Noonshade

by James Barclay

  “Take it easy, Ilkar,” said Hirad, putting out a hand. Ilkar shook his head but it was Erienne who spoke.

  “Hirad, only a mage can understand what this means to Ilkar. General, please, tell us anything you know.”

  Darrick raised a hand for quiet and calm.

  “There are reports that the city of Julatsa has fallen but that the College itself has not, but I must stress, these are unconfirmed. There is a Dordovan force on its way to assist the Julatsans but it won't be able to report for a day at best.”

  Ilkar stared into the fire, eyes flat slits, cheeks sucked in, ears pricking furiously. Hirad watched as the elf composed himself, swallowed hard and turned to Darrick.

  “Is there no clue as to how long they can hold out?” he asked, voice steady but the shake was there, just under the surface. “Has no one from Dordover held Communion with the mages of Julatsa?”

  “There has been no direct contact since the Julatsans asked Dordover for assistance. That was two days ago,” replied Darrick. “The report of the city falling was given by a mage outside of the College grounds sometime yesterday, I believe. That's why I caution you to take what I'm saying with a pinch of salt.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the Communion was broken off before it could be finished and the Dordovan mage suffered backlash. His thoughts aren't yet clear and he doesn't remember everything that passed between them yet. When I know more, you will be the first to hear.”

  Ilkar nodded and rose. “Thank you, Darrick.” His face was white, even in the firelight, and tears stood in his eyes. “Excuse me. I need some time alone.”

  “Ilkar, wait,” said Hirad, half rising.

  “Please, Hirad. Not right now.” Ilkar walked slowly away into the rows of tents and was lost in the night. Hirad shook his head.

  “But if the College hasn't fallen…” he began.

  “But it might have done by now,” said Denser, quietly, his tone rising briefly from its emotionless state. “The one report is a day old. If the Wesmen sacked the city so quickly, why would they be stopped by the College? That's what Ilkar is thinking. Believe me, besides his own death, the destruction of Ilkar's College is the worst thing that could happen to him. To any Julatsan mage. It would mean the end of Julatsan magic and it's been unthinkable for hundreds of years that such a thing might happen. Leave him be.”

  Hirad pursed his lips. “But he's Raven. We can help him.”

  “Yes, but not at this instant. Right now he's Julatsan only and he's facing the loss of everything he knows. We'll help him when he comes back,” said Erienne.

  “If the College falls, will he lose his abilities?” asked Will.

  “No,” she replied. “He will always be able to shape mana to cast spells. But what will be lost is the totality of Julatsan Lore, the teaching of ages. And with the destruction of the Tower would go the centre of Julatsan magic. You can't just build another one and be back where you were. The mana imbues the Tower with magical power over centuries and it would take that long for the Julatsans to recover themselves, if they did at all.”

  “And how much of Septern's work is kept in the library there?” Thraun's voice brought a shiver to the company around the fire.

  “Exactly,” said Darrick. “Which is why you and you alone must cross at Triverne Inlet as soon as possible. You've got to get into and out of the College before it falls, if it's going to, and travelling alone will give you the best chance. The sooner you leave the column and ride northeast, the better.”

  “We'll stay with you another day,” said The Unknown. “Ilkar won't leave until he knows the facts and those will only come with the Dordovan relief force.”

  “I can hold Communion with them,” said Denser.

  “You can't light your own pipe yet,” replied Erienne sharply. “And I'm not expert enough to commune over this distance. I agree with The Unknown.”

  “Very well,” said Darrick. “One more day and night.”

  “And what about you, General?” asked Hirad.

  “To the south, things are slightly more promising, but only slightly,” he said. “We believe that Baron Blackthorne has had some success in holding a Wesmen force from reaching Understone. His Town has fallen and he is, as far as we can make out, riding to Gyernath to swell his numbers. It makes sense for me to attempt to join with him and try, as I assume he will, to disrupt the Wesmen's southern supply lines and take back his castle. If we can make a base, we can begin to beat them back.”

  “Good old Blackthorne,” said The Unknown. “Give him our regards when you see him.”

  “Be glad to.”

  “And Styliann?” Denser's question had Darrick blow out his cheeks.

  “He also has requested to see me and I will recommend he travels south with us. Ultimately, though, he is my commander and can do as he wishes. I believe I can persuade him that his best chance of returning in triumph to Xetesk is to attack from the south with us, avoiding Understone.”

  “No chance,” said Denser, shaking his head a little contemptuously. “He wants in on Septern's research and coming with us is how he'll do it.”

  Darrick drained his coffee and stood up, brushing himself down with his free hand.

  “Well, no time like the present,” he said.

  “Good luck,” said Denser. “You'll need it.”

  Darrick smiled. “I never count on luck. Get some sleep. We're leaving at first light.”

  “If you see Ilkar…” said Hirad.

  “I'll give him a wide berth,” said Darrick. “Good night.”

  Ilkar strode away through the precise rows of tents. He stared straight ahead, ignoring the acknowledgements of cavalrymen, the staccato sounds of laughter and talking from within which broke the quiet.

  He knew his eyes were full of tears and his teeth were clamped around the soft inner tissue below his bottom lip in a vain attempt to halt its trembling. Eventually, he slowed, reaching the edge of the tents and the open area between the cavalry and Styliann.

  Sitting on a flat-faced, lichen-covered rock, he fought his mind into what passed for order and breathed in the ramifications of all he had just heard. The potential end to Julatsa's seat of magical power, the slaughter of untold numbers of his brother and sister mages, and the isolation of the survivors—still Julatsan but without a focus for their energy, power or study.

  And it could all have gone already. While he thought he would feel the destruction of the Tower through the mana trails, this far from Julatsa, the deaths of so many, one by one, would barely cause a ripple. He knew of none who had a ManaPulse targeting him to warn of their death.

  And if the Tower fell, what then? Who would rebuild the College? Mages like him, he supposed. But where would he and those like him find the resources and sheer strength to accomplish the mammoth task that was the construction of a new Tower? And how could they hope to attract mage students to a College that had fallen to an army without magic? Surely, to lose the College in these circumstances would mean the slow end to Julatsan magic forever as its ever dwindling number of practising mages aged and died.

  He wondered if The Raven could reach Julatsa in time, or whether they would be left picking over the rubble and corpses. And getting there before the College fell would serve what purpose? What could The Raven hope to achieve as the sole fighting force of the East outside of its gates? Perhaps it would be better it they weren't around to see the end.

  Ilkar bowed his head and let the tears flow, hands on his knees as the sobs wracked his body. There was no hope for Julatsa. If the Wesmen had sacked the city, the College, whose walls were not designed to repel an invading army anymore, would soon follow. Then he would be truly alone, with only The Raven to support him. He wondered whether that would be enough.

  “It's not necessarily over, Ilkar.” The voice came to him from out of the gloom. He wiped his eyes, feeling the chill and realising he'd lost track of how long he'd been sitting alone. His backside was numbed. He shivered, cleared
his vision and strained to identify the figure that approached him, outline blurred by the half light of dying fires against the background of night.

  “Get lost, Styliann,” he spat. “Don't presume to carp over our demise. You know nothing of how this feels.”

  “On the contrary, Ilkar, and I forgive you your mood.” Styliann didn't pause in his stride, the shapes of six Protectors filling the space around him.

  “Thank you so much,” muttered Ilkar, looking away. “What do you want?”

  “I've come to offer you my sympathy, my help if I can give it, and some hope.” The Lord of the Mount made no attempt to sit, seeming content to stand a few paces away, respecting Ilkar's need for space.

  “Well, that's a first.”

  Styliann sighed. “I do understand how difficult this is for you to cope with,” he said. “And I do know how it feels to face isolation, believe me. I won't ask you to respond, just listen to me for a moment.” He paused. Ilkar shrugged.

  “I have no desire to see the balance of magic shift. That is dangerous for us all at the best of times but right now we need every mage we can get to have a chance of seeing off the Wesmen threat. My Communion tonight was inconclusive about the situation in Julatsa and all I know is what Darrick has just told me. I will, however, seek to clarify the situation tomorrow. I understand you're staying with the column for another day and if I can provide you with more detail, I will.

  “Finally, the hope.” Now Styliann moved a pace closer and lowered his voice. “You and I know the capacity of the Colleges for self-preservation better than any in this camp. To me, the report of the fall of the city while the College remained intact says Julatsa has found a way of holding off the Wesmen army. It is now a question of how long that situation lasts, hence your need for haste.”

  Ilkar sucked his lip, nodding finally.

  “Maybe. Maybe. And what are your plans?”

  Styliann's eyes narrowed, his jaw set. “I will travel south, separate from the column. My immediate future lies in other directions, though I will still set in motion moves to enable the release of Septern's works to you. I fear I will no longer be able to study them with you.”

  That caught Ilkar off guard. His head jerked up, meeting Styliann's eyes and feeling the force of his anger.

  “Why not?”

  “I have a little local trouble,” he said. “It seems that, temporarily at least, I am no longer the Lord of the Mount of Xetesk.” He turned and strode away.

  “How long before you can cast, Denser?” The Unknown's question followed directly in the wake of Darrick's departure for his meeting with Styliann. Denser, who had recovered enough to spend more time sitting than lying, shrugged his shoulders and knocked out the bowl of his pipe against a log end protruding from the fire. Dislodged embers glittered briefly in the dark.

  “There's not a simple answer to that,” said Denser, delving into his tobacco pouch for a refill. “Damn. This is running low.”

  “There never is, is there?” said Hirad.

  “The situation is this,” continued the Dark Mage. “I am still shattered by the Dawnthief casting in a mana stamina if not so much a physical sense and it is difficult for me to retain mana to cast. And I find myself unaccountably low in spirits though I'm sure that'll pass. Contrary to popular belief, however—” he looked half smiling at Erienne, “—I am able to light my own pipe.” He clicked his right thumb against its forefinger and a deep blue flame appeared with which he set alight the weed he had tamped into the bowl of his pipe.

  “Very good,” said Erienne, pushing his face away. “Now bring down HellFire.”

  “You see? Never satisfied,” said Denser, his smile broadened but it was hollow and bereft of real humour. “You offer a woman one country and she immediately demands the world.”

  “Hardly,” said Erienne. “Merely proof of your reserves beyond the immediate.”

  “HellFire is a little more than proof.”

  “It was a metaphor, all right?” Erienne poked Denser in the chest.

  “Well just give me a chance, all right?” snapped Denser, swatting her hand away. Erienne started and moved back, eyes moistening. He looked away from her into the fire.

  “Take it easy, Denser,” said Hirad, startled by Denser's sudden anger. “She was just fooling. How about you just answer the question. What exactly can't you do?”

  “Everything else,” admitted Denser. He sucked his lip and reached out a hand to Erienne who pulled further away. He sighed, raised an eyebrow and continued. “I'm empty. Given that we're riding not resting, Communion is two days away, ShadowWings the same and HellFire about four to take a sample. Sorry if that's not good enough for some of you.”

  Hirad regarded him evenly. “I think we might find it in our hearts to forgive you,” he said.

  “Most gracious,” Denser mock bowed from where he sat.

  “Just relax a little, eh?” Hirad indicated Erienne. Denser cut off his reply, nodding curtly instead. A short silence was broken by The Unknown.

  “Thraun?” Though The Unknown had not seen Thraun change, he had seen the drain on his physical being while he had been a Protector.

  “No problem, but…”

  “I know,” said The Unknown. “I'm just assessing our overall condition. We will never demand it of you. To change will always be your decision alone.” Thraun nodded.

  “And what about Ilkar?” asked Erienne. “What he's heard tonight could seriously damage his ability to concentrate.”

  “Above everything else, he's the best front-line defensive mage in Balaia,” said Hirad. “His ability to concentrate in the middle of battle is one reason The Raven has survived so long. When push comes to shove, he'll be as able to cast as you.”

  “I hope you're right,” said Erienne. “But, if you'll take my advice, you'll keep a close eye on him for a while.”

  “Of course.” Hirad spread his hands wide. “He's Raven.”

  The Unknown cleared his throat for attention.

  “I'm glad everyone is feeling confident because this is going to be very tough,” he said. “Quite unlike anything we've ever faced. We won't be joining a line, we'll be on our own in lands swarming with Wesmen. We can't afford slip ups and we can't afford to carry anyone. If any of you have any doubts about yourself, you should stay with the cavalry.”

  “So, we'll be facing odds no different than those we've just faced except going in the other direction,” said Hirad flatly. “And you're asking us if we're confident we can pull it off?”

  A smile tugged at the corners of The Unknown's mouth. “I had to,” he said.

  “I think what you need is sleep,” said Hirad, patting the big man's shoulder. “That sort of speech belongs ten years ago. I'll take watch and wait for Ilkar.”

  Barras and Kard joined Kerela at the North Gate of the College, the three elder Julatsans standing shoulder to shoulder as the gate was opened. To either side of them stood men with yellow and white flags of truce on short poles and, ringing the area by the gate, archers and defensive mages waited to respond to any projectile threat. Kard thought it very unlikely there would be an attack of any kind and had shunned the offer of a HardShield, advising the mage to conserve his mana stamina.

  The gates swung back to reveal the DemonShroud, wide, grey and flaring blue-tinged yellow along its visible base. Beyond it, a trio of Wesmen. They had no archer support though the two flanking warriors were clearly a bodyguard for the man in the centre.

  He was a man in his late thirties, midheight and powerfully built. Furs ran across his shoulders and down his back, fixed below his neck with a polished metal clasp. He wore cracked black leather armour padded with furs around the shoulders and leather greaves covered his thighs. His arms were exposed down to fur-edged gauntlets and heavy, strapped ankle boots covered his lower legs and feet. His hair was long, dark, shaggy and unkempt, framing a heavily tanned face boasting large eyes and a chin that had felt steel in the not too distant past.

 
“I am Senedai, Lord and General of the Heystron Tribes and I demand your immediate surrender.” His voice, though loud and deep, echoed dully against the Shroud. Kerela turned to Barras.

  “You are our Chief Negotiator, perhaps you would like to establish our position.”

  “I fear you are passing me a poisoned chalice,” said Barras grimly.

  “In all probability, my old friend. But delegation is one of the few joys I have left.”

  Barras composed himself and took three measured paces toward the open gate and the Shroud, its innate evil sending shivers through his body, his skin crawling. It was all he could do to stand tall and keep his voice steady.

  “I am Barras, Elder Council member and Chief Negotiator of the College of Julatsa. You will appreciate that we are unwilling to surrender the homes and buildings you have not already taken by unprovoked force. What are the conditions you propose?”

  “Conditions? I promise you nothing but your lives, mage. And that is generous, having seen the pyres of thousands of my kinsmen burning.”

  “We were bound to defend our city from your groundless attack,” said Barras.

  “You were bound to conduct battle like warriors, using blades, not spells.”

  Barras laughed; he couldn't help it.

  “A preposterous suggestion from one happy to use the magic of the Wytch Lords to devastate my people.”

  “The Tribal Lords were against such weapons.”

  “And that is how history will be rewritten, is it?” Barras’ voice dripped contempt. “That the Wesmen Lords called a halt to the magic of the Wytch Lords to do steel-on-steel battle with the forces of Julatsa, only to be met with a barrage of cowardly magic?”

  “And yet triumph,” said Senedai. “And triumph we will.”

  “This is a city of magic. Even in your most muddled dreams did you really believe we would not respond to your aggression with every means at our disposal? And may I remind you that we still have those means.”

  “Magic is an evil force and it is the sworn pledge of every Wesman to see your Colleges burn and your Towers lie in rubble.” Senedai jabbed a finger at Barras.

  “Lovely imagery,” said Barras. “But I think you'll do well to see it.”