Darkness Rising 1 - Chained

Chapter 12; 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.”