Dreams of Darkness Rising by Ross M. Kitson Page B

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