Noonshade

by James Barclay

  From above, an enemy hit him with his sharp weapon. It stung his hide and he yelped, rounding on his tormentor, whose eyes widened. It had been a hard blow but Thraun's side had not split. He bared his fangs and advanced.

  Denser flew back toward the blazing marquees, rising high to assess the mayhem he had so spectacularly initiated. Panicked Wesmen beat at the edges of the fires, their bucket chain scarcely making a dent in the heat and destruction. Ilkar's ForceCone had knocked the animal picketing flat on a twenty-foot stretch and in the confusion of fear and fire, horses and cattle stampeded away from the bright yellow blazes licking the air, trampling man and tent indiscriminately.

  To his left, Thraun clamped his jaws on the sword arm of a hapless Wesman warrior and further on in the shadows cast by the fire, he caught the odd glimpse of The Raven, tracking toward the shore, unmolested for the moment.

  Ilkar, cradled in his arms, was getting heavy. Denser was a strong man and the ShadowWings he had cast were trimmed for weight but there was a limit and the growing ache in his limbs was beginning to threaten his concentration.

  “What have you got left?” asked Denser.

  “FlameOrbs or another ForceCone. I want to keep enough to shield the boat,” replied Ilkar. “More to the point, what have you got left?”

  “I'll let you know,” said Denser.

  “How?”

  “You'll start falling.”

  “Funny.”

  “Just get concentrating on those Orbs. If we can disrupt the bucket chain, we might get clean away.” Ilkar nodded and closed his eyes, his mouth moving slightly, fingers describing intricate circles in the air. Denser leaned back to counter the shift in balance.

  Denser watched the expert movements of the efficient mage, arms almost still, hands creating the shape with the words his mouth framed. Nothing was wasted, no mana stamina escaped. He was a consummate mage, his magic learned through long years and honed through sometimes agonising practice. Denser knew this because it had been the same for him.

  Yet, despite Ilkar's clever use of his stamina, he was beginning to tire while Denser felt as fresh as he had before he had cast his CloakedWalk. Something had happened to him during his casting of Dawnthief. A new linking with the mana, a coupling forged deep in the core of his being. And it had given him new ways to construct his shapes. Much as Styliann harnessed mana in a way so thrifty and quick it took away the breath, so Denser had that understanding. But it was more than mere understanding. It was fundamental coexistence with the fuel of magic.

  Ilkar nodded, Denser's signal that he was ready to cast. His eyes were now open, focused on the target ahead. Denser flew above the bucket chain, out over Triverne Inlet and round again, coming up the line giving Ilkar the widest target area he could.

  “FlameOrbs.” Ilkar clapped his hands and opened his palms. A trio of orange globes rested there, growing to the size of apples before he jerked his hands down and apart, the FlameOrbs flashing away. They grew as they fell, to the size of skulls when they collided with the unprotected Wesmen, splashing fire that consumed fur and flesh, the screams of the burning rising over the crackle of the fires that engulfed the camp.

  Denser, his arms pained from shoulder to wrist, headed down to the beach.

  Hirad broke into a sprint as Ilkar's FlameOrbs destroyed the bucket chain, fracturing the Wesmen's fragile organisation. He raced around the final tents before the shore, leading The Raven across the sand, the Wesmen forgetting all thoughts of saving their tents, turning instead to help kinsmen whose agonised cries split the night.

  Ahead of him, Thraun paused, looked to see that Will was safe, and streaked across the sand toward Denser and Ilkar who had landed near the boats. Hirad pushed on, crunching sand underfoot, the rhythmic fall of small waves on the shore contrasting with the clamour of noise from the ruined camp. Ahead of him, Thraun brought down a Wesman warrior from behind, the man's bucket flying from his grasp, the warning sounds of his kinsmen too late to save him.

  There was a dip in the level of the bedlam. The fires raged on but the Wesmen paused, making a concerted move for their weaponry as it dawned on them exactly what was happening.

  “We've got to move fast,” said The Unknown by Hirad's shoulder.

  “Raven!” shouted Hirad. “Raven with me.” He charged toward a knot of Wesmen who had gathered near Thraun. The wolf snarled, darting in, jaws snapping, claws whistling through the air. Wary, the Wesmen kept their distance. But they couldn't avoid The Raven.

  “Erienne, find a boat. We need a fast sail. Will, defend the mages. Unknown, with me.” He tore into the Wesmen, sword chopping through fur and flesh. Beside him, The Unknown's blade caught the glare of the fires as it plunged into his victims. Thraun, sensing he was helped, howled and leapt, jaws burying into a shoulder.

  Hirad parried an axe sweep to his head, his sword sliding down the shaft, shaving wood and chopping the gripping fingers from his assailant's hands. The man shuddered, mouth open in shock, axe falling. Hirad's next blow took out his throat. More Wesmen saw them. Thraun ran over his latest kill to attack the oncoming pack. Swords rose and fell but Hirad could see as he smashed a fist into an enemy nose and brought his blade through his stomach, that Thraun sustained no wounds.

  From behind them, blue lightning arced across the sky, piercing the eyes of three Wesmen who fell clutching at their smoking faces. The attack faltered. Hirad batted aside a clumsy thrust, stepped inside, head-butted his opponent back and followed up with a stab clear through the heart. Beside him, The Unknown raked his blade across two chests, blood fountaining from a sliced artery and smashed lung while Thraun's snarls and growls accompanied Wesmen cries of desperation.

  Hirad glanced over his shoulder. Ilkar and Erienne had pushed a boat out on to the water. At twenty feet long, it would easily take them all. Will was tugging at the sail stays, slightly unsteady as he stood on the rocking vessel. It was time to fall back.

  The Wesmen had lost their appetite for the fight. Thraun ran at small groups who scattered, keeping them away from the beach. Hirad and The Unknown moved backward across the sand. More lightning from the fingers of Denser, more Wesmen fell, faces blackened, eyes gone.

  “Get in and we'll push out,” ordered Hirad. Arrows flew the gap across the beach, clattering off Ilkar's HardShield. Hirad grinned. The Raven slick as ever, an unshakeable unit.

  When he hit the water, he turned as did The Unknown, running and jumping through the shallows to push the stern of the boat on which the three mages and Will sat, the cold water shocking his muscles to new life.

  “Tell me if they start following us,” said Hirad. More arrows bounced from the shield. The boat moved through the gentle tide and waves, the wind bringing nothing more than choppiness to the Inlet this near the shore. Behind him, he heard splashing and in the boat Will straightened. Hirad turned. Three Wesmen ran at them, circling axes above their heads and roaring battle cries.

  To his left, The Unknown tapped his blade into the water, the normal ring of steel on stone reduced to a splash and muffled grate on the shingle below. They waited but the Wesmen didn't make it. From their right, the water exploded upward and Thraun surged from the surf he'd created to bear one down into the water, fangs deep in his thigh. A shout rang out from the shore and the others turned and ran, their kinsman left to float in as the tide dictated, his blood slicking the moonlit water.

  Hirad yelled in triumph, exulting at the fires that scored the dark above the burning camp. The Unknown clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Come on, let's get this boat moving.” The old friends scrambled the few yards to the small craft and climbed aboard, Thraun paddling strongly beside them. In moments, the sail was unfurled, the wind snapped the dark canvas taut and The Raven headed back to the east. Home.

  Sha-Kaan and a dozen of his lieutenants flew from the Broodlands, already aware that they were almost certainly too late to save Jatha and the party of Vestare who were supposed to meet The Raven.

  In
the skies above Teras, the gateway hung in the sky, myopic gaze expanding inexorably. Around its surface, the guard flew their defensive holding pattern, at ease in the clear sky that day and comfortable that their vision would give ample warning time to assemble a defence to quell any attack.

  But how long would the cloud stay away? How long before Sha-Kaan was forced to deploy more and more of his tiring Brood to fly patrol in the banks of thick, rain-bearing cloud that periodically swept down from the mountains of Beshara, drawing moisture to deposit on his lands? The rain fed the Flamegrass but the cloud obscured their enemies. Right now, clear skies were preferable. The River Tere, running through the heart of the Broodlands, was full and powerful and the Vestare could channel it to the beds of cultivated Flamegrass. It was in the open plains that their harvest would suffer, for the Flamegrass was greedy for moisture and wilted quickly without it.

  But away toward the devastated lands of Keol, where Septern's gateway lay hidden by Vestare cunning and design, new columns of smoke smudged the sky, new fires coloured the earth. Sha-Kaan took his dragons high into the bright sky, calling barks of welcome and warning to the guard as they passed. As they flew hard over the hills of Dormar and the wastes at the borders of Beshara, the dark shapes in the sky revealed themselves to be of the Brood Veret.

  The Great Kaan was surprised and pulsed a query to his cohorts. Slender and quick, the dragons of the Veret were semiaquatic, normally inhabiting the caves and seas to the north of Teras, never straying far from their Broodlands deep in the Shedara Ocean. They were characterised by blue and green colouring, thin muzzles which jetted slim concentrations of fire, short necks, four even, webbed feet and long, slightly flattened tails that powered them through the water.

  They possessed poisonous spikes of bone that ran along skull and neck but their wings, small and swept back for speed through air and water, were their weakness. Gone was the reservoir of secreted oil that lubricated land-borne dragons and resisted fire, replaced instead by a veined water lubrication lattice. The lightweight system gave their wings greater manoeuvrability but, with armour nonexistent, it was vulnerable to being burned off by the scorching temperatures of dragon fire. But they had to be caught first.

  The Kaan closed. Sha-Kaan could feel Jatha's fear, sensing his pounding heart and his laboured breath as he and the Vestare ran to escape the Veret. There were eight of the enemy Brood, all intent on their quarry. What taxed Sha-Kaan as he commenced his first attack dive was why the Veret had strayed so far inland and whether their interception of his Vestare was by coincidence or design.

  The Veret didn't sense the threat of the Kaan at first, had no idea that above them, Sha-Kaan's fire was ready, his jaws open and dripping fuel. He glided hard down, slipstreaming a young marine blue Veret only half his own length who was chasing down a lone Vestare.

  The man was neither quick nor agile enough, his dodging among stunted, blackened trees not adept enough to confuse the Veret's approach. Sha-Kaan could see him, darting left and right, back and forth, stopping and rolling, sprinting and standing, just as he had been taught. The theory was there—the momentum of dragons in the sky robbed them of the manoeuvrability to accommodate sudden changes in pace and direction but the practice against the more agile Veret was lacking.

  And so it was that as Sha-Kaan lined himself up behind the young male Veret, the enemy dragon, having tracked his quarry with deft wing alignments and slight movements of head and neck, opened his mouth and exhaled two tight jets of fire that tore through the Vestare's body. The victim was hurled from his feet into the bole of a tree, his flaming corpse flopping to the ground, chest holed massively, head aflame. Around him, wood blazed in the sudden inferno and the wave of flame rolled away into the forest, igniting branch and leaf and scattering birds.

  Sha-Kaan rolled slightly right and unleashed the power of his fire, ripping into the Veret's fully deployed wing as he braked to bank away from his dive. The young dragon's head jerked around in shock to snap a glance at Sha-Kaan before the fires destroyed his wing membrane and he barrel rolled into the blackened forest, dying body bouncing from the ground before driving uncontrolled into a stand of shattered trunks to lie still, a cloud of earth and dead leaves erupting into the air.

  Sha-Kaan pulled up sharply, searching the ground for Jatha whose presence he could still feel, and the sky for a view on the battle. Kaan chased down three Veret, the agile blue-green animals spinning and turning as they sought to flee their larger, more powerful assailants. Below and to his left, a Veret was locked in the air with a Kaan. Spikes had punctured the softer underscales of the Kaan's neck but she held on, jaws clamped behind the Veret's head. Blood was pouring from the wound and Sha-Kaan pulsed the order to release. The returning pulse saddened him. The poison was overwhelming the dragon's system. She would die but she wouldn't release the Veret to live. He watched as the two spiralled to their deaths before homing in on Jatha.

  The frightened Vestare was still running but Sha-Kaan brought him to a grateful halt and landed just in front of him. Jatha and his remaining party were still a full day's journey from Septern's gateway. They should already have arrived and be safe, awaiting their Balaian visitors.

  “Thank the Skies you have come, Great Kaan,” gasped Jatha. “We—”

  “Calm yourself,” pulsed Sha-Kaan, allowing his mind to cool the heat in the Vestare mind. “Sit down and slow your heart; its beating is hurting my ears.” Jatha slumped to the ground, heaving great lungfuls of air, the beginnings of a smile playing over his lips. In the sky above, the remaining Kaan chased the Veret away and patrolled in a holding pattern that gave Sha complete confidence.

  “Now,” said the Great Kaan. “Tell me why you are so far from the gateway.”

  Jatha nodded, Sha-Kaan feeling his pulse cease its dangerous racing.

  “There is great activity in Keol,” said Jatha. “My party have been slowed by the need to conceal ourselves from bands of Naik and Veret warriors. They seem to be linked in some way; it is the only reason I can think of for the appearance of Veret in the sky.

  “We first saw them yesterday, flying to the south, and we thought we could evade them. But we were ambushed by Veret warriors. They are dead but our position was opened. Thus, we could be attacked as you saw.”

  Sha-Kaan let his head drop. Naik and Veret in alliance. The Kaan could be in more trouble than he thought. A concerted attack by three or more Broods might prove too much for them.

  “How sure are you that there is an alliance?” he asked.

  “They were not fighting when they met,” said Jatha. “We watched them for a full day. Great Kaan, these are our lands, though we do not defend them. We cannot allow enemy occupation. It would bring them too close to Teras.”

  “There are greater threats than that posed by other Broods taking dead lands like Keol from us. It is critical that the humans from Balaia reach the Broodlands when they arrive here. I cannot release dragons to shadow you. If what you say proves true, I cannot afford to draw attention to you by flying in your defence, do you understand?”

  Jatha inclined his head. “There is one other way.” Sha-Kaan retracted his head sharply, his neck describing an “s.” He hissed.

  “No human shall ever ride the Kaan. We are the masters here.” Sha-Kaan breathed out long. “It is your task to see them safe to Teras. Have you thought of the battle there would be if we were seen with humans on our necks? No carrying Kaan would stand a chance of survival; our place would be gone.” He moved his head groundward once more. “Banish that thought, Jatha. Though I understand the desperation in which it was formed, it must never be uttered again. The Kaan shall never bow their necks to humans. We would die first.”

  “I am sorry, Great Kaan. And I thank you for your understanding.”

  “Consider that were you not so important to me, my reaction might have been different.” Sha-Kaan's admonishment was tinted with humour. “You are a faithful attendant and companion, Jatha. Now, we will sweep the w
ay ahead of you and seek out your enemies on the ground and in the sky. Do not move until night falls and we have gone. I expect your signal when you reach the gateway.”

  Jatha stood and spread his arms wide in deference, dropping back to one knee before he spoke again.

  “It shall be done, Great Kaan.”

  “Skies keep you.” Sha-Kaan extended his wings and rose lazily into the sky, calling to his Brood to do his bidding.

  Senedai's patience broke on the fourth day. There was no warning, no new ultimatum. With the coming of a blustery dawn, heavy with cloud and the cloying damp that signalled the approach of rain, Barras was awakened by a general alarm that ran through the Council Rooms.

  Instantly alert, he belted on his yellow robe of the day before, slid on boots without socks and rushed to the courtyard, dimly aware that his grey hair was wild in the wind, blowing into his eyes. He smoothed it back as Kard joined him.

  “Senedai?” asked Barras. The old General nodded.

  “And he's brought prisoners.”

  “Damn it.” Barras increased his pace. “I thought we could bluff him longer.”

  “You've already saved fifteen hundred innocent lives. He was bound to lose patience eventually.”

  Behind them, the sound of running feet grew in volume. Soldiers clattered by, heading for their guard posts on the North Gate and walls. Kerela and Seldane joined Barras.

  “So now it starts.” Kerela was grim. Barras nodded.

  “If only I could have bought more time.”

  Kerela squeezed Barras’ shoulder.

  “You bought us more time than we could possibly have dreamed of. Senedai's fear of magic is more deeply ingrained than all but you imagined. You saw that and you made it pay. Be satisfied.”

  “More likely he was just in no hurry then, but now he is. It worries me that something has happened elsewhere that demands his taking of the College urgently. Perhaps one of the others has already fallen.” They began ascending the stairs to the gate house and ramparts.