“You'll kill us if we continue to follow you?”
“Quick, isn't he?” said Hirad.
The Unknown ceased tapping his sword point.
“We don't want to but we can't risk you jeopardising what we have to do either. So turn around now and go back the way you came.”
More hesitation. Behind the front pair, the second whispered urgent words.
“Is there something you're confused about?” asked Hirad, his voice loud and harsh in the silence of the forest. The wind stilled momentarily before a fresh gust plucked at cloak, hair and mane, whistling through the jumbled branches.
“I'm not used to being threatened,” said the heavyset man.
“It's not a threat,” said The Unknown. “Call it heartfelt advice.”
Hirad couldn't stop the smile touching his face. The Unknown had used the same words to face down Styliann, a former Lord of the Mount and a rather more powerful adversary.
“I don't see this as a laughing matter,” said one of the second pair, stepping forward between the horses. He was midheight, younger than his companions, with a long nose and small mouth below hooded eyes.
Hirad felt the tension rise. The four men hadn't been ready for a fight before. Perhaps they were now. He and The Unknown gazed on unmoving. From behind them, Ilkar spoke.
“Please don't make this difficult because it's really very simple,” he said. “You were following us, we don't want you to, and we've asked you very politely to stop doing so. I suggest we all calm down and go our separate ways. What do you say?”
Hirad and The Unknown both nodded and Hirad saw three of the men relax but the heavyset one pursed his lips.
“We have direct orders,” he said, more in explanation than anything else.
“Well now you have new ones,” said Hirad.
“Hirad, shut up,” hissed The Unknown. “Look, no one's watching you. Just report back you saw us headed in the direction of Greythorne but lost us in Thornewood.” He shrugged. “But before you go, tell me who sent you to follow us. Dordover?”
The man nodded. “And losing you was not an option we were given,” he said, and as if he'd reminded his colleagues of a forgotten fact, the tension returned.
Ilkar chuckled gently. “Oh, come on. I know Vuldaroq and the Dordovan Quorum are keen to get their prodigy back but they'll hardly have your heads for losing us, will they?”
The answering silence hinted that they believed otherwise.
“Either way, fighting us will not help you,” said The Unknown. “Because whoever wins, you will have ‘lost’ us, won't you?”
For a moment, they stood on the verge of fatal indecision. Then, the heavyset man's face twisted in what passed for a lopsided grin. He inclined his head and put up his sword.
“Let's not spill blood here,” he said. Hushing his companions, he turned them round and they mounted and left the crag clearing.
The Unknown put a finger to his lips and the three of them stood silent until the hoofbeats died away.
“You know what they'll do, don't you?” he said.
“Of course,” said Ilkar.
“Then if you'd be so kind, Ilkar,” he invited.
The elf smiled, formed the shape for a CloakedWalk, stepped forward and disappeared, his footfall utterly silent in this mockery of his ancestral home.
“C'mon Hirad,” said The Unknown. “Let's go. They won't be tracking us back through here.”
“Ahead, you think?”
“No doubt about it.”
Hirad smiled and they led all three horses on an angled path to exit the wood about half a mile from where they'd entered it, a slow enough passage to give Ilkar time to find their followers and let them believe The Raven had swallowed the lie.
Ilkar was disappointed. They really weren't very good at all. Having exited Thornewood the way they'd entered it, the quartet had turned east and trotted along not far from its edge, leaving a trail only the senseless could fail to follow. He broke into a jog and skirted the boundaries of the wood, the wind steadily picking up in strength at his back, cloud now thick and threatening overhead in the grey, dank afternoon sky.
He found them a couple of miles down, slowed to a walk and deep in discussion, one of them making angles with his hands and pointing first into the woodland and then away over the open ground toward Greythorne. Apparently arriving at a decision, they ducked back under cover, having to force their way into the tangled foliage. Ilkar noted their position before walking back to where he estimated Hirad and The Unknown would be waiting. Knowing the way through the forest would be difficult, particularly while leading horses, he took his time.
“Well?” came The Unknown's voice from a deep patch of shadow.
Ilkar grinned and pushed into the foliage, its shelter cutting the strength of the wind that was gusting up to gale force. It was gone midafternoon and the light was beginning to fade.
“A mile and a half ahead, just under the eaves, probably split to cover a wider angle. How do you want to play it?”
The Unknown thought for a moment. “Hirad, fancy a little forest stroll?”
Hirad knew they'd be there. He hadn't fought with either of them for four years and more but his confidence in them was undimmed. He'd been able to move quickly through Thornewood now he wasn't encumbered by his horse, the increasing wind creaking through shattered trunks and twisted limbs of trees, rustling dead leaves to a parody of life, dancing in the air and along the dusty floor.
Hirad was a quiet mover but not like Ilkar. The elves had something with the forests that he had never been able to fathom, let alone replicate. Only Thraun, of any human he had known, had come close and there was tragic reason enough for that.
The Dordovan trackers were well-spaced and well-hidden along the perimeter where they expected The Raven to either exit or pass by before turning to Greythorne. But Hirad had done enough hunting to understand shadow and silence and he was only scant yards from the right-hand-most man before he drew his sword and spoke.
“Was there something we said you didn't quite grasp?” he growled.
The man started violently and spun round as he stood, twigs snapping underfoot.
“Trouble!” he called.
“I never strike at unarmed men,” said Hirad. “So I suggest you arm yourself.” He came to ready in the tight space of tangled branch, leaf and bramble.
The man pulled out his long sword. “I need help over here!” There was an answering call but it was troubled, not supportive. He was scared. Hirad could see it in his eyes and in the set of his body, and chose to be wary. Scared men were unpredictable and there was no room for manoeuvre.
“No help is coming,” said Hirad, and stepped back a pace, beckoning his opponent on with one hand. He heard other urgent shouts echoing on the wind and knew he was right.
The man sprang forward, unleashing a swift attack, his tall frame and long arms giving him good reach. Hirad stood his ground, blocking high, then to his midriff, eventually pushing away with his free hand as he deflected a second strike to his neck. The man stumbled back off balance, one arm flailing out at an outstretched branch as he sought to steady himself, feet slipping on a dusting of leaves.
Hirad moved in, thrusting straight at the stomach, expecting and getting a half block. He used the pace and change of direction to wheel his sword in a tight circle around his head, left to right. Almost too late, the tracker saw the blow coming and ducked, the blade skipping hard off his helmet.
Hirad swore, his assailant gasped and swayed but didn't go down, shaking his head, clearly groggy. He formed an uninspiring defence, wobbling slightly and backing away. Behind him, he could see two more shapes, one advancing on and hulking over the other, his sword low, no doubt tapping at the earth.
Hirad grinned harshly, batted aside the attempted jab and buried his blade in his opponent's neck, stepping smartly aside as blood spat from the severed artery. Gurgling, the victim fell, his life blood draining away into the forest floo
r.
Looking up, Hirad saw The Unknown straight-arm his enemy in the face before smashing his sword through his legs. The man dropped, screaming his last. Two down. Hirad moved. Ilkar had the other two. The ghost of concern flickered across his mind but an icy blast roared across him some twenty yards away and he knew he shouldn't have even begun to worry.
The Unknown appeared at his shoulder, sheathing his cleaned sword.
“Good work. Ilkar wanted the other two. They were a mage pair.”
“Oh, I see.” Hirad scrambled toward the source of the IceWind he'd felt surging into the dead woodland. “Ilkar?” There was no answer for a while.
“Over here.” Hirad changed direction and came upon the elf kneeling by the twisted corpses of the tracker mages. He'd always found the sight of IceWind victims unnerving. Frozen in the attitude of life but with the pain etched in their faces of the instant of death, like paintings depicting the onset of terror.
“Didn't think you were keen on that spell,” he said.
“I'm not,” said Ilkar vaguely. “It's somewhat indiscriminate. Still, nothing much else in the firing line on this occasion.” He hadn't looked round.
“What's up?” asked Hirad.
“See for yourself.” He moved away and indicated the exposed neck of one whose helmet lay nearby. “This isn't right at all.”
Hirad frowned and bent to look. The light wasn't good but it was enough to show him the telltale tattoo below the ear.
“What the—?” He looked up and round. “Unknown, what the hell is going on?”
The men hadn't been sent by Dordover. They were Black Wings.
Selik finally found an outlet for his anger and frustration a day north of Arlen. The ride toward the town, where all of his reports indicated he should station himself and the bulk of the Black Wings, had been brooding and unpleasant. The changeable weather had alternately frozen and soaked him, practically blown him from his horse on more occasions than he cared to count and finally, a hailstorm had bitten lumps from his face.
Yet still most of Balaia just thought it was freak weather. They hadn't grasped what was behind it. Why would they? After all, the mages held such sway over their minds most of the time that the truth would be denounced as something akin to heresy. But he couldn't keep silent and still sleep at night. Magic was causing chaos all across his country and it was a cancer that had to be excised.
Vuldaroq had been fulsome in his explanations of the Tinjata Prophecy and how the bitch and her child were the only ones to blame but Selik knew it ran deeper than that. When magic was the problem, all mages closed ranks, making them all as guilty as each other. The time for tolerance of any College was past and what he couldn't use from them, he would discard.
He finally lost his tenuous hold on his temper on the borders of Easthome. A small farming community numbering perhaps one hundred and fifty families, Easthome lay close enough to Arlen to enjoy healthy trade from the prosperous port. Its hardworking people had farmed the land for generations, their crops feeding themselves and selling into Arlen's busy markets, their grain reaching as far as Calaius. But not this year.
With late afternoon waning toward evening, Selik and his eight cohorts rode up to the village, looking for lodging before joining the rest of the Black Wings in Arlen the following day. The calamity that had befallen Easthome unfolded before them as they neared. Crops lay flattened, fences and hedges had been uprooted, barns and farms had lost roofs. Stables had collapsed.
Outside one farmhouse, Selik reined in by a man who stood staring out across his ruined fields, barely acknowledging the men who stopped beside him. Selik dismounted and the farmer turned to him, the expression on his face one of disbelief and defeat. He was a young man, not yet thirty, with a broad muscular frame, fair hair and a heavy brow.
“What happened?” asked Selik.
The farmer looked at him closely and then past him to his men who remained mounted.
“Black Wings?” he said. Selik nodded. “Come to try and stop the wind from blowing, have you? Best you leave us to sort ourselves out. We don't want trouble.”
“And I will bring you none,” slurred Selik, attempting a smile. “Wind did all this?”
The farmer nodded. “Blew out of nowhere just a night ago. From a clear sky. Every one of us has lost his crop. Some have lost their animals and houses too. I've been luckier if you can call it that.” He turned back to his fields. “I mean, we'd be all right but…We've grain in the store to see us through but no one else, and four days ago a hundred and more from Orytte came here. They've lost everything.”
“I didn't know,” said Selik, though he could guess exactly what had happened. The farmer confirmed it.
“The sea came and took the town,” he said. “Most of them are dead, so the survivors say. We'd have sent them on to Arlen but none of them want to see water again. I guess you can understand that. So we took them in and now we can't feed them. Not for long.”
Selik glanced back at his men who were listening to the exchange, some shaking their heads. Selik breathed out, his chest suddenly painful where the cold had touched him so deeply. It merely served to stoke his determination.
“So what are you doing about it?” he asked not unkindly.
The farmer jerked a thumb toward the village centre. “There's some meeting about it now down at the inn. There's a lot of anger down there. People want answers before they starve this winter. Apparently Evansor's going to appeal to the Colleges for help. They've got the wealth, haven't they?”
“And Evansor is…?” Again, Selik knew the answer.
“Our mage,” confirmed the farmer.
Selik spat. “Mages. You'll get nothing from them.” The vehemence of his words made the farmer start. “Gods, man, they are the cause of all this. Do you really think it's natural? A hurricane from a clear sky, the sea taking Orytte? And there's so much more it would break your heart. Magic is to blame.”
The farmer frowned. “Well we've heard stories but Evansor…”
“Evansor, yes,” said Selik, his voice chill. He ached to confront him, to declaim him for the fraud he undoubtedly was. “Very persuasive. Very understanding, no doubt.” He leant in. “But believing a mage is offering your life to a murderer.” He swung away and hauled himself back into his saddle. “And why aren't you there, at the meeting?”
“Because I have to look out for my own. And because there'll be trouble there before the night's out.”
“Yes, there will,” said Selik. “But it's the start of something righteous.”
“So what do we do when we find her?” asked Hirad.
The Raven had stopped not long after leaving Thornewood, dismounting to sit on the top of a slope up which the wind roared, blowing away the scent of blood and death. They were sitting in a line, the harsh cold wind in their faces, sharing a waterskin before riding the last leg to Greythorne. They planned to arrive a couple of hours after nightfall.
The Unknown put down the skin, ramming home the stopper with the heel of his palm.
“Good question? But don't you mean ‘if’?”
“No, I mean ‘when,’” said Hirad, looking across at his friend, his close-cropped scalp dull under the heavy cloud, his eyes suggesting his mind was elsewhere. “Like always.”
Ilkar chuckled. “Glad to see you haven't lost any confidence in your ability, Hirad.”
“It's just a job, when all's said and done.” He shrugged. “Pay's not up to much but still, once taken, always completed. The question still stands, though. The way I see it, we've got Witch Hunters and Dordovans, Xeteskians and the Gods know who else after this girl. Where will she be safe?”
“Where she is, I expect,” said Ilkar a little gruffly.
“And you think that's a bad thing?” asked The Unknown. “Surely, we're not necessarily doing anything with her. Perhaps we are just making sure she's safe. Lyanna's Denser and Erienne's daughter, let's not ever lose sight of that.”
Ilkar made a growlin
g noise in his throat. “It's not that simple, Unknown, and you know it. You can't dress it up as a search for a little girl. Who she is and what she represents are driving this whole mess. Look around you. Gods, look above you now. See what she is unwittingly creating.”
They all looked. The heavens were filled with a dense dark cloud, driven hard across the sky, unbroken and malevolent. When the rain inevitably came, it would be torrential.
“You're blaming Lyanna for it being cloudy?” asked Hirad. “I've got to tell you, I'm finding this all rather far-fetched.”
“Hirad, the evidence is overwhelming,” said Ilkar.
“Is it? An ancient mage writes a prophecy two thousand years ago and all of a sudden he's talking about Lyanna?” Hirad shook his head. “Look I know we've had some unseasonal weather lately but—”
“Unseasonal?” Ilkar gasped. “We're supposed to be bringing in our crops in the next few weeks under the warming autumn sun. Instead we're having earthquakes and hurricanes and I've forgotten what the sun looks like. Gods, Hirad, in the Balan Mountains, it rained so hard I thought my head would shatter. You can't possibly think this is normal.”
Hirad shrugged. “Fair enough, it's not normal but nothing you've said points the finger at Lyanna. I mean, it could be anyone.”
“Like who?” snapped Ilkar.
“He's right, though, Ilkar,” said The Unknown. “This is all so much theory.”
“But back in Julatsa you said—” began Ilkar.
“I said that Dordover believe the Tinjata Prophecy. And now it seems that the Black Wings have jumped on the wagon, which is hardly a surprise. And that's why I'm chasing Erienne and Lyanna. To stop them. That doesn't mean I believe it myself.”
Ilkar paused to think. He pushed a hand through his hair. “I can see I won't persuade you both now but you'll see. I just need you to trust me on this. Lyanna is an innocent child but this elemental mess is caused by magical forces and I believe she is the focus, just like Dordover does. I can all but smell the mana playing around us now and it's not the natural way of mana. If we're proved right then there are ramifications for the whole Collegiate system. This has to be handled right.”
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