Free Dreams of Darkness Rising by Ross M. Kitson

quiver of arrows to their slender hips.
    “Netreptans,” Mother Gresham said. “Good captain, I didn’t know you worked with the bird-men thus.”
    Ris preened his beard, as if the association with the Netreptans had made him fancy himself a peacock. His soldiers exchanged weary glances.
    “It’s a new move from the council. Highlord Cranston felt it would be a good show of unity with them, especially during the Choosing. They’re a bit strange to work with—must be the thin air in their cloud cities.”
    Abila, Torm and Emelia continued to stare at the pair of Netreptans, amazed that such creatures could accept the command of one such as Captain Ris.
    “I mean every four years that this festival comes here is such a strain on our garrison. You probably weren’t aware of this, girls, as you’re too young to remember your arrival here, but it takes days for all these foreigners to get used to the clean Coonorian air. I’ll warrant the boy knows what I’m talking about. You make a Miroth run around the town on his first night and he’s liable to faint dead away.”
    Abila had wandered off further into the square and Emelia glanced at Mother Gresham enquiringly. Mother nodded her permission whilst listening to Ris’s chatter, indicating for her to take Torm. Emelia slipped the cloth bag onto the rickshaw and the pair ran to catch up with their friend.
    It would be an untruth to say that Emelia feared crowds but today felt somehow odd. A knot of unease began in her belly as she slipped through the gaggle of people. Glancing to her side she noticed several city folk scowling at her and one or two whispering as she passed.
    “Emelia, about the other week,” Torm said. “In the corridor, I…”
    “You don’t need to say anything. It was just bad luck on my part. I’m trying to forget it. So should you.”
    “I should have got the sword and…”
    “You’d be the main show on the gallows today if you had. No, Torm, thank you for being so noble but let’s not talk of it again.”
    Torm nodded and they wriggled through the throng.
    Abila had come to stand before a troupe of carnival folk, along with about two- dozen others. Emelia balked at the show that was being performed before them. She had detested the masked troubadours that Eerians referred to as masques for many years.
    The show today was an enactment of some ancient magical battle in a far away land called Kevor and the masques rolled and mimed their imaginary spells to the whoops of the crowd, throwing red cloths to symbolise the blasts of magical fire. Their faces were wooden caricatures, with bulbous noses and garish cheeks that muffled their speech to a near indiscernible point.
    “They’re hideous,” Torm said.
    Emelia shuddered and said, “Mother used to be fond of scaring us with stories about the terrible plague helmets of old. The helmets were created during the Plague of Dust that wiped out old Azagunta.”
    “What did they look like?”
    “She said they had funnelled beaks and glass eyes. Blessed Torik, I didn’t sleep for a month after that.”
    Torm smiled and touched Emelia’s arm lightly. The slave girl blushed and glanced over Torm’s shoulder. Four women were looking in disgust at her and sneering.
    The noise of the crowd escalated as the play neared its finale and Emelia caught the eyes of two Eerian women smirking at her. She glanced down, her heart pounding, feeling the press of the crowd all around. Her breathing was getting shallower with the heat of the bodies that were beginning to jostle and push. It was as if she couldn’t inhale properly and a sudden vision of being crushed under a stampede of people came upon her. She tasted sour bile in her mouth and her yarkel-wool cloak felt heavy and stifling. Her shaking hand reached to her shell necklace for reassurance.
    Then a soft voice whispered in her ear.
    “I know what you heard, little maid. I know what you did.”
    Emelia’s whole body went icy and she turned in