Blood Of Kings: The Shadow Mage (35 page)

Once she was outside in the courtyard, she could see how the weather besieged the castle, as rain was driven in from the sea by roaring winds. A wooden pail skipped and bounced across the cobbled ground, rolling past her at speed. Within seconds she was soaked as the icy rain froze any exposed skin. She ignored the howl assaulting her ears and ran to the stables, disturbing a stable boy from his slumber on a bed of straw in one corner.

“My lady…” he stammered, caught off guard by the late-night visitor.

“Help me,” she simply said as she pulled at a saddle from the rack. The boy was quickly on hand to lift it down for her while she selected the mount she wished to use.

“The weather, my lady…” he said, it was not his place to question a noble born even if it did appear she’d lost her wits.

“Saddle this horse for me. Quickly now,” she instructed, ignoring his concern. Spears of light lit up the sky, allowing her to see his grime-covered face clearly and the questioning look he gave her. Moments later thunder roared, making them both jump.

“It’s not a good night for riding, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, my lady.”

“Never mind that. Here, help me up.”

He cupped his hands and lifted her aboard. “I can come with you,” he said.

“No,” she replied, “but thank you. Open the door.”

The horse was reluctant to leave the warm, dry stable, but a sharp kick to the flanks from Rosinnio had it moving with a jolt. She was almost flung from the animal’s back as it reared on hind legs, protesting with loud snorts. “Open the gates and close them behind me,” she roared over the wind. The boy quickly ran across the courtyard to the heavy wooden gates, dipping his head against the howling gale sending sheets of rain over the castle wall. She calmed the horse with soothing words while she waited for the main gate to ponderously creep open. “Ha!” she roared at her mount. Even the loud echo of hooves on cobbled stone was drowned out by the wind.

Any folk mad enough to be abroad on such a night who caught a glimpse of her riding recklessly along the coast road, with cloak and hair streaming behind her as waves crashed against the shore, sending salty spray high up the cliff face, would swear they’d seen a ghost atop a dark horse driven by the wind.

Lightning streaking across the sky lit her way, showing her the outline of the road, worn into the ground from years of use. One slip or a misplaced hoof and she’d be thrown from the horse, with no one to find her broken body until morning. Still she urged the beast on faster. She knew where she was going, and although she’d only been there once before she knew she would find it, even in the dark. She would find it if she had to crawl all the way blindfolded.

When she reached the spot she had last been with Brandlor and the warrior Rothgar she dragged sharply on the reins, bringing her mount to a skidding halt. She leapt from its back, a flash of lightning revealed the small track that led down the cliff. She could hear the sea crashing against the shore, smell the brine in the air. Without a backward glance she began her descent, pulling up her hood against the biting rain and the spray of seawater as she climbed down closer to the shore. It occurred to her that the sea may have already invaded the cave with its violent assault on the shores of Wind Isle. Still she pressed on. When she reached the bottom she could feel the spray of salt water on her face as waves battered the rocky ledge, below that the stone beach had already been reclaimed by the sea. Without thinking she ran towards the dark entrance to the cave, a black portal to the realm of Maolach.

Wind howled through the tunnel, like the roars of some great sea monster. Each wave crashing over the ledge sent water racing up the dark passageway. She splashed her way on until she finally spotted a dim glow up ahead.

She walked slowly into the light, each breath a struggle. The wind and roar of the sea became a faint din in the background, almost forgotten. A mound of feathers stirred from before a fire, a grizzled head of white tufts looked up. “You are late,” Maolach said without looking at her. He poked at the fire with a stick sending sparks spiralling into the air.

“I don’t understand,” she answered.

“You should have come a lifetime ago,” the seer answered.

Rosinnio ignored the answer and sat on a rock opposite him. “I dreamt of Crawulf again. This time he battled a warrior with his own likeness.”

“What else?”

“The hooded man… I could not see him, but he was there.”

“How do you know he is real?” Maolach looked up, regarding her with dark, hooded eyes.

“Because he haunts my dreams,” she answered. The fire crackled as the old man jabbed it with his stick, one end blackened the other slick and green. “And I haunt his.”

“Yes, I see him. I have always seen him,” the old seer hissed. “He cloaks himself in shadow. He has crossed the bridge that cannot be crossed. He has sparked a light where there can only ever be darkness.” He glared at her then, his stare reflected in the firelight, intense and frightening, so much so that she felt an urge to flee from him as fast as she could. “He has walked among the dead and brought them back.”

The fire between them suddenly began to dance wildly as flames grew and took on the dark shape of a tormented face, writhing at the heart of the fire. Its widening mouth formed an ‘O’ as it opened in silent agony.

Rosinnio leapt back in alarm. “What’s happening?”

Maolach threw what looked like a handful of sand into the fire. Flames momentarily flared to several times their size, with burning tongues stretching outwards. The fiery face loomed over them with flaming arms reaching for them. Then the fire quickly returned to normal. “He will bring shadow to the world of light.”

Rosinnio scrutinised the fire before returning to her seat. The face was gone. “It was him… the hooded man.”

“Yes,” Maolach answered. “The ghost of your dreams.”

“He will come for me.” Terror laced her words.

“Perhaps. Or you could go to him,” the seer answered.

“I…” Rosinnio regarded the old man as if he were truly insane… perhaps he was. “I would never go to him. Why would I do such a thing?”

“Because you must. You must stop him before he drowns the light from the world.”

“Do you know who he is?” she asked.

“No. But you do.”

“He knows you are here now,” Rosinnio said, her lip trembling.

A choking sound came from Maolach’s throat. An icy thrill of fear ran down her spine as she wondered if the hooded man had cast some enchantment on the seer, until she realised the noise was laughter.

“I am just an old man in a cave at the end of the world.” Maolach cackled. “The sun has risen and the storm has died. Crawulf searches for you outside.”

“I should go to him,” Rosinnio answered, surprised at the feeling of comfort she felt at the thought of her husband’s protection.

“Yes.”

“Please, Maolach. Tell me what I must do.”

Maolach looked up as she stood over him, his eyes opening in surprise. “I have told you once already. You must take the Horn of Galen from the Tree of Souls.”

Before she could answer, voices drifted into the chamber from outside, her name drifting on the wind over the noise of the ocean. She turned from the seer then and fled back down the tunnel, towards Crawulf.

Duke Normand: Duchy of Lenstir

“How was your trip to Rothberry Castle, a worthwhile journey, my lord?” Djangra Roe asked as he walked across the polished flagstones of the great hall.

Normand looked up sharply as he poured wine from a jug into a silver goblet. “The king’s solution to all things is to raise taxes, so no, Master Mage, it was not a worthwhile journey.” He returned his attention to the red liquid filling his cup. “Help yourself.” He indicated the jug to Djangra once he’d finished with it.

“Thank you, my lord.” The mage took a cup and poured a measure of wine. Both men then took their drinks to sit in chairs by a roaring fire. “These old bones feel the autumn chill more each year,” he said as he stretched out his hands to warm them. “Did the amulet serve you well?” he asked, gesturing with his head towards the chain hanging from Normand’s neck.

“I had no witches attempting to kill me in my dreams, if that’s what you mean. Perhaps she’s already dead. Have you heard from the men sent after her yet?”

“Perhaps, my lord, but no, I have not heard from them.”

Normand sighed, his impatience evident in the thin line of his mouth and his furrowed brow. “So why are you here, Mage? I would have thought the temple in Eorotia was a better place to search for clues to the location of the dream-witch.”

“Ah yes. I have taken the liberty of questioning some of the wild mountain folk regarding the hoards of treasure secreted by the followers of Eor.”

“Those people are now citizens of Lenstir… my people,” Normand interrupted.

“I was most gentle, my lord,” Djangra responded without losing a breath. Normand shook his head and regarded the mage coolly. “They were not very cooperative, but I did manage to discover from some texts in the temple that they have a sacred place, a hidden valley high in the mountains, a place where the goddess Eor supposedly first walked among men. Of course none of them were prepared to reveal its location.” Djangra’s face widened into a smile. “But I have found a map. It’s very old and I’ve ordered it to be copied lest it fall to pieces under our touch, but…”

“A map? To a hidden valley and a god’s treasure? I have a duchy to rule, increased taxes to raise. I have no time for such idle foolishness.”

“But you were most enthusiastic when last we spoke,” Djangra said.

“Perhaps the mountain air has addled my wits.”

“Come back to Eorotia with me. Let’s find this pass before the winter blocks off the high places. If nothing else it will give you a chance to eradicate the cult of Eor. Those mountain folk may well be your subjects now, but as far as they are concerned their loyalties are bound to the goddess Eor and her servants, including the dream-witch.”

Normand’s brow wrinkled then, and the cup he had raised to his lips fell away. “You don’t suppose they are hiding her in those mountains? Could she have been under our noses all this time?”

“Who can say, my lord?”

The following morning, Duke Normand led his Dragon Knights out through the castle gates, with their red cloaks billowing behind them. From a distance they looked like a stream of blood flowing through the countryside.

“So you can find this hidden valley?” Normand turned towards Djangra as they sat wrapped in cloaks, warming themselves by a campfire.

“I think so, my lord.”

“Do not expect a mountain of hidden treasure.”

“Perhaps if you read the texts from the temple yourself, I have done little else since you left Eorotia.”

“I have no interest in reading any texts,” Normand snarled, “let alone nonsense from some anonymous, ancient author. If it were not for the very real possibility of the witch hiding somewhere in my mountains I would not be making this trip. Get some sleep. We have a long hard ride tomorrow.” Normand turned away from Djangra Roe and stared into the flames. His mind wandered back to previous conversations he had had with the mage regarding the mythical hidden treasure of Eor. True, he had become caught up in the mage’s enthusiasm for treasure hunting, yet events had overtaken his desire for finding an easy fortune on his doorstep. Other plans were formulating inside his mind, plans which need a seed to be planted before they would take fruition. A smile played at the corner of his mouth as he pictured the sparkling eyes of a princess, and the words of warning from Lady Isabetha, ‘
princesses are not for minor dukes’. We shall see,
he thought.
We shall see.

He could feel the heat of the fire on his face as the sound of armed men drifted over him; the chatter and rattle of weapons and armour, the neighing and stomping of horses. Flames danced before him, writhing hypnotically. His mind wandered to far-off places and imagined delights of a princess’s bed—and the power and privileges that would come with it—
she’d eat you raw,
Isabetha had said. Normand smiled at that as his eyes grew heavier.
Wine.
Had he thought it or said it?
A jug would be most welcome.
His eyes closed and his head drooped forward.

When he opened them he was disorientated and confused. He was sitting in a chair on a raised platform in the audience hall of the temple to Eor in Eorotia. He knew it well enough having only recently taken the city from the thieves and brigands who occupied it with the help of the dream-witch – the High Priestess of Eor.

“Your wine, my lord,” a female voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Wine? How am I here?” he asked. The woman simply smiled and walked towards him, bearing a large jug in both hands. She looked familiar to him. She wore a simple, ankle-length white dress. Her dark hair was scraped back and tied on top of her head in a pony-tail.
Pretty,
he thought and felt his desire rising.

“You ordered wine, lord,” she said as she approached the platform, three steps separating them. Emerald eyes shone in the lamplight.

“I have seen you before,” he said. He stood then, sensing the wrongness of his situation. His movements were slow, his thoughts clouded and confused. Yet, he felt a burning need for the woman before him. He could imagine throwing her down on the steps and taking her there and then. She smiled, as if reading his thoughts, biting her lower lip.
She wants it too.
He walked off the first step. She bowed her head demurely, offering the jug.

“I know you want it, lord,” she said, a distinctly seductive tone creeping into her voice. He did not think she was talking about the wine. And she was right—he did want her, his need and desire for her growing by the second.

He knocked the jug out of her outstretched hands. It fell to the floor, shattering into shards, wine spilled over the mosaic floor—he had never noticed the image in the tiled floor before—from the steps he realised the image was of a dragon in the coloured tiles. He grabbed her shoulders roughly and tore the dress off them, exposing her creamy breasts. She made small sounds of protest which only enflamed his desire more. His need was raw, pulsing through him as he pulled her garment free of her body, leaving her naked before him. Spilled wine pooled at his feet – wait – not wine, blood, he’d seen enough of both spilled in the past to know the difference. His mind told him there was something very wrong with a girl bringing a jug of blood to him, but his body overrode the logical workings of his brain. He pulled at his own breeches, aching to be released, while he held her with his other hand.