Dreams of Darkness Rising by Ross M. Kitson Page A

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 was 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