Noonshade

by James Barclay

  “He is under pressure, certainly,” said Kard. “But don't assume it's because of further victory. Lack of success by other armies has probably forced him to act.”

  The desire for conversation and the search for reason ceased as they looked down on the cobbled square before the gates. There stood Senedai, arms crossed over his chest, feet placed deliberately apart, dark cloak billowing in the breeze that accompanied the early morning chill. His hair, heavy with braids, barely stirred.

  Behind him, better than one hundred Wesmen circled a group of fifty Julatsan children and older folk. All looked confused, all fearful, knowing only that they were a bargaining counter of some sort. None could know the fate that awaited them, their faces holding no panic or terror.

  “I said it would take six days,” said Barras. Senedai shrugged.

  “And in four, you have done nothing but drilled your soldiers in full view of my observers. I will not debate this further.” He raised an arm.

  “Wait!” said Barras. “You can't expect to see the results of our efforts. There is no physical dismantling of magic. We will be ready soon.”

  “You have lied to me, mage,” said Senedai. “Such is the thinking among my captains. And for that, I will have your head as our bargain allows.”

  “It took him long enough to work it out,” muttered Kard.

  “Now, how long you stay is up to you. But as the mound of corpses rises and its stench drifts across your faces, so will the hatred among those of your people left alive rise against you.”

  A murmur and movement stirred among the prisoners and Barras could all but feel their hearts beginning to race as the awful realisation of possible death brought sweat to bead on the back of necks, cold as the grip of night. Barked shouts from the Wesmen guards restored order, but the fear etched deeper into faces and the blank incomprehension of children tore at Barras.

  “I had thought you to be a man of honour,” said the elder elven mage. “Not a murderer of the weak and helpless. You are a soldier, by the Gods. Act like one.”

  Senedai wiped a hand across his mouth, apparently attempting to conceal a smile.

  “You are a skilled speaker, mage, but your words no longer move me. It is not I who shall murder them. None of my prisoners will die under a Wesman hand or blade. I am merely releasing them into your hands. If you drop your devil's curtain, they will live.” He pointed at the group on the ramparts. “You are the murderers. Watch fifty lives be lost, their deaths on your conscience.” He raised his hand again, this time sweeping it down before Barras opened his mouth to speak. The guards pushed through the crowd, one pair to each prisoner. They were marched struggling in a four-deep line toward the DemonShroud directly under the North Gate, stopping less than three feet from the modulating grey spell. That close, its aura must have been terrible.

  Senedai walked behind the first row of prisoners almost as if he was inspecting soldiers under his command. He stopped at the midpoint.

  “Senedai, no,” urged Barras.

  “Take down your defence.” He paused, looked up into Barras’ eyes. “Take down your defence.” Barras said nothing.

  “Don't give in.” The voice came from Barras’ left. There stood an old mage in the front row, tall and proud, a balding pate atop fierce eyes and a sharp nose. Senedai walked quickly behind him, grabbing his neck in one gloved hand.

  “You seem anxious to die, old man,” he rasped. “Perhaps you would like to be the first.”

  “I am proud to die protecting the integrity of my College,” spat the mage, meeting Senedai eyeball to eyeball. “And most of those here will follow me gladly.” He shook his arms. “Let go of me, dammit. I can stand unaided.” At a signal from Senedai, the guards released him.

  “I'm waiting,” said the Wesman Lord. The old mage turned and addressed the Julatsans.

  “This day, I ask you to join me in giving your lives to save the College of Julatsa and all who stand safe behind her walls. Many of you, I know, have no affinity with magic but, as native Julatsans, you are blessed by it and its force for good every day. We cannot let that force die. For hundreds of years, Julatsan mages have given of themselves for their people. Witness how many were killed trying to defend the city. Now, in our time of direst need, it is time to give something back. All that would walk willingly with me into the Shroud, say aye.”

  A ragged response gained in volume, ending with the shrill “Aye” of a child. The mage looked again at Senedai.

  “Your words writhe like maggots in a rotting corpse. You have ordered our deaths, you are killing prisoners. Julatsa has the right to protect herself and your blackmail will return to visit death upon you and your kinsmen. But we will not give you the satisfaction of seeing us beg for your mercy.”

  “It will not always be so.” Barras could see the hatred in Senedai's face and knew that the old mage, whose name he could not recall, had scored a victory, however small.

  “Release my people,” said the mage. Senedai had no choice. He shook his head, waved his arm wearily and the guards released the arms of the prisoners they held. None moved to run and the perplexed expressions on the faces of the guards told everything. Precious few had understood Senedai's exchange with the old mage and even fewer could see why their prisoners made no attempt to save themselves.

  “We will line up, each person holding the hand of those either side.” The prisoners moved silently forward, the men and women upright and proud through their fear, the children uncomprehending, their voices stilled in the enormity of the atmosphere.

  Barras could hardly bear to watch but knew that to flinch was to betray the act of extraordinary courage being played out in front of him. He wanted to shout for them to run, to fight, to struggle against their deaths. A part of him, though, saw that this solidarity would unsettle Senedai more than any futile fight. Now, at least, he knew the strength of will of the Julatsan people. Or thought he did.

  The movement below Barras ceased. Fifty Julatsans stood a single pace from the DemonShroud, faces alive with terror at their imminent deaths and the evil pulsing from the Shroud's borders. The wind whistled around the walls of the College. Behind the line, Senedai and his guards stood uncertain, their objective about to be fulfilled but the initiative gone.

  The old mage stood in the centre of the line, hands clasped with a child on his right and an elderly man to his left. He stared up at the ramparts.

  “My mages Kerela and Barras, General Kard, it is with honour that we make this sacrifice. Do not let it be in vain.”

  “It will not be,” said Barras, his voice shaking.

  “What is your name?” asked Kerela from beside the stunned negotiator.

  “Theopa, my Lord.”

  “Theopa, your name will live forever in the minds of generations of Julatsan mages that follow you,” said Kerela. “I am shamed and lessened not to have known you better.”

  “It is enough that you know me now. And know all of us now.” He raised his voice. “Come, let us walk to glory. The Gods will smile upon us, and the demons below will have mercy on our souls.” Theopa's expression betrayed the lie.

  Beside him, the child started to weep. Theopa bent and whispered words that would remain between them. The child nodded, her face cracking into a smile.

  “Close your eyes and walk with me,” said the mage, his voice loud and strong. He paced forward, the line with him. The fifty Julatsans dropped, their mouths open, screams of agony cut short as their souls were torn from their bodies.

  Barras could feel the tears on his cheeks. A soldier walked by him, muttered something under his breath. Kard heard him.

  “Consider yourself confined to your quarters,” he grated. “Speak to no one on your way. I will deal with you myself.” The soldier paled and moved on.

  “Don't be harsh on him,” said Barras.

  “He accused you of murder.”

  “He was right.”

  Kard stepped in front of Barras, shielding him from the Wesmen below. �
�Never, ever believe that. The murderer stands outside these walls. And he will be brought to justice.” Barras gestured Kard aside.

  “Lord Senedai,” he called. The Wesman turned and looked up. “May your dreams be plagued by the shades of hell every day of your short life.”

  Senedai bowed. “I will return at midday. More will die.”

  Barras began preparing. From here, he could take Senedai, burn the flesh from his bones. Kerela stopped him, breaking his concentration.

  “I understand your hate,” she said. “But you'll be wasting your mana on the inside of the Shroud. Better we channel our energies to finding a way to free ourselves and our prisoners. Come, Barras. Rest and think.”

  The High Mage led the weeping Barras from the ramparts.

  Tessaya had to know he was coming but it was both the price he was willing to pay and the risk he had to take. In truth, Styliann hadn't expected to talk his way past Riasu but the nervous tribal Lord had been so taken aback by the display of Protector power that he had sent horsemen through the pass to seek Tessaya's approval before the blood of his warriors had run cold.

  To Styliann it had all served as a fascinating demonstration of the fear in which all things magical were held. Individually, Wesmen, even their Lords, were weak. Most of them. But, he considered, there were notable exceptions. For one, the man commanding the tribes laying siege to Julatsa. Undoubtedly a strong man but even he was apparently unwilling to press on into the heart of their magic, stayed by a trepidation of the unknown that no proof of might could shift. Generations of conditioning stood between the man and his conquest of a College city. Something that had never been achieved before.

  And then, Tessaya, an altogether different animal. His reputation went before him and Styliann was certain that he would not so much as entertain the thought of talking to the Lord of the Mount. Death or hostage. Styliann favoured the latter.

  There lay the gamble. He had his route across the mountains. He had avoided further travel with both The Raven, whom he distrusted and admired in equal measure, and with the bright General, Darrick—a man in the hero mould if ever there was one; the former because he had no wish to join the attempted liberation of Julatsa and the latter because Gyernath was simply too far. To lose the stewardship of the Mount even temporarily, was a humiliation that took precedence over every consideration.

  For a while, in the aftermath of the Dawnthief casting and the realisation of his usurpation, he had suffered a crisis of confidence as his influence over Balaian affairs waned. But it had all become clear to him soon enough. Much of the modern expertise in dimensional magics lay within the walls of Xetesk, and there was a text recently released from the locked vaults beneath his Tower which he was certain had direct bearing on the problem facing The Raven. His influence over Balaia would remain crucial but only if he could regain the Mount quickly.

  Thus, his chosen route. It was the most direct to Xetesk by several days but contained the largest obstacle. Tessaya. But even the fact that Tessaya expected him was not necessarily a fatal disadvantage. After all, Styliann was under guard and coming to talk. The Wesmen would hardly be massing their armies. Indeed, quite the reverse if he knew anything about Tessaya's mind. And Styliann had the advantage of knowing precisely when he would arrive, a luxury not afforded the Lord of the Wesmen.

  As the sun reached the heights of the midday sky, Styliann, his Protectors and a guard of forty Wesmen moved into Understone Pass, the former Lord of the Mount the only one on horseback. The Wesmen were guides, monitors and a guard of honour, Riasu had said and at the time Styliann had found it hard not to laugh.

  Did the Wesman Lord really believe Styliann could get lost in a Pass with only one bore? And what good did he think forty would be against ninety of the most complete fighting machines in Balaia? The answer to the latter was, as it turned out, none at all.

  Styliann yawned and looked behind him. As at the head of the column, twenty Wesmen were marching along the pass, the light from their lanterns decorating the dark slate walls with elaborate dancing shadows as they moved. Above him, a natural fissure ran up into the heart of the Blackthorne Mountains. Up ahead, however, the ceiling shelved down sharply to a height of less than fifteen feet and on one side the path fell away into a chasm that struck into the depths of hell.

  The air was damp and cool and, here and there, water dripped, the escape of some long forgotten rainfall or buried tributary. The sounds of foot and hoof combined with the slap of scabbard on thigh to echo ever louder from the walls as they closed in. Hardly a word had been exchanged, none between Styliann and the Wesmen, and the warriors’ bravado had fast given way to uneasy whispers and ultimately an anxious silence. Understone Pass did that to people. The power overhead and the press to left and right stole confidence, hunched shoulders and hurried footsteps.

  The column made good time and, an hour into the march, had a little more than three still to go. The barracks built into the western end of the pass were far behind and no one, east or west, could hear them.

  Styliann smiled. It was time. He had no need of guides or lanterns or monitors. It would have been better for the guard had they stayed west. At least there they would have lived a little longer.

  Considering his options, Styliann decided against depleting his mana stamina reserves however slightly. It was a pointless exercise. None of the Wesmen had bows—an omission none of them would live to regret. He leaned forward in his saddle, mouth close to the ear of Cil, now a favoured Protector, who marched in the centre of the defensive cordon that comprehensively shielded Styliann.

  “Destroy them,” he whispered. Cil's head moved fractionally in acknowledgement. Without breaking stride, he relayed the order to his brothers. Styliann smiled again as an instant's tension crackled the air before the Wesmen were engulfed in a battle they didn't realise had started until it was effectively over.

  Eight wide, the front rank of Protectors swept axes from waist hitches and plunged them into the backs and necks of the oblivious Wesmen a few paces ahead. Behind, the thirty Protectors swivelled, axes to the ready and slammed into the wide-eyed rear guard.

  The cacophony of shouts and cries that filled the air were calls to death, not to arms. In the front the Protectors surged on into the Wesmen guard, axes rising, falling and sweeping, blood smearing the pass, the sick thud of metal striking flesh loud in Styliann's ears.

  Struggling to turn and draw weapons, the Wesmen lost all shape, the shock of the assault defeating clear thought. Even as a few faced their attackers, they were cut down by the relentless accuracy and power of the Protectors whose every pace was for gain, whose every blow struck home and who never uttered a sound from behind their masks.

  To the rear, at least there was resistance, however brief. Howling a rallying cry, one Wesman stood firm, others around him taking his lead. For a few moments, sparks lit the passage adding a flickering aspect to the lanternlit nightmare and the clash of steel on steel rang out in the enclosed space. But the Protectors simply increased the pace and ferocity of their attack, moving to strike again almost before the last blow was complete and forcing the Wesmen back in a desperate and futile defence.

  With blood slicking the floor and the dismembered and hideously scarred bodies of their kinsmen littering the ground, with the impassive masks of the dread force facing them down, the remaining Wesmen, perhaps ten altogether, turned and fled, screaming warnings that no one would hear as they went.

  “Catch them and kill them,” said Styliann.

  Half a dozen Protectors from each end picked their way deliberately over the carnage and ran east or west, their footfalls sounding impending death as they chased down their hapless quarry.

  With the lanterns gone in the hands of fleeing Wesmen, or crushed underfoot, Styliann cast a LightGlobe and raised his eyebrows at the destruction he had ordered.

  “Excellent,” he said. “Any injuries?”

  “Minor cuts to two, my Lord,” replied Cil. “Nothing more.”


  “Excellent,” he repeated, nodding. “Now. Clear the bodies over the side. I will ride forward and you will stand by me.”

  Again the almost imperceptible nod of the head. Immediately, Protectors stooped to drag the bodies from the passage to dump them in the chasm. Styliann urged on his nervous horse, Cil and five others flanking him, three either side. A few yards further on, he stopped and dismounted, dusted himself down and sat with his back to the north wall of the pass, the LightGlobe illuminating the rough-hewn rock.

  Little impressed Styliann but Understone Pass certainly did. It represented a combination of extraordinary human and natural engineering. Built for profit and conquest, it had proved to be a millstone. He scratched his cheek below his left eye and shrugged. It was the way of so much meant for good to become evil.

  “And now we wait,” he said to Cil. “Or rather, you do. I have work to do.” He closed his eyes. “I have need of your soul companions.”

  In the fading gentle light of late afternoon, Lord Tessaya took a walk around the boundaries of Understone, a worry beginning to nag at the back of his mind. It had been a day of extreme contrasts.

  The message brought back by his bird had spoiled his mood but not his plans. The fast riders from Riasu at the eastern end of the pass had brought remarkable and unexpected news that could prove pivotal. Control of the Xeteskian Lord Mage was a prize worthy of the effort of containing his power. Never mind the dread force surrounding him. If he could be isolated, they could be nullified and eventually destroyed. There was no greater bargaining counter than Styliann. And he had volunteered to lend assistance in return for his speedy repatriation to his College. Fine. Tessaya was entirely happy to promise everything and give nothing. Particularly to a mage.

  But something wasn't right. His initial euphoria at Styliann's naïveté, and the apparent overconfidence in his worth, had led to him dispatching the riders back immediately, bearing his written invitation. He had toyed with the idea of meeting Styliann with overwhelming force but had no desire to waste the lives of his men when, given a little patience, he could reach his goal without spilling a drop of Wesmen blood.