view does. On a fine spring day, the light of Mortis illuminates the grassland all the way to Evik's Pass. Nolir, Torik, Shurk and Asha have done a grand job with the lands. Like a bunch of master craftsmen."

Hunor shrugged. "Fair enough. Never been one for religion myself. I see what it has done north of the border, especially to my mate Jem. I reckon you make your own fortune in this world. The gods aren't bothered about a rough little cutpurse like me."

"Your old man was religious though."

"Aye, you remember right, Jaan. All it got him was a sharp ending on the end of a royalist lance. He tried to instill some faith in my wayward mind. It's fair to say that the Nine Sacred Scrolls of Trimena were far less appealing than stories of adventurers and pirates."

"And knights?"

"Don't get me started. It's like been lumbered with a whining bloody child. Every step we took from Blackstone she'd harp on about how we should go to the king and tell him 'what really happened.' She's no idea how duplicitous Dulkar is."

"What really happened?"

The thief looked at his friend. They had been close, as children, and Jaan had saved Hunor from many a sticky spot in their antics together in the Barrowlands.

"It's best if I don't tell you, Jaan. I think the knowledge would put you in danger. Something really dark went on with the baron and I don't expect he'd hesitate to kill you."

Jaan stared away from Hunor.

"No offence then, mate, but I need you to get going. I appreciate the visit and I appreciate the money even more. But, well, I've moved on from all that trouble. Maybe you need to too."

"Chance would be a fine thing."

"No, I mean move on from Hü-Jen. You can't let it keep driving you into more and more recklessness."

Hunor flushed, his jaw clenching. "With respect, Jaan, you weren't even there that night. Don't you worry—we'll be gone by dusk."

The thief slid off the rock and began striding down the hill. Jaan sighed and followed.

"Hunor, don't leave in a rage. We've known each other too long for that."

Hunor turned and glared. His red face was calming.

"You're right, mate. Sorry. Just worried about Emelia and what we've got ourselves into. Anyhow we're supposed to be reckless. We're Thetorians!"

The pair laughed and slapped each other's back. Hunor descended the slope towards the farmhouse.

***

Lady Orla Farvous sat on a slab of stone adjacent to a half collapsed wall with her armour laid out on the grass before her. One of Jaan's sons was balanced on the wall, his bare legs swinging in the morning sun. Orla was oiling the joins in her armour and working polish into the grooves. She was recounting a tale to the boy and Hunor paused out of view to listen.

"So it was with a heavy heart that Sir Kel-Tor returned from battle with the mountain giants atop his griffon. His three comrades, the very first Knights of the Air, had all fallen beneath the deadly clubs of the giants. Clubs that were as long as trees, shod with steel spikes as broad as your arm.

"Yet in his despair there was the sense that history was in his grasp. The delay to the giants' advances had been essential. For at the vital moment, as the king of the giants—Echriz Skullsplitter—smashed the walls of Coonor as if they were but glass, the Netreptans arrived. Echriz had grown over-confident, smug in the knowledge that the magic of the Air-mages, an order then in its infancy, could not harm him. Yet as the sky grew dark with hordes of bird men, his mocking countenance faded and the arrows fell like a hard rain on the king, his giant brethren and their lapdog trolls."

"Have you fought a mountain giant, m'lady, atop your griffon?" the boy asked.

"I have, several years ago now. They're awesome creatures, young man. Think of a troll, now they are a good ten feet tall. Quadruple that and you've an idea of what you are looking at," Orla said.

The boy paused. "Quadruple, m'lady?"

Orla laughed. "Four times, master Hinfer, four times. Think of one sheep then, well, stand three more on top of it."

Hinfer nodded, chewing some salted beef, and then his eyes widened. "So that'll be like two of father's cottages piled atop each other? How can you fight that, m'lady?"

Orla eased back on the slab, the sun illuminating her face and grey hair. "With speed, courage, armour and sharp steel in your hand."

Hunor descended the grass bank with a forced stroll, trying to imply he hadn't been skulking within earshot.

"And a ton of griffon beneath you so you can reach his boulder of a head!"

Orla stiffened, looking embarrassed at her relaxed demeanour with the farm boy.

"And we appear to be lacking in those. What value a grounded Knight of the Air?" she asked.

"Oh, I'm sure we'll find some use for you, Lady Orla. Run along, Hinfer, I think your mother was after you. Something about lambing."

Hinfer scurried from the wall.

"And don't go and hide in those caves, little mate," Hunor said. Hinfer pulled a face and scampered away.

Hunor watched him go then sat beside Orla.

"Are you recruiting to the knighthood from the farmlands of Thetoria now, m'lady?"

Orla smiled thinly. "The boy has a deep curiosity and he has clearly heard all the tales of Thetorian legend a dozen times over, though as I understand they tend to revolve around drinking, duels and winning the day by being roguish."

"They're my favourites," Hunor said. He nodded at the pauldron that Orla was oiling. "Is the armour magnate?"

Orla ran her fingers over the contours and etchings on the shoulder guard.

"Your entrepreneur's eye is correct, Hunor. An alloy of steel, magnate and coke."

Hunor picked up a cuisse and tossed it in the air. It felt as light as his own hardened leather armour. "You use the magnate for the lightness then, not for the magical binding?"

She shook her head. "Some of the upper ranks, first and second lances have wards and enchantments on their armour, but generally it is saved for weapons."

"Like Emelia's sword?" Hunor gestured at the weapon resting against the mossy wall.

"Emelia's sword? I think you conveniently forget you stole it from the vault of my uncle Talis. Your own usage of it was a necessity in the skirmish with the demon, but I certainly don't plan for the girl to reclaim it."

"She's not in particular need of it as of now."

Orla's irritation faded slightly. "How is she? I assume Jem is with her at present?"

"Where else? She's hanging on despite the wound but she's running a fever that would make an Incandian jealous. We can't tarry here too long no matter how grim she seems. We'll need to ride up through the hills and into the Silver Mountains west of Evik's Pass to find Mek-ik-Ten."

"And Jem feels certain that finding this Mek-ik-Ten is the only hope for Emelia's festering wound?"

Hunor looked over at her. The knight's manner had changed subtly. "Jem and I have great regard for him—he pulled us through some... crazy times. Jem seeks him for his counsel as well as his healing skills."

"You mean counsel with regards the blue crystal?"

"Amongst other things. Jem means to keep the crystal for the time being. I assume you realise that?"

Orla's jaw muscles flickered in annoyance. "Indeed I do. You know my own feelings are that we should return the stone to its owner back in Coonor. Where better to secure it than the impregnable walls of the Citadel of Air?"

"If it's at all like the Keep then it's hardly secure—not when a two bit thief like me can steal it. No, I can't see Jem giving it away so easily. Anyway you owe us for saving your proud behind. That's in the code of honour or something isn't it?"

Orla flushed and Hunor thought perhaps he had gone too far.

"That much is true," Orla said. "It is my eternal regret that my bravado cost my men their lives and in many ways I dread the return to Coonor and the task of informing their families of their loss."

If she knew one of them was still alive tucked away in the baron's dungeon she'd be dragging us back there, Hunor thought with an unfamiliar sense of guilt.

"I am also sure you can see why Coonor is the last place we'll be heading irrespective of the choices you make," Hunor said. "Whatever good word you may or may not put in for us, Jem and I are looking at spending the rest of our days breaking rocks in the Cloudtip quarries and Emelia will be dragged back into either servitude or prison."

"I'm... ah... not certain what would happen, Hunor. The whole situation is not as clear cut as I once thought."

"As you say, m'lady. I'll go start sorting the packs out. Can you manage the horses or can you only handle griffons?"

Orla glared her reply and with a wink Hunor left the knight to don her armour.

***

In the confines of a back room Jem tended to Emelia. He had tidied the room, organising the packs in his own precise manner. Jem had been putting off attending to Emelia's wound dressing. He drew a deep breath and knelt by her bed.

"Easy, Jem, control yourself," he muttered. His sweating hands lifted the pus soaked cloth from the wound. The erythema had spread onto her chest and a sweet odour assailed his nostrils.

He gingerly removed the dressing and looked around for the basket to throw it in. A blob of blood and pus ran onto his skin as he turned. He dropped the cloth in a panic.

"Damn it. Damn it." His heart thudded fast in his ears and he felt faint. He reached for the bowl of water and began scrubbing the slime off, harder and harder.

"Jem?"

The Goldorian froze and stared at Emelia. Her eyes were red and sore and her skin pale.

"Emelia. You need to rest. I'm sorry I awoke you. It was just..."

"I know. Jem Gem. Diamonds... I'm scared. He's after me. After, happily ever after. Can we live happily ever after?"

"You're not making sense, Emelia. You need to rest."

"Voices, Jem, there's too many in my head. Dead. Are they dead voices calling? He is dead but alive. Chasing me. The Darkmaster. Is this the Moon? The malady?"

"You're running a fever. Rest, Emelia, please. I'm looking after you."

Emelia smiled and eased her head back onto the pillow. Within seconds she was asleep.

Jem looked pensively at her. It was like hearing the voices calling from the poorhouse in Parok once more. After a minute he dipped some soap in the water and gently dabbed the wound. The soap was pungent. Hunor had said it smelt like a tart's powdered corset when he had given it to Jem on the journey. He'd procured it from an apothecary in the town of Hayford as they had skulked past. Jem had been so happy he could have kissed him.

"Who is this Darkmaster, Emelia?" he asked softly. "Why does he haunt your dreams?"

Jem gently touched her flushed cheek. "I am sorry that you have been put in such danger, my young friend. When we took you from your servitude that night in Coonor I felt what we had done was correct—was noble and just. Yet now I see you clinging to life, your wound turning like the last fruit of autumn.

"Hunor still has reservations in which I have never shared. Yet now I find myself doubting for different reasons. I doubt whether I had the right to bring you into our chaotic world, away from your closeted life in that keep in Eeria. What price your freedom should the demon's savage wound take its toll?"

Jem took a deep breath, an icy sensation in his chest. Tears were starting in his eyes and he could feel the magic pulsing within him like water boiling in a kettle. Focus, Jem, harness your emotions, he thought.

"I saw the potential for the Wild-magic within you, aching to be realised. Yet is it always right to open the stable door knowing that the mare may fall at the hurdles in the fields beyond? Is it better to gallop and leap, with the wind on your face, or stay safe and secure in your stall?

"Truly I have failed you, Emelia," Jem said, his voice cracking. "You tried to tell me of your dreams of darkness, of the dark wizard in Bulia, of your sense of trepidation as we came to Thetoria. Yet I was so preoccupied with my anger at Hunor landing us into trouble, yet again, that I did not give it the credence it deserved."

Jem reached into his pouch and pulled the blue crystal out. He held the glass up before him, watching the dregs of light from the adjacent kitchen filter through its deep colour. He could sense the power within it, far more easily than the time he had first seen it in Coonor. What was this crystal that a demon of the Pale should be brought forth to secure it? Why did the Air-mage covet it so before his grisly end?

"I have been found wanting as a teacher and mentor. You have learned so much in such a short time, but the passion that Hunor imbues within you for thievery and swords craft has diluted the discipline necessary to control the Wild-magic. For it curses the mind."

The slim Goldorian shook as he spoke now, his hand trembling as he tentatively touched Emelia's lips.

"And finally I have failed myself because I have not found within me the courage to admit how I truly feel about you. Hunor's words cut me deep those nights ago. I am certain that, despite every attempt to the contrary, I am falling in love with you."

If Emelia heard she did not stir and Jem sat in silence his hand on her face, the neat room the only witness to his confession.

***

Hunor walked outside the farmhouse deep in thought. The cottages in this remote stretch of Thetoria intrigued him. The wood in this region was notoriously poor: the commonest trees were slim and silvery with green wet wood and were called arynx. Ever resourceful, the North Thetorians chose to burn peat and dry the flexible arynx to use as thatch for their cottages. The farmhouse had such a silvery roof, running the length of the one storey structure, broken only at the far end by a stubby chimney.

Hunor ducked under the lintel of the red-stone frame. The kitchen was a broad and long room, extending for almost half the building, and yet was cluttered with tables, chairs, pots and pans. In the centre of the kitchen was a wide fire pit, glowing red with smoldering peat. Doors led from the kitchen to the bedrooms and the pantry.

Jaan's wife stood at the side of the fire pit. The younger of her sons sat at her feet playing. She glanced over as Hunor entered.

"Loral, you need a hand with anything?" Hunor asked.

She looked away and said, "Don't trouble yourself."

Hunor paused by the door that led through to the room he was sharing with Jem.

"I just mentioned to Jaan that we'll be on our way later. Get out of your hair. We're grateful for what help you've given us."

"It'll be a shame to see you go," Loral said insincerely.

The thief stared at Loral's back and weighed up his response. He thought better of it and walked through into his room.

It was a tiny chamber vacated by Hinfer two days ago. The room was immaculate with neat sheets, folded clothes and Hunor's sword all arranged very precisely on the bed. Even the mud and dust from the kitchen had stopped at the threshold as if it were afraid to enter. This is Jem and his magic all over, Hunor smiled to himself.

Hunor picked up his sword. He drew the blade and held it out to gaze at the way the light flickering from the kitchen caught the metal. It was magnate alloy, like Orla's armour, but with spells of sharpening augmenting its keen edge. Its Shorvorian name was Ur-iy-Sytk. It meant 'Shard of the storm.'

The Shorvorians believed that a man's sword, bestowed upon him by his family and in many cases from a long line of ancestors, was a part of his soul. It was an outward expression of his courage and his pride, his valour and his mercy—for a sword could save as well as slay. The Shorvorian warrior caste—the hârdan—dedicated their days to perfecting their art in the belief that the sword was an extension of your being, only ultimately realised by extensive practice. The light rippled in the metal as Hunor reflected if he truthfully wished to display his soul for all to see.

Hü-Jen had had no heir, no kin to pass Ur-iy-Sytk to. In many ways Hunor had never had a father he would have chosen to learn from. Thus their relationship developed beyond master and pupil. He spun the sword around abruptly and slid it back in its scabbard.

"Too much sitting around. It's making you maudlin," he told himself.

"Master Hunor?" a voice called from the door.

The thief turned; it was Hinfer. His face was red and sweating.

"Soldiers. About a dozen of them. Coming up the hill. Father just sent me."

Hunor nodded, strapping on his sword. He grabbed his and Jem's packs. Moving through into the kitchen he saw Jaan and Orla running in.

"How long we got, mate?" he asked Jaan.

"About ten minutes I'd reckon. Hunor, if there's going to be trouble..."

"No. That's not an option, mate, not with the kids about. Orla, take the horses with Hinfer, he'll show you the caves. The mules will account for the mess they leave."

The knight looked aghast.

"You want me to sneak away and hide in a cave with the boy? Out of the question."

"Well the other option is a pitched battle outside, and assuming we win we'll have a dozen bodies to hide. Then should we take Jaan and the family with us?"

Orla stared at him, her eyes narrowed. The seconds ticked away.

Hinfer pulled on her gauntlet.

"You could finish the stories."

The Eerian looked at the boy and smiled. With a last glance at Hunor she stalked from the kitchen.

"I'll get Jem and Emelia. We'll hide in the pantry. Just act naturally, Jaan. Any hint of a problem we'll be with you."

Jaan nodded, avoiding his wife's look of horror. Hunor shouted to Jem, wincing with guilt and dragged their packs into the small pantry.

***

Hunor had a reasonable line of sight into the kitchen from behind the wooden shelves and bags of produce in the pantry. Jem had managed to squeeze Emelia into the dusty gap with barely a minute to spare. His distaste was evident as Hunor flicked away the cobwebs.

The door was thrust open with a crash and four armoured soldiers entered. They wore the black and silver insignia of the Enfarsons. Hunor recognised Captain Thrisk, one of the baron's Azaguntan guards. He looked muddied and irritable. In his hand he carried a large scroll.

"Jaan," one of the soldiers said.

"Captain Soron. You're a fair way from the fort. What can we do for you?"

Soron looked about wearily. Two of the soldiers began searching.

"This is Captain Thrisk. He's up from Blackstone, chasing some murderers. We're looking through all the farmsteads."

Captain Thrisk passed the scroll to Jaan and then leant over the cauldron on the fire pit. He made an exaggerated smelling noise then smiled at Loral.

"Big pot for just the three of you."

Hunor tightened his grip on his sword.

"It's to last the week, captain. You're more than welcome to have some. Do they have stew in Azagunta?" Loral said.

Thrisk didn't reply but moved from the fire pit. He placed his gloved hand on top of the child's head.

"Terrible crime, it was, just horrific. Dozens dead and the baron the only survivor. Black magic as well. Dare say the culprits would bring down a curse on any who harboured them."

At Hunor's side Jem was moving his hands ready for a spell. The thief gauged the distance. They would need to get to the child before the Azaguntan could draw his sword.

Jaan looked pale as he watched Thrisk idly stroke the boy's hair.

"Where's your other lad?" Soron asked.

"Up the hill with the sheep. Captain, look, I'm not certain who you are after but..."

"Captain?" one of the soldiers called. Both Thrisk and Soron looked around. The soldier emerged from a bedroom and flipped a coin to Soron.

"I'll take the two captains, Hunor, you get the other two," Jem whispered.

Hunor shook his head, "Wait... let's see how it pans out."

Soron held the silver coin up, twisting it in his hand.

"Eerian. Where'd you get this from?" he asked.

The silence in the room was agonising. Hunor slowly slid his sword from its scabbard.

"It's mine, sir," the boy said.

The soldiers all stared in confusion at the child.

"A lady in big armour gave it me."

Thrisk knelt by the boy, a false smile on his lips. He slowly drew a dagger and casually patted it on his palm.

"When was that, boy?"

"Three days past. Me and Hinfer saw some travelers down on the road. Foreigners, but nice. The lady gave me a coin when I told her the way to the mountains."

The soldiers exchanged glances and Soron unfurled the scroll.

"Do you recognise any of these faces, boy?"

His eyes wide the boy nodded and pointed at the scroll. "The lady. That's the lady, sir."

Soron looked elated and indicated for the soldiers to move out. Thrisk took a last look about and nodded at Jaan before exiting.

The silence in the room lasted a whole minute before Loral burst into tears and hugged her son. Jaan sat back against the table looking faint.

Hunor breathed out in relief and slipped out from behind the shelves.

"Is she good to move?" he said to Jem.

"As good as she'll get. If we don't get to her to Master Ten soon then I fear we will lose her."

The thief nodded grimly and moved across the kitchen, sword in hand. He peered through the crack in the door.

"All gone. Your lad tells a good tale, Jaan."

Jaan rubbed his face and shuddered.

"Too much practice with his brother. Hunor, you need to go. Take the top trail. They'll be heading in the other direction now."

"Aye, they'll be going to Evik's Pass via the fort. If we take your way we'll get to Giant's Crag by tomorrow."

"Giant's Crag? Take care, my friend, there are worse things in those mountains than the baron," Jaan said.

Thinking back to the night a week ago he had last seen the nobleman, Hunor sighed and said, "Not so sure about that, Jaan. Not so sure at all."

***

Jem and Hunor sat on the stone wall awaiting Orla to return with the pair of horses. The mood had been tense since the soldiers' visit.

"That has to be the worst drawing of me ever made. And what's with the description—'A Thetorian of mean disposition, lank pony tail, characteristic excesses of earrings.' You can hardly read it."

"Thetorians were never renowned for their talents with the written word, nor the quality of their printing. There'll be hundreds of these circulating now, Hunor. We will need to stay clear of Thetoria for the foreseeable future."

Hunor shrugged and tossed a stone against a wall with a clatter.

"I'm not certain we'll be welcome back here either," Jem said.

Hunor winced and nodded. "It feels all kind of wrong, to bring this crap on Jaan's head. He'd left it all behind when he moved up here. I guess trouble just follows us around, mate. Might be better for Emelia to leave her at Master Ten's place and make a run for it. You know, for her safety."

The Goldorian stroked his clipped moustache.

"I know what you are saying, Hunor, and it has a certain sense to it. I would be lying to claim that I haven't thought the same, albeit transiently. But we're a trio, a threesome. Hunor, we're waist deep in something huge, something of significance. I can sense it. The day we became involved with Emelia and with this crystal was the day it all changed."

"Why us, my friend? Why us? Surely this is the stuff for heroes, for ballads, for knights? I just want a bit of fun, a bit of a thrill and a pouch of gold for my troubles. Look, let's get rid of that crystal—flog it, dump it, give it to tin knickers, whatever. We owe the world nothing, not one copper. All I care about is here with me now."

Jem placed his hand on Hunor's cheek. It burned to the touch. Genuine affection illuminated his somber face.

"You're a good man. A good friend. I know I can be difficult at times. But give me your word, as a friend, that we'll stick together through all of this. Wherever fate and Engin are taking us. The three of us."

"Of course, Jem, you have my oath. Looking out for each other, like family. And the world can just get along without us."

"I'm not sure that's an option anymore," Jem said.

The two sat in silence in the warm Thetorian sun.

Glossary

Alcas bread—a spicy bread made with alcas seeds imported from Midlund.

Artoria—the great western realm. Post-empire now divided into two nations both ruled by monarchies.

Artorian Empire—the second empire(c1300-1700)

Asha—Water father. Elder God.

Azagunta—the isle of thieves in the Sea of Mists. Once a mighty magical nation.

Beeros—demon duchess of insanity and lies. Duchess of the Pale.

Black Brotherhood—Artorian assassins guild based in Belgo.

Burke—a heavy robe favoured by the merchant class in Mirioth.

Coalition—the combined councils of the three Mirioth districts.

Coonor—City of the Mists, capital of Eeria.

Craven—wolf-headed humanoids.

Eeria—the easternmost nation. Ruled by a council of nobles.

Eerian Empire—the first empire (c 860 to 1060).

Egos—God of courage. A younger god.

Engin—God Of Luck. A younger god. Patron of thieves.

Feldor—the southern Trimenal monarchy. Famed for its vineyards and weather.

Ferenge—mages specialising in combat.

Galvorian—the elemental race of earth, from Orio.

Ghasts—the Vampyr-lords. Dark-mages of great power.

Gilibrion—the first high king of Trimena.

Goldoria—pious nation, formerly in Trimena.

The Godsarm—the warrior inquisition of Goldoria.

Gondland—one of the seven tribal nations that united to form Trimena c750am.

Hârdan—the Shorvorian warrior caste.

Hêtar—a Shorvorian warrior without a lord or master.

Imperial—the "common" language, derived from Eerian in the days of the First Empire.

Ingor—Demon duke of pain. Duke of the Pale (called Eht-Raa by lizardmen).

Iyrit Crag—the prison of Coonor.

Jitūn—the noble ruling class of Shorvoria.

Kanshar—the land of the horse lands north of Goldoria.

Karabister—a broker for contracts of servitude.

Kevor—the nation which split in c700pm to become Ssinthor and Mirioth. Ruled ultimately by dark mages.

Kisarti—a warrior caste of ancient Thetoria c. 750am.

Kirit's eye—a card game from Artoria, originating in the time of the second (Artorian) empire. Suits are named after ancient houses of Artoria: Valgansi, Idriki, Porosti, Holgorki.

Kokis—the gilded city, South Thetoria. Famed for its many theatres.

Magnate—'God-silver.' A rare metal able to hold magical power.

Mâlkar—the head of council in one of the three districts of Mirioth

Melange—mages specialising in elemental manipulation.

Midlund—the small nation of brewers between Eeria and Mirioth.

Mirioth—a nation of traders and weavers. It southern lands are threatened by the Lizardmen of Ssinthor.

Moons—four moons. Silver Eerian, Red Pyrian, Green Orion and Blue Aquatonian.

Mortis—god of light. The father of all. God of life.

Miria—goddess of dark. The mother. Goddess of time.

Nekra—goddess of Death and evil. Elder god.

Neobalt—a woman's dress in Goldoria covering all skin except the face.

Netreptan—elemental race of air. Winged humanoids living in Eeria.

Ni-Faris—festival of choosing in Coonor for the entrance to the Air mages.

Nolir—Earth Mother. Elder god.

Nurolia—'new place'- the lands inhabited by the five races.

Onor—demon duke of decay. Consort of Nekra. Duke of the pale.

Orio—an island far to the west, home to the Galvorians.

Pale—The Pale: hell, the underworld. Realm of demons.

Paristar—A mage who is on a period of leave from the Order.

Pyrios—The desert lands to the arid south of Nurolia.

The Sacred Knife—a spy network working with the Godsarm in Goldoria.

Shorvor—the small island. Feudal. Similar to medieval Japan.

The Silent Knife—the Azaguntan assassin's guild.

Shurk—Fire mother. Elder god.

Sirgos—demon duchess of fear and terror. Duchess of the Pale.

Subaquan—the elemental race of water. Mer-men and mermaids.

Sugox—Demon duke of disease & Plague. Duke of the Pale.

Synod—the Gold Synod: the ruling council of Goldoria.

Thetoria—A feudal monarchy renowned for its warring barons. Tindor—God of Pride. A younger god.

Torik—Air Father. Elder God.

Trimena—the nation formed in c750am from the seven tribes. Included modern Thetoria, Goldoria and Feldor.

Unoristara—mage who is absent from the order without leave.

Umar—God of Knowledge. A younger god.

Valia—Goddess of Love. A younger god.

Varistar—a mage who has forsaken his Order and the Codex.

Visaline—mages with administrative and bureaucratic responsibility.

Xirande—mages with academic and research role.

Yarkel—a hairy cattle found in northern Eeria. Famed for its fur and hide.

Yris Tu—the druid ritual of initiation.

Significant events in the history of Nurolia.

am~ ante-magi pm ~ post-magi

The Era of Legends

c970 am—settlers from Aquatonia settle the coast of modern Artoria

750 am—The Great Goblin War. Vildor slain by King Gilibrion

749 am—The birth of Trimena

c550 am—the four kingdoms have developed in lands of Artoria

200 am—The beginnings of Kevor

The Era of Magic

0 pm—The discovery of magic by humans. Gift of Gems of Power by Umar

50 pm—The City of Erturia established by the Lochden

65 pm—The Knights of Air form during a Giant attack on Coonor

139 pm—King Valgessin II of Lochden invades Belgo. Nation of Artoria born

162 pm—Keresh and Olgon (two southern kingdoms) fall to north Artoria

162 pm—The Iron Dynasty is established in Artoria, ruling a hundred years

251-263 pm—Artoria wars with Aquatonia over Orio263 pm—War of Artorian succession. War with Aquatonia ceases.

282 pm—End of War of Succession; King Otis (the Unfortunate) begins his reign

283 pm—The First War of Brothers begins

285 pm—Goldoria gains its independence from Trimena

285-305 pm—The War of Succession in Trimena. King Echtolin I victorious

305 pm—Trimena (now Feldor and Thetoria) re-named Echtolia

325 pm—Barbarians from Foom sack Nth Artoria

326-330 pm—War against the barbarians. Artorian knights formed by Targik I

330-860 pm—The Gilded Age of Artoria

420 pm—The beginnings of the infiltration of Kevor by dark wizards

520 pm—The Second War of Brothers as Feldor fights for independence

524 pm—The Treaty of Flags signed and war ends

524 pm—Prince (now King) Thetorin I establishes Thetoria

690 pm—The Mage Wars: The Fall of Kevor

691 pm—The Mage Wars: The civil war in Azagunta.

691 pm—Tilmoth I comes to power in Eeria upon the death of King Bilroth IX

692 pm—The Plague of Dust devastates Azagunta. The demise of the Cabal

695 pm—The first Codex is written and signed by the four schools

The Era of Empires

792 pm—The first Coalition of the Three Cities forms in Mirioth

861 pm—The First Empire begins under Tilmoth VIII in Eeria

930 pm—The monarchy of Goldoria slain during Eerian occupation

980-1010 pm—The Eerian Empire battles to occupy Artoria (allied with Shorvor)

1010-1059pm—Eerian occupation of Artoria

1059 pm—the collapse of the First Empire.

1059 pm—four houses take power in Artoria: Valgansi, Idriki, Porosti, Holgorki

1060 pm—The church of Mortis gain power in Goldoria

1125 pm—The Synod of Goldoria convene.

1140pm—Tarir's Dyke begun by Eerian engineers working with Mirioth

1352 pm—The Second (Artorian) Empire begins with the invasion of Feldor

1519 pm—Vildor resurrected during a coup. Irvin III becomes Emperor

1550 pm—Emperor Orix I creates East and West Praetorships in the Empire

1703 pm—Civil war erupts in the Artorian Empire between the two Praetors

The New Age

1706 pm—The Codex of the Magi is rewritten during the Accord of Belgo

1707 pm—The Declaration of Kâlastan establishes the influence of the Guild of Goldsmiths

1722 pm—Treaty of Parok negotiated between Goldoria and Eeria to protect Eerian traders

1773 pm—Declaration of Birin signed after conflict between Eeria and Thetoria over the Azure Isles

1865 pm—Statute of Servitude in Eeria greatly diminishes the slave trade

1899-1900 pm—The Summer War (4th Goldoria-Thetoria war)

1906 pm—Spring Rising in Thetoria

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ross M Kitson works as a doctor specializing in anaesthesia and intensive care medicine in Manchester, UK. He is married with three delightful children, who do their best to keep him young at heart.

His life-long love of fantasy began as a child with a fervent interest in role playing games which he continues to this day with his own children. He has had several short stories published and the Prism series represents his first major literary work.

Contact us at: http://www.myrddinpublishing.com

Darkness Rising Book Two – Quest

Available in print and on e-book

'From the dust-choked depths of antiquity I have risen...'

Wounded by a demon, Emelia is taken by her comrades, Jem and Hunor, into the dangerous Silver Mountains where they seek an old friend. A chance encounter propels them into a quest to find artefacts of awesome power. But the Lord of the Ghasts, Vildor, has risen and lays a trap that may end their quest before it begins.

In Thetoria, Aldred Enfarson, begins an investigation into a horrific murder. As he starts to unravel the events surrounding the appearance of a vampyr, the shocking truth threatens all he holds dear.

Darkness Rising- Quest is the second book in the epic fantasy series Prism, and is the concluding part of volume 1. Presented for the first time with new prologue and epilogue it is a must read for fantasy fans the world over.

Reviews

"So there is plenty of classic action, but the fantasy has a solid base in humanity. As in Game of Thrones, I cared about the characters : about Emelia's confused feelings for Jem, for Aldred's quest, and even for the villains in the piece."

"It's an exciting, heart-pounding ride, full of depth and complexity; a dynamic tapestry of superb characterization and world building with profound insights into the human heart."

Review from the British Fantasy Society

"Ross M. Kitson has built a complex and convincing world here. Frankly, I wouldn't recommend just picking up just the first book, or even the first two books. Get all three, because you'll be chain-reading them."

Also by Ross M Kitson

The Infinity Bridge

Available in print, on e-book

and on Smashwords

Sam: likes loud music, wears black eye-liner... and sees monsters.

Nick: wears Che Guevara knit-wear, big specs, loves sci-fi... and designs computer viruses.

Annie: dresses like a Sunday evening period drama, lives with her granddad... and fights like a ninja.

When Sam helps out the mysterious Annie, he and his cousin, Nick, are drawn into a world of excitement and danger. Terrifying androids roam the streets of York seeking the awesome power of the Infinity Bridge, a device that could signal the end of our world as we know it. All who stand in their way are being eliminated.

The three teenagers are propelled into an action-packed race against time, involving alternate realities, airships, clockwork killers.... and Merlin.

Sometimes the monsters are real....

Reviews

"What an adventure! With great characters and an amazingly action-packed plot, this steampunk adventure has all the elements for success. It combines modern day technology with that from the Victorian era with effortless aplomb, tackles issues of mental instability, and even has a modern-day Knights of the Round Table and Merlin."

"Ross Kitson has thrown four teenagers together into a story that opens with action and doesn't stop until the very end. Sam sees monsters and hides behind a tough exterior rather than admit it. Nick is your classic geek. Annie is what happens when the Amish are trained as ninjas and Ben did own up to seeing monsters and ended up in a mental facility."

Also from Myrddin Publishing Group

Middle-grade/ Young Adult

Crown Phoenix: Night Watchman Express-Alison DeLuca

Crown Phoenix: Devil's Kitchen-Alison DeLuca

Crown Phoenix: Lamplighter's Special-Alison DeLuca

Children of the Elementi-Ceri Clark

Ednor Scardens-Kathleen Barker

The Infinity Bridge-Ross M Kitson

Adult fiction

Sin-Shaun Allen

Yum!-Nicole Antonia Carson

Sons of Roland -Nicole Antonia Carson

Heart Search: Lost-Carlie Cullen

Tower of Bones-Connie J Jasperson

Losing Beauty-Johanna Garth

Silent No More-Krista Hatch

Land of Nod: The Prophet-Gary Hoover

Land of Nod: The Artefact-Gary Hoover

The Last Guardian-Joan Hazel

What the Heart Sees-Joan Hazel

Hired by a Demon-Gypsy Madden

Emeline and the Mutants-Rachel Tsoumbakos

The Ring of Lost Souls-Rachel Tsoumbakos

After Ilium-Stephen Swartz

Chinese Lolita-Lisa Zhang Wharton

