Nightchild

by James Barclay

  Darrick turned to Izack. “Deploy the cavalry. Mounted. No one gets near this ship. If it attempts to leave, burn the sails.” He looked back to Selik.

  “You are unwelcome, Selik. And you will never make open waters. Be mindful before you raise sail.”

  “Your warning is obviously appreciated,” said Selik. “But I feel it to be a waste of your breath.” The man turned from the rail.

  Darrick dismounted and led his horse toward the Lakehome Inn to watch and think. Izack marshalled the cavalry, and in short order, the entire column formed a semicircle, four deep, interspersed with mages. Shields were cast and the offensive mage force sat at the centre of the formation, spells prepared, waiting.

  Already to the east, he could hear hooves on stone and he wondered whether Selik would not be proved right. Reluctantly, he remounted and trotted his horse to the western end of the Lysternan formation. Snapping his fingers, he waved over an elven cavalryman.

  “What can you see?”

  “Several hundred riders in Dordovan colours. Our escort mages are among them, riding close to the head of the column.”

  “Really.” Darrick's jaw set. He held up an arm. Hush fell in the ranks.

  “Guard. These are not necessarily friendly faces. Look to me. Look to Commander Izack. Once again, guard.”

  His voice carried clear to the Ocean Elm too. He studied the ship. Somewhere on board, Erienne was captive. The elves moved about, seemingly unhindered, but the Black Wings watched their every move. This would have to be played out with great care. He could still scarcely believe there was a link between the Dordovans and the Witch Hunters but the evidence was growing. Selik had to be buying time, readying for sail. If he got clear, the problems would mount.

  “How far?” he asked, not turning his head. He could see the torches but the distance was hard to judge.

  “They'll be here imminently. A three-wide column. Not tight. You wouldn't have been happy, sir.”

  Darrick looked across to the elf. “I'm sure I wouldn't.”

  “That's not a compliment, sir, merely the way it is,” said the elf, suddenly nervous. “It may point to a lack of discipline in the column.”

  “Point taken. Let's wait and see, eh?”

  “Yes sir.”

  The Dordovan mounted force emerged from the shadows, sweeping around the fish market. Darrick could see what the elf meant.

  “Remind Izack of your name,” said the General. “I'll be asking for it later.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Seeing the Lysternan defence, the Dordovan cavalry reined in. At their head was a man Darrick didn't recognise. He was a mage, not a soldier.

  “General Darrick,” said the mage, his tone not matching his smile.

  “For the second time tonight, I am at a loss. I would have your name.”

  “Gorstan,” replied the mage. “Aide to Vuldaroq, Tower Lord.”

  “I have the ship under guard,” said Darrick. “Odd that you've been here this long and not seen the Black Wing threat. I would have expected you at the dockside sooner.”

  Gorstan's smile was feeble. “There is no threat, General Darrick. A meeting of minds, if not ethics. Call it an alliance of temporary convenience and necessity.”

  There it was. Darrick sat stunned in the saddle, his hopes that Arlen had been mistaken lying in tatters; and behind him, even his disciplined cavalry whispered and moved in their saddles. He held up a hand to silence them. He could take the Dordovans, but in their wake the Protectors were coming, and Xetesk wanted the child too. He couldn't afford the bloodshed among his own men, nor the confusion.

  And in the jail languished the men he knew he should have listened to all along. You could trust The Raven like you couldn't College hierarchy and men were about to pay with their lives for his lack of faith in his old friends.

  Darrick flicked the reins of his horse and walked it forward, signalling for Gorstan to do the same. The two met in the ten yards of space between the cavalry forces. Darrick kept his voice deliberately low.

  “Tell me you haven't sanctioned the Black Wing action.”

  “Each to their own strengths, General. The Black Wings said they were adept at ship-taking and it appears they were right. No Dordovans were harmed and we have Erienne.”

  “You have delivered one of your own to the Witch Hunters. It makes you no better than them.” Darrick squeezed the reins he held, determined not to move a hand in angry gesture, a sign he considered weak in front of his cavalry.

  Gorstan shifted a little in his saddle.

  “General, there are times when we must ally with the devils amongst us to obstruct a greater ill. We are facing such today and Balaia will thank us for our actions.”

  “Erienne is a Dordovan,” spat Darrick.

  “She is a maverick who made her choice when she deserted the College and damned us all,” said Gorstan. “Are you blind to that?”

  “No, I am not, but neither do I think that she, of all people, should be exposed to the Black Wings.”

  “Your compassion will be your undoing,” said Gorstan.

  “And your unholy alliance will be yours.”

  Gorstan paused. “I take it you are still in support of the accord between the elders of our respective Colleges.”

  The pulse beat hard in Darrick's neck. Every moment of his training bade him simply to nod his head and ignore the consequences, foisting all blame and guilt on those who gave the orders. It was the way of the career soldier. Normally.

  “They kill what they do not understand,” said Darrick.

  Gorstan shrugged. “Sometimes, it is the only way.”

  Darrick could almost see Vuldaroq's fat face nodding his agreement. Even alliance with Xetesk seemed a preferable plan to what he was presented with now. He drew a long breath, acutely aware of the effect of his next utterance.

  “I cannot and will not speak for those under my charge but no, I do not offer my support. Neither do I offer my blessing or my belief in the outcome justifying the means. Your actions sicken me to the pit of my stomach and I have nothing but contempt for Dordover and for any in Lystern who were party to this abomination.”

  Gorstan merely smiled. “I do believe that is treason, General Darrick.”

  “So be it.”

  “Vuldaroq said you were trouble.”

  “I think the term you're looking for is honourable. A quality apparently in very short supply.”

  “I—”

  “Be quiet, Dordovan. I am tired of your bleating. I will now announce my intentions to my cavalry. They will act on their own wills. You and I will have no further contact. Indeed, if we meet again, your life is forfeit.”

  “Honour.” Gorstan chuckled. “You would see Balaia fall for it. Fool. Why do you think Lystern is so weak?”

  Darrick burned to say something more, to drag the mage from his horse and punch him until his sneers were bubbles of blood and bile in a toothless mouth. But he knew he couldn't.

  “Like I said, no further contact.” He wheeled his mount and walked it back to his men.

  Aeb strode easily at the side of the mounted lead mage, Sytkan. The Protectors were resting after running through the day and into the night, after word from Arlen of the Black Wings’ expulsion earlier in the day. The suspicion had been that trouble would flare later, probably under the cover of darkness, and the Protectors, at the time still more than thirty miles from the town over rough terrain, had been forced to make up a lot of time. There had been no further Communion.

  A couple of miles outside the town, they had picked up the Dordovans; foot soldiers trailing their horse-borne comrades by half a mile and steadily losing ground. Forward scouts reported a force of two hundred foot plus one hundred and fifty cavalry and mounted mages in all. The foot soldiers were undefended.

  Sytkan had immediately called for rest pace but had requested that Aeb order battle psyche, priming the Protectors for the potential fight.

  There was a decision to be made. Ae
b understood there were political considerations but did not respect the reluctance to order battle. Dordover had announced its intentions days before on the borders of the Xeteskian mage lands. The foot soldiers were a threat to the success of the overall mission. Protectors were bred to remove threat.

  “Opinion, Aeb,” said Sytkan.

  “Engagement outside Arlen is more efficient,” said Aeb. “There is more room for deployment, a reduction in the capacity of the enemy to flee effectively and minimal risk to innocents.”

  “You can surround them?”

  “Yes, my mage.” Aeb betrayed no reaction though the tactic was clearly the most obvious to employ. It would make the battle swift. They outnumbered the enemy by almost three to two.

  “But can we justify the attack?” asked Sytkan. “Opinion, Aeb?”

  “They are Dordovans moving to join their cavalry. They pose a greater threat if they do so. Here they are weak.”

  “That is not justification,” said the mage.

  “They are the enemy,” said Aeb.

  “Yes, they are.”

  Aeb waited for the order. Behind him were the vanguard, now separated by less than a hundred yards from thirty more mounted mages and three hundred and fourteen Protectors. It had to come soon. Flanking the Dordovans would take a little time and the lights of the town were now plainly visible.

  “Will you need magical assistance?” asked Sytkan.

  “Unnecessary. Containment is easier with weapons alone.”

  “You think they'll scatter under magical assault?”

  “We would,” affirmed Aeb.

  “Attack at will.”

  “Yes, my mage.” Aeb didn't break his stride as he issued the orders.

  Flanking attack. First centile right, second centile left, third centile form crescent for rear attack. Encirclement desired, balance to protect our Given. Silent running. Execute.

  Aeb broke into a run, leaving the remainder of the vanguard plus designated brothers to guard the mages. Soon, he was joined by three brothers, the first centile tracking right away from the path, their pace even and matched by those to the left. The crescent following would form a little further along the track, lining three deep and closing with the rear of the flanking columns.

  The ground was flat and open and despite the dark, the noise the Dordovans would be creating and the relative silence of the Protectors, Aeb only expected to overhaul a third of the enemy column before being seen. It would be enough.

  The Protectors ate up the ground, Aeb's centile on a slight rise to the path, those of the left on a down slope. Weapons were strapped across their backs on snap fastenings and made little sound as they sped along the trail. Aeb could already see the figures of the Dordovans ahead, their torches bouncing as they moved, their formation tight, five broad, and their pace quick. But they were not expecting trouble behind them. The forward Protector scouts had reported no dropped tail guard for the marchers and no vanguard ahead. Both fatal mistakes.

  Slowing, front of first and second centiles approaching the tail, pulsed Aeb. Prepare the sweep on my word.

  He could hear the enemy now. Chatter in the ranks, not a Xeteskian failing. But these men believed they were already victorious and their discipline was the worse for it.

  Running in deep gloom perhaps forty yards from the enemy, Aeb bade the brothers scan them for signs they had seen the attack coming in. As it was, a quarter of the way up the column an elven voice rose in alarm.

  “Left flank, left flank. I've got runners at thirty-plus yards. Check right.”

  A voice answered almost immediately.

  “Runners right flank.”

  Even as the Dordovan column slowed and the night came alive with the sound of swords whipping from scabbards, Aeb pulsed the command to break. The flanking centiles sprinted forward, angling in toward the front of the column.

  The Protectors were silent, snapping axes and blades from their backs as they came, and Aeb heard their name taken up throughout the enemy ranks and could see the fear in their faces.

  Archers.

  Bowmen sent a flight of arrows skyward. They were too few and too inaccurate to cause problems and only one found a home in the arm of a brother. He discarded his axe, another closed up to protect his injured side, and he pulsed that he would continue.

  Centile rear, close. We meet the left. Attack spread, double rank.

  Aeb curved around, seeing the brothers from the left centile cruising in to close the trap. Like a wave breaking at angles to the shore, the Protectors’ flank lines formed and attacked the Dordovans, Aeb straightening his run and smashing into the bemused enemy's front, their panic already spreading.

  First pace in, Aeb chopped his axe left to right across the body of his opponent, feeling the blade bite flesh as it beat the guard which had been placed to anticipate an overhead. Beside him, Xye blocked a blow on his axe and drove his blade through, straight and waist high, stabbing it clear through the enemy's body, making light of the chain-and-leather armour.

  In front of Aeb, the enemy still stood and somehow struck out in an upward arc. Aeb swayed back and flat-bladed his axe into the man's face before driving his sword up between the victim's legs, splitting his groin and showering blood five feet in every direction.

  Rear centile engaged. Back line breached.

  Upper right block axe, Xye. Control, sword low, strike forward.

  Xye complied. A man died.

  Aeb felt the calm detachment of imminent victory. Pulsing commands left and right, he brought the Protectors in, allowing any wounded, and there were precious few, to fall back as the ring tightened. Seeing they were trapped, the Dordovan voices rose further, their blows came in harder and wilder, and their defensive formation buckled and heaved. Although noise flowed around and over Aeb, he concentrated on the pulsed messages in his mind, leaving the desperation to those he faced.

  He buried his axe in the neck of a Dordovan, the man grasping at the weapon as he fell. Aeb let it go, retaining his balance and blocking high with his blade as directed by the brother behind him. He turned his attention on the astonished enemy, smashed a fist into his mouth and nose, knocking him back before reversing his blade across his chest.

  The sword screamed against chain mail ringlets, sending sparks flying and knocking the wind out of the man. He was in no state to defend the next strike which tore out his throat, spattering gore on Aeb's mask. He shook his head to clear the drips over his eye slits.

  No one lives. No one goes home, he pulsed.

  We will be victorious. We are one.

  The Protectors drove on, their weapons flashing dully under the clouded sky as their enemy's torches sputtered to extinction on the muddy ground. The screams of the hapless Dordovans diminished as they fell. One threw down his weapon in a gesture of surrender. Xye beheaded him in the next heartbeat.

  And so it was over. Aeb's final Dordovan took a blow through his gut and he and half a dozen comrades breathed their last.

  We are one.

  We are victorious.

  Report, pulsed Aeb.

  Three Protectors were down. Twenty-one had cuts, of which twelve would not fight again that night. Aeb felt a surge of annoyance. Somewhere, their discipline had failed them.

  No, pulsed Xye. The cornered fight like two men. Desperation breeds strength in the dying.

  Then we assumed too much. Learn, brothers, learn.

  We are one.

  Aeb retrieved his axe and cleaned the blades of both his weapons on the clothes of the fallen, before handing them to Xye to replace in their back mounts, a favour he reciprocated. Stooping and tearing a length of cleaner cloth from a Dordovan shirt, he wiped over his mask and shoulders, turning to greet the approaching Sytkan.

  “I would say congratulations but it seems a heartless statement in the face of such slaughter.”

  “We are victorious,” said Aeb.

  “So I can see,” said Sytkan, surveying the carnage with obvious disgust. “S
urely they tried to surrender at some stage. Report.”

  “Prisoners are a threat,” said Aeb.

  “And that's it?”

  “We have no capacity to hold prisoners,” said Aeb.

  The mage sighed. “No, I suppose not. Retrieve any masks and have any wounded report to a mage. Leave any that can't run and form up. The battle is not over. Problems?”

  “None. We will return this way?”

  “Of course. Let's go, Aeb.”

  The Protector chosen issued the orders and soon the army ran on into Arlen.

  Darrick turned his mount and faced his cavalry, aware that whatever he said would carry to Selik too. It couldn't be helped. His men stood expectant, quiet, their horses calm, flanks steaming in the pale light of the lanterns and torches on ship and in hand. Earl Arlen would doubtless be here before long but it wasn't him Darrick feared. It was the Protectors. He hadn't let it show but The Unknown's words had struck home. He didn't want to be seen as a coward. He nodded to Izack.

  “General speaking!” shouted the commander. The silence became deeper. Darrick saw Selik saunter back on to the deck of the Ocean Elm.

  “I am surprised, disappointed and disgusted to confirm that the Dordovans behind me are in full support of the Black Wings on the ship to my right.” He paused as a ripple ran through the company. He held up a hand and continued.

  “As you are aware, our Council has agreed to support the Dordovan Council in its efforts to secure the child and return her to safe keeping. But clearly the desire has changed and instead the Dordovans have willingly delivered the child's mother, a Dordovan herself, into the hands of the Witch Hunters.

  “We are not, therefore, being invited to retake the ship, and indeed our task has become one of defence of the vessel and its current incumbents.” Another pause but this time there was no sound. Izack would know what was coming. For many of the rest it was a hammer blow.

  “I cannot speak for any of you on this because it is for the individual consciences of you all. You know what is happening to Balaia; the elements batter us and it is magic that drives them. We all accept that this must stop but the method is apparently not so clear.