Blood Of Kings: The Shadow Mage (29 page)

“Aye, perhaps.”

“How is it these people have lived on the borders of my family’s lands and we know nothing of them?”

“The same reason none of your predecessors were prepared to confront the problem of this city and its inhabitants. It takes a brave man to poke a hornet’s nest.”

“Or a stupid one,” Normand added.

Djangra Roe shrugged. “The writings I have found are mostly gibberish intoning the great virtues of the goddess Eor. Some psalms about her grace and all-consuming power, and some warnings to her followers to eschew false prophets, and so on, and so on.” He opened one of the volumes in his lap. Normand could hear the crackling of the pages as the mage searched for a marked passage. “I thought this might interest you.” He began to read. “
The goddess did walk among her folk, and all bowed before her, giving great cheer, with much gladness in their hearts to have her shadow fall upon them. Where the soles of her feet touched the ground, many jewels of different colours sprung like wildflowers from the earth, or veins of gold threaded the bare rock around her, fanning out like arms of the sun, with She at its centre, the source of all light. ‘Gather these treasures and keep them safe from all who would seek them. One will come, he will rise from the chaos, you will know him and you will follow him. He is my Lord of Light.’ As her eyes fell upon them, bathing them in her radiance they fell to their knees and wept, for they knew they had borne witness to the eternal light and all else would seem dim in comparison. Her people gathered her treasures then and retreated to the dark places of the world. Waiting for Him, the Lord of Light.”

“So? You read me a story for children and expect me to be impressed?” Normand said.

“Myth and rumour all have a whiff of truth to them, my lord.”

“And you think, some disciple of the goddess Eor is going to come down from the heavens, and rid the world of all darkness, is that it?”

“No, my lord. I think there are those who believe this will happen and are watching for a sign, folk hidden in the dark places… and the
high
places, anywhere hidden from sight. These people are possibly sitting on a vast treasure. They are waiting for their lord to come and take it from them.”

Normand paused, swirling the brandy in his mouth. “And if these mysterious people were sitting on a vast treasure how do you suppose we might convince them to part with it?”

Djangra set aside one book for another musty tome, before leafing through the crispy pages. “
The great king of the east, Jalen brought blood and fire to all realms. His was a reign of death and suffering, ushering in an age of darkness. From the midst of the storm rises the light, and none shine so bright as the Dragon Lord of Eor. From astride his great winged beast he casts down the Lord of Suffering and all who serve him in the world of man, even the mighty King Jalen who thought himself an immortal.”

“Dragon Lord, Lord of Light… you are giving me a headache, Mage. What do these stories have to do with me?”

“These books are written in different eras, by different authors. I believe they speak of the same man… entity… whatever. They are speaking of some kind of demigod made flesh who arrives into the world in times of great strife. Not once, but many times.”

“Well, thank you for the lesson in obscure theologies, but you are talking about a man riding a dragon, more children’s tales, more nonsense.” Normand drained his goblet and refilled it from a decanter sitting on a table by his side. He did not offer any refreshment to the mage.

“My lord, it is not important that you believe in the Lord of Light, or Dragon Lord, whatever he calls himself. Merely that the guardians of Eor’s treasure believe it, and believe that
you
are the Dragon Lord incarnate. Thereby making the entire hoard your birthright.”

“Assuming it even exists.”

“I think it does, my lord. Why else build this,” he circled his hands to encompass their surroundings, “a city in the middle of an inhospitable mountain range, for no apparent reason?”

“This place has been called the Thieves Citadel for a reason. It has been home to brigands and pirates for hundreds of years. That is the reason for its existence. That it was not raised to the ground years ago is a shame on my predecessors. The power of the bandits and their witch has been broken. Broken by me,” Normand answered.

“I’m sorry, my lord, but I believe there is more to it than that. This city may be hundreds of years old, but that temple is older still. It is at the heart of the city’s past. You believe the brigands brought the priestesses of Eor to their city, gave them a home and worshipped their god in exchange for their protection against those with larger and stronger armies. Well, I say it was the other way round. I believe the city built up around the temple and the priestesses allowed its reputation as a den of iniquity to spread, in order to mask its real purpose. As guardian of the treasure of Eor.”

Normand shook his head, clearly not convinced.

“These mountains are sacred to the followers of Eor,” Djangra continued. “They have other temples scattered about the Sunsai Empire and even some small ones secreted about the Duchies, and beyond. But this is where they believe their goddess walked among them. This is where her treasure is hidden.” His eyes blazed as he finished the last sentence.

“And how is it you’ve become such an expert on Eor, all of a sudden, Mage?” Normand demanded.

“As I said, my lord, I’ve been investigating their histories while you were hunting the mountain beast.”

“Even if what you say is true, how does one become a Dragon Lord?”

“By acting like one, my lord.”

“And I suppose you will conjure up a dragon to act as mine own steed.” Normand allowed himself a smile at his own joke.

“Who knows what may be found in the higher peaks of these mountains, my lord.”

“Do not talk nonsense. There are no dragons.”

“Perhaps, my lord.”

“My lord,” a stiff-backed servant interrupted the conversation. “A royal messenger awaits your pleasure.”

Normand’s eyebrows rose, as he threw a quizzical glance towards Djangra. “Send him in.” The servant bowed and beckoned with a raised hand.

The messenger hurried into the room, his tunic bearing the king’s coat of arms. His family’s crest was a boar’s head, in the upper half was the crest of the Duchies, three grey castles on a sky blue background. Topping this was a crown. He handed a rolled scroll to the duke, and waited to be dismissed. Normand did so with a wave of his hand before breaking the king’s wax seal and unrolling the parchment.

“His majesty,” Normand spat, making the title sound like an insult, “has called a council of nobles. He has requested all title holders present themselves by a new phase of the moon.”

“Less than two weeks away,” Djangra said. “Does he say why?”

“Yes.” Normand read through the royal message. “That old fool Elsward has had Nortmen overrun his duchy. The king is calling all dukes to a council of war to plan a strategy to protect the realm. In other words he’s looking for gold and men from each of us.”

“But surely, the north coast is constantly harassed by raids from the Pirate Isles. This is nothing new.”

Normand shrugged. “The king is calling it the greatest threat to the Duchies since his reign began. It would seem that this was more than the normal raid on a fishing village to snatch a few slaves and loot a few monasteries.”

“Will you go?” Djangra asked.

“I have no choice. Doubtless the king merely wishes to puff out his chest and scrape more taxes from already over burdened nobles.”

“With your leave, I would remain here to continue my research.”

Normand made an anxious face. “I am not altogether happy with so much distance between us, while the dream-witch yet roams free.”

Djangra quickly rummaged inside his tunic and pulled out a small silver chain. He held it up for the duke’s inspection. At one end dangled a small locket, a closer look and Normand could see the shape of a dragon embossed on the silver disc. The mage then pulled it open, two halves connected by a hinge. “I require a drop of your blood, my lord,” he said, holding out the locket.

Normand hesitated as he inspected the proffered locket and chain. “You wish me to bleed into this?” His iron glare—often enough to make men tremble—fixed on the mage.

“Yes, my lord. It is a ward. It will keep your dreams… your own,” he answered without flinching.

The duke drew a dagger from his belt and dragged it across the palm of his hand, ignoring the stinging pain he held up his hand and allowed his blood to drip into the locket. “Do not play me for a fool. I am not a patient man.”

“No, my lord,” Djangra answered, as he snapped the two halves together, before handing the locket and chain to the duke. “Wear it about your neck at all time. It will protect you from any attempts by Elandrial to enter your dreams.”

Normand put the chain around his neck and fastened the clasp, his hand still dripping blood.

One week later: on a cold damp morning, Normand was greeted at the main gates of the citadel by Djangra. “What’s all this?” the mage asked, surveying a line of mounted warriors lined up behind the duke. All wore blood red cloaks over their shoulders and identical helmets adorned with white horsehair plumes.

Normand had not seen the mage in the week since he had given him the locket. He was curious to know what news Djangra had about Eor and the mythical treasure he was convinced was hidden somewhere in the mountains, maybe even in the citadel. It would have to wait until he returned from the king’s council. “One must look one’s best for the king.”

Normand led his Dragon Knights, two score of the best fighting men in his army, through the gates of The Thieves Citadel, their red cloaks billowing behind them.

Tomas: The wild lands beyond Alka-Roha

T
omas packed all of their gear—which didn’t amount to much—threw it over his shoulder and followed Aliss down the stairs. The common room of the inn was shrouded in darkness, save for a single wax candle held by the innkeeper as he waited for them to leave. It was the happiest Tomas had seen him since they arrived. Harbouring armed foreigners under his roof evidently made him nervous. The duke’s three men waited on top of their mounts, as did Ivannia, courtesan and guide. All four appeared spectral in the pooled moonlight, Aliss even more so. She looked pale, sickly even, yet her spirits seemed bright enough.

Ivannia had told them it would take two days at a steady pace to reach the temple. Tomas hoped fervently that they would find the dream-witch there, and would be done with this dangerous quest once and for all. As they set out on their trek, leaving the red walls of Alka-Roha behind, the sun bled crimson light into the horizon, turning the barren landscape into a bed of fiery waste.

Aliss smiled when she caught Tomas’s eye. “It’s beautiful,” she said.

“Aye, it has a certain charm, for a bleak wasteland,” he answered. She shook her head at his cynical attitude, but kept on smiling regardless.

The heat of the day quickly overwhelmed the cool morning as the sun rose steadily into an azure sky. Tomas cast his mind to the valley and the village of Woodvale where autumn would be turning the woods around the village into a magical kingdom of orange, yellow and plum leaves, where cool breezes would carry the musky perfume of the forest to his workshop. There would be a chill in the air most mornings, with a mist covering the fields and wrapping gossamer strands around the spindly branches of trees. He snuck a glance at his woman then, her straight hair the colour of a fresh snowfall, where once it had been like a field of wheat in summertime, her constantly shifting, storm cloud eyes a dark reminder of events past. The dark magic used by the old witch Haera had changed her physically, he could see that, but how much had she changed on the inside. It was her right to know what Haera had done… what he had agreed to; that dark, evil deed; using one life to save another. Yet, how could he tell her?

They took a break, shortly after the sun reached its highest point in the sky, at a small watering hole, where tall skinny trees, capped with long green leaves, towered over them. Tomas was glad of the rest even if the trees offered little shade from the heat of the burning sun. The water at least was cool and fresh. They refilled their waterskins and splashed water onto the backs of their necks and heads, before passing around loaves of flat bread they had bought from the innkeeper before leaving.

Horace sat down beside Ivannia leering at her as he did so. When she got up to sit elsewhere he made to follow until Aliss intervened. “Leave her be.” The tracker shot her a dark look but stayed where he was.

“I wish for my payment now,” Ivannia blurted out.

“No,” Horace said. “Pay her now and the whore will sneak away at the first opportunity.”

Tomas watched each of them in turn, sensing something was going on, but not knowing what it was. He could see by her eyes that Aliss was thinking the same. “Why do you wish to be paid now?” she asked the courtesan.

“I do not trust you to pay me once I’ve shown you the way. That one least of all.” She nodded in the direction of the tracker.

“And what if you are lying and know of no such temple?” Aliss met the dark eyes of Ivannia without flinching. “What if you take our gold and abandon us somewhere in the desert?”

“I do not lie!” she spat. “Pay me now or I will return to Alka-Roha and you can wander out here until the skin falls off your bones.”

Horace stood up, sliding his dagger from its sheath on his belt. Tomas stepped between them. “Give her half,” he said.

“Don’t be a fool,” Horace snapped.

“It is the duke’s coin, what do you care? Give her half.”

Horald and Ronwald were both on their feet now, their meal forgotten. Ivannia stared defiantly at the tracker and held out her hand.

“If she runs…”

“Just give her some coin, and let’s be done with it,” Horald said.