Noonshade

by James Barclay

  “I think I must be the only honest Baron left,” he said.

  Blackthorne chuckled and patted Gresse's thigh with his left hand.

  “That class of Baron is extinct and, try as you might, you will never convince me you are actually its long-lost last member. My people have experienced your brand of honesty in Taranspike Pass on more than one occasion.”

  “It's a treacherous place,” said Gresse, his smile broadening.

  “Tell me you don't levy any charge on passage to Korina via Taranspike.”

  “It's not a blanket fee.”

  “Oh thank the Gods. Not everyone pays.”

  “It rather depends on allegiance and cargo.” The older Baron shifted. “But don't forget I provide security along the length of the pass.”

  “Pontois, no doubt, feels the burden of this nonblanket levy.”

  “His negotiations have left him a little short of a fair deal,” agreed Gresse. “But if we ever get out of this mess, he'll feel the burden of something far heavier than a few gold pennies.”

  A soldier appeared at the overhang.

  “My Lord?”

  “Yes.” Blackthorne picked himself to his feet and dusted himself down.

  “We are in readiness. We await your orders to march.”

  “Excellent,” said Blackthorne. “Gresse, can you ride?”

  “I sit on my arse, not my head.”

  The soldier stifled a laugh. Blackthorne shook his head.

  “I'll take that as a yes.” He turned to the soldier. “You can pass that round the fires this evening, can't you? Meanwhile, we're making for Gyernath. I need scouts ahead, tracking the Wesmen return to Blackthorne. We will take the southeast trail at Varhawk Point. We leave in an hour.”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  Blackthorne walked to the edge of the cave. The hillside was awash with action. He saw the soldier hurry to his superiors, relaying Blackthorne's orders. Voices rolled across the open space. Men leapt to their feet, packs shouldered; horses were led to their saddling areas, the remaining mages gathered themselves. What little canvas individuals owned was struck and folded. Away to the right, a soldier struggled briefly to calm a skittish horse and, here and there, fires were stoked to make the last hour of the dying as comfortable as they could be. Those unable to make the journey wouldn't be left alive, and the pyres had been built the evening before.

  The Baron smiled, satisfied. Farmers, boys and regular garrison soldiers mixed in a single purpose, moving with impressive order, readying themselves for the march. The next weeks would seal the fate of the entire Blackthorne Barony. He needed them. If they could alert Gyernath, defend the bay beaches and regain the town, the south would have a strong foothold in their own lands that could be used to strike further against the Wesmen.

  The smile left Blackthorne's face. For all his talk and thought, Balaia was a mess. Understone and the pass were surely in Wesmen hands; the Colleges could fall despite the loss of Shamen magic; he, Baron Blackthorne, most powerful landowner in Eastern Balaia, was homeless, chasing the hillsides with a band of townsmen, farmers and wounded, tired soldiers.

  It got worse. The Raven were trapped in the West; much of the fighting strength of the East was wrapped up in lone garrison defence or fragmented between bickering barons more concerned with maintaining obsolete land boundaries than saving their country; and to cap it all much of Korina, with its distrust of mages and their Communion, would know little or nothing about it. And although the Understone garrison would have dispatched fast messengers to the east coast, they would not arrive for seven days, if at all. The hordes of the Wesmen could sweep all the way to the eastern oceans and right now, no one was capable of stopping them.

  “By the Gods, we're in trouble.”

  “Well spotted,” said Gresse from within the cave.

  “Not just us, I mean Balaia.”

  “Well spotted.”

  “What will we do?” asked Blackthorne, his confidence and belief suddenly deserting him, the enormity of the problem hitting him like an avalanche from the highest of his mountains’ peaks.

  “Everything we can, my friend. Everything we can,” said Gresse. “Just take it one step at a time. Help me up, would you? I think we shouldn't delay our travel to Gyernath any longer than is absolutely necessary.”

  The Raven didn't ride until well into the following afternoon. Even then, Denser wasn't truly up to it but time seemed to press. It was a warm day and the open spaces of the Torn Wastes attracted the heat. Riding would be uncomfortable without cloud to cover the sun.

  The second measurement of the noon shade had been inconclusive, much as had been expected. Given allowances for inaccuracies, it wasn't clear whether the rip had grown or, in fact, shrunk. The Unknown guessed it would be at least a week before believable evidence of the rate of increase of the rip's area was available.

  The four-College cavalry under General Darrick was partially split. Three mages, all Communion specialists, would remain hidden in Parve. With them would be fifteen sword cavalry, whose instructions included detailed examination and measurement of the dragon. It was this small company who would provide the information The Raven had to have: just how long it would be before the rip became too wide for the Brood Kaan to defend.

  That left Darrick with around two hundred horsemen and eleven mages for attack, defence and Communion. Styliann's ninety Protectors represented a formidable force and the Lord of the Mount's magic was supremely powerful.

  But, thought Hirad as he sat at the head of The Raven's four warriors and three mages, he couldn't help but feel they were just too few.

  Even given that the fifty-odd thousand Wesmen would be concentrated in a few likely areas east and west of the Blackthorne Mountains, avoiding them would be difficult and they couldn't hope to outfight or outrun a Wesmen army.

  And there lay their biggest and most immediate problem. Having discounted traversing the sheer and treacherous range of mountains, they were left with attempting Understone Pass, which would be a suicidal folly, or heading either north to Triverne Inlet or south to the Bay of Gyernath. At either crossing, they would be forced to steal craft to reach their own lands.

  The decision of which water to attempt was to be deferred until they had ridden perhaps two days down the eastern trail which led close by the Arch-Temple of the Wrethsires and directly to Understone Pass. Hirad suppressed a shudder. The Arch-Temple of the Wrethsires, where the blood of Protector, Raven and Wrethsire had been spilt but the last catalyst of Dawnthief found, was not a place the barbarian would ever wish to lay eyes on again.

  As the column rode sedately out of Parve, Darrick at its head, The Raven behind the cavalry with the Protectors surrounding Styliann at the rear, Hirad shook his head.

  “We're fooling ourselves,” he said.

  “Pardon?” said Ilkar who, with The Unknown, flanked him.

  “We need to make a quick decision of what it is we actually want. We're unclear and it'll cost us.”

  “I'm not with you,” said the Julatsan.

  “For instance, do we, I mean The Raven, have to get to the Colleges? Can't scholars there do the research for us?”

  “Hirad, we none of us really know precisely what we're looking for,” said Ilkar.

  “Yes we do. We have to find and read everything about Septern. Or rather, you mages do, since I can't. And then, we have to link that to what Xetesk knows about dimension gates and Dragonene portals. Then we have to cast something that works.”

  Ilkar stared at Hirad, his mouth open, his lips tugging up at the corners as he fought to avoid a smile.

  “It's not like baking a shepherd's pie, for God's sake.” Hirad's expression was blank. “If we have to create a new spell to close that thing, we're finished.”

  “What?” Hirad turned in his saddle.

  “A spell of the nature you're suggesting would take anywhere between one and five years to write, test and prove even assuming we had the raw Lore and understanding to
do so.

  “What we're hoping to find, and this has clearly passed you by, is some writing by Septern that will either log a spell designed to close a rip or tell us where to find one. At best, Xetesk's DimensionConnect will provide background to help us understand more quickly.”

  “You have completely lost me,” said Hirad. “Surely a rip is a rip. If you can open one, you can close one.”

  “No.” The voice behind belonged to Erienne. She moved in between Hirad and a relieved-looking Ilkar. “We've now got three different types of rip. Four if you count the Dragonene portals.

  “We've got Septern's bordered and stable rips which some of you have travelled, Xetesk's DimensionConnect which is an unstable, embryonic portal magic, the Dragonene portals which we presume the dragons themselves control, and finally the unbounded rip created in the wake of Dawnthief.

  “They are all completely different constructs. To say you can close one because you can close another is like saying you can make shoes for horses because you can make them for people. All we're sure is that, at some probably base Lore level, there is a connection between Septern's bounded rips and the one in the sky. Only his work can really help us in the time we have. We don't have time for a blacksmith's apprenticeship.”

  “You don't think we'll find anything to answer this problem straight, do you?” asked The Unknown.

  “No,” said Erienne. “Whatever, we'll be taking a big chance with what we eventually cast.”

  “That's not good,” said Hirad. “So what do we do if we can't find anything in Septern's writings?”

  “Die,” said The Unknown. There was a pause.

  “Cheerful, aren't you?” said Hirad.

  “Right though,” said The Unknown. “No use pretending.”

  “None of this changes the original point I was trying to make which was that three hundred of us are not going to sneak across Triverne Inlet or the Bay of Gyernath, undetected by Wesmen. We need to make a decision on whether that bothers us and if it does—and it should—what we're going to do about it,” said Hirad.

  The Unknown stared ahead at the backs of the cavalry in front. He then turned and gazed at the Protectors behind him.

  “We need to talk more,” he said. “And this isn't the place. We'll be overheard and I don't think Styliann should overhear us. Hirad's right. In the rush to leave and plan at Parve, we've forgotten ourselves. We're The Raven. We make our own decisions. Privately.” He nodded at the lead Protector who inclined his head very slightly, ebony mask betraying nothing. But, Hirad thought, something passed between them. Whatever it was, The Unknown kept it to himself.

  The motley column crossed the Torn Wastes under a blazing sun. The signs of former Wesmen encampments littered the packed ground and harsh scrub. Blackened earth and charred wood, torn canvas, broken posts and tent pegs, lengths of rope and discarded offcuts of metal. And, here and there, the body of a Wesman who picked a fight with the wrong kinsman.

  It was seven miles to the tree line and the welcoming canopy of leaf and branch over the marked trail that led from the Torn Wastes, north of the Wesmen Heartlands, through the rugged valleys and hills of Western Balaia, past the Wrethsires’ plundered temple and all the way to Understone Pass.

  Behind them now, the rip hung in the sky, menacing the air and throwing its shadow over the city of the Wytch Lords. A shadow that would grow to envelop them all unless The Raven could find a way to close it.

  The column rode unbroken for two hours, leaving Parve far behind. Hirad felt a growing release of tension as the buildings dwindled in the distance. And it was a release that just about made up for the discomfort of the ride. The horses sweated in the heat, attracting clouds of irritating, buzzing flies that plagued mount and rider alike. Forever waving a hand in front of his face, Hirad's body was covered in a sheen of damp, beads running down the line of his back where they collected in his seat to chafe and rub.

  The late afternoon brought mercifully cooler temperatures, a cover of cloud and a change in the terrain. Passing across the northern edge of a beautiful region of river valleys, lush green vegetation, great and ancient trees and fern-covered hillsides, the Eastern Balaians moved into altogether harsher lands.

  The ground rose to a series of sharp peaks, littered with cracked rocks and strewn with boulders. Darrick ordered a dismount to save the horses’ legs and hooves, relieved men and mages stretching as they led their mounts over teacherous slabs of stone, half buried under tough stands of long grass. To both sides, the ground fell away down steep scree slopes into wind-blasted clefts. Nowhere in sight was there any sign of habitation. Nevertheless, The Unknown was nervous.

  “We're exposed here,” he said.

  “But only, it seems, to the elements,” replied Ilkar, drawing his cloak more firmly around his shoulders, the breeze whipping at cloth and grass, the heat changing quickly to chill.

  “If we're spotted, we have no obvious cover,” said The Unknown. “Thraun, what do you think?” The shapechanger had spent some time at the head of the column earlier in the afternoon, advising Darrick's scouts. He walked up to join The Unknown.

  “It's not as bad as it looks although we might want to ride perhaps another quarter of a mile north if we can. The scouts have reported very little habitation up here. The land is useless for all but grazing goats. We're unlikely to meet locals; the only risk is running into Wesmen warriors.

  “There are limited passable trails for horses and this is one of the better ones, believe it or not. I get no feeling that Wesmen will be a problem for a day or so. I've advised three of the scouts to travel to the fork above Terenetsa. That's still more than two days’ ride from here for a fast scout. We'll have a better picture in three days. Until then, the elves and me are the best chance we have of avoiding trouble.”

  “And you think we will?” asked Ilkar, who had come to respect Thraun's reading of land and scent.

  “Yes.”

  Shortly after dusk, Darrick halted the column in the lee of another steep climb. The wind had blown away the cloud and, while it had dropped to a gentle breeze, the clear skies were cooling fast.

  Quickly, elves marked fire boundaries outside of which no flame could be shown. Thus marked, the perimeter of the camp was established, the first guards set and the cook fires laid.

  The Raven took themselves to the opposite corner from Styliann and the Protectors. As they sat down around Will's stove, waiting for water to boil, Hirad chuckled.

  “I wonder how he feels?” he said. “Styliann, I mean. I know he hasn't got too many friends but there's got to be a hundred feet between him and the nearest cavalryman, and they still look nervous.”

  “I shouldn't think he cares at all,” said Denser. “The Lord of the Mount is used to isolation.” The Dark Mage was flat on his back, head propped up on Erienne's lap, she stroking his hair in what was becoming a familiar scene as he recovered from the casting of Dawnthief. Hirad and The Unknown exchanged a glance. They were the first words Denser had spoken the entire day. And it had been a detached silence, the Xeteskian riding or walking apart from The Raven. All he had got from Erienne in response to his looks had been shrugs and shakes of the head. Now, as she cradled Denser, Erienne's concern and confusion were obvious even in the uncertain light of the flames.

  The talk pattered on in a broken way until coffee was poured. To Denser and Erienne's left sat Thraun and Will while Hirad and Ilkar flanked The Unknown to their right. The Unknown called for attention.

  “Ilkar, Hirad, feel uncomfortable?” he asked. The two nodded, expressions stark in the firelight, eyes hidden by shadow.

  “Why just them?” asked Will.

  “Because it's only the three of us who have been in potential large-scale battle situations before, and there's a lot wrong with this one.”

  “Not so far as I can see,” said Erienne. “We just have to reach the Colleges quickly and safely and this is surely the best way.”

  “No,” said The Unknown. “Because w
e don't want to invite battle and this troop is doing just that, or it will be when we reach the vicinity of the Blackthornes.”

  “So what do you suggest?” asked Thraun.

  “We have to split from them. Our course lies in a different direction.”

  “How do you work that out?” Thraun frowned, his gruff low voice grumbling across the stove.

  “The situation is going to be very difficult when we reach Triverne Inlet, which is, I suspect, the favoured destination. We can assume the Wesmen will be supplying their armies across the water so there'll be a relatively heavy presence.

  “If we stride up with Darrick and Styliann there'll be a battle. If we go through on our own, with Thraun's eyes and ears, we can take a boat and get across unseen.”

  “And what happens to Darrick?”

  “We have to persuade him to go south to the Bay of Gyernath, maybe creating a diversion for us along the way. Either way, we have to go alone.”

  “The point is,” said Hirad, “that we're being run as an addition to the cavalry. That isn't how The Raven operates. Not now.”

  “So just how do we operate?” asked Denser.

  “You should know,” said Hirad, frowning at Denser's flat tone. “We go into a situation, assess, make decisions and recommendations and don't expect to be questioned.”

  “You don't consider that a little high-handed?” ventured Will. Hirad merely shrugged.

  “Just ask yourself why we're still alive after ten years’ fighting. And why, particularly, we're alive when the Wytch Lords are dead. It isn't high-anything, it's The Raven's way.”

  Ilkar smiled. “Only you could be so cocky with fifty thousand Wesmen between you and your next port of call.”

  “It's not that, it's—”

  “We know,” said Ilkar. “If we do things how we think they should be done, we'll stay alive.” He mimed a yawn. Will and Thraun laughed. Hirad scowled slightly. The Unknown cleared his throat.

  “I'm glad we've cleared that up,” he said. “Now listen. While Darrick will almost certainly see sense, Styliann almost certainly will not.”