Noonshade

by James Barclay

  “Young man, I never start a battle I believe I can't win. You've seen the energy out there. If we channel it right, and if the help outside the city hits the rear of the Wesmen lines, we can win.”

  “Thank you, Kard,” said Kerela. “I suggest that you and Barras speak to Senedai. We will stay here and discuss the division of mages for your tasks.”

  As he and Kard walked, under guard, to the North Gate, Barras could feel the tension in the silent College. In the wood and steel tower, which currently stood overlooking the Long Rooms, half a dozen Wesmen leaned on the parapet, monitoring their movement with only passing interest.

  “You should have been a Negotiator, General,” said Barras, a wry smile on his face. “You're almost as good a liar as I am.”

  “I'm sure I don't know what you mean.” Kard fixed his gaze straight ahead but Barras saw the twitching of his lip.

  “Outside these walls, there must be ten thousand heavily armed and focused Wesmen. Inside, we have seven hundred soldiers, a few hundred angry men and fewer than two hundred mages. What do you think I mean?”

  “Actually, with our estimates of their ability to reinforce, there could be as many as twenty thousand Wesmen out there.”

  “And do you really believe the Dordovans are waiting for a sign? Surely they'll have been recalled once Julatsa fell.”

  “No, I'd say they were still there somewhere. There just aren't enough of them.”

  “So how long can we hold them off?” asked Barras.

  Kard shrugged. “Hard to say. Realistically, perhaps three days but it could be over in one if our spirit crumbles.”

  “But you don't think we can win?”

  Kard laughed, clapped Barras on the back with one hand and pulled open the door to the North Gate tower with the other.

  “I may be old, but I am not senile. I strongly suggest you place your most valuable texts in the Heart prior to burial,” he said and gestured at the stairs. “After you.”

  Lords Blackthorne and Gresse arrived at the southern port of Gyernath too late to lend their ramshackle forces of soldiers and farmers to the battle but not to the cleanup. And as Blackthorne directed his men to their tasks, he felt a sense of relief despite the destruction and death all around them.

  They had seen the fires while they were still over a day's march away, an orange glow blooming over the mountains which marked the northern reaches of Gyernath's boundaries. He and Gresse had feared the worst then, could see the sacking of the port and the routing of her army in their minds’ eyes and with it, the extinguishing of their still embryonic hopes for victory.

  But Gyernath had survived, the remnants of the Wesmen force scattering back toward Blackthorne. The attack had been expected, some of Blackthorne's people had brought warning, and the days of preparation they had been granted had proved the difference.

  For eight days, Gyernath had repulsed the waves of Wesmen from both land and sea, eventually breaking the Wesmen spirit as parts of the old port burned and their mage strength dwindled. They had not had to suffer the Shamen's white or black fires like Julatsa but their toll had been heavy nonetheless.

  Gyernath's army had lost half of its military and reservist strength to death or injury. Barely a man walked without bearing some sort of wound. And the mages, ruthlessly targeted wherever the Wesmen pierced the line, now numbered less than one hundred.

  For Blackthorne, though the salvation of the port was magnificent, it meant he could not hope to take the strength he wanted to attempt the reclamation of his town.

  “On the other hand, Blackthorne will be emptier of Wesmen than we expected,” said Gresse, standing at the Baron's shoulder, a dull ache and occasional fuzzy vision all that remained of his heavy concussion.

  “That rather depends on how many of this Wesmen force came from Blackthorne and how many directly across the Bay,” said Blackthorne.

  “Always the pessimist,” said Gresse.

  “It's easy to be pessimistic,” replied Blackthorne. “Just look at the mess they've made of this beautiful port.”

  The two men straightened and looked down the hill toward the Southern Ocean. The whole port was laid out before them in the midafternoon light. Smoke from a dozen extinguished fires spiralled slowly into the sky. The main street, at the top of which they stood, now led through a scene of devastation. Much of the fighting had been concentrated on its sloped cobbles and all the buildings: inns, houses, bakers’, armourers’, shipwright offices and the premises of a dozen other trades lay in ruins.

  To the left and right, the path of the street-to-street, house-to-house fighting was drawn in blood and ash. Funeral pyres were alight everywhere they looked and it was not until the eye travelled down toward the dockside piles, cranes, jetties and warehouses, that the port regained some semblance of its recognised shape. Out in the harbour, the masts of three or four tall ships jutted from the low tide water but the Gyernath blockade had frustrated every attempt of the Wesmen, not natural sailors, to break through.

  But the eight days of fighting had left thousands homeless and as many orphaned or widowed. The army and city guard, those who could still walk, threw the remainder of their energies into salvaging what they could from the wreckage of the port and making as much of it as habitable as possible. All too often since Blackthorne and Gresse had arrived though, it was the sound of the unsafe timbers being dragged to the ground that drowned out the sound of new timbers being nailed over cracks in roofs and walls. Gyernath's glory was gone.

  A man was striding up the slope of Drovers’ Way, the main street, toward them. He was tall, middle-aged and dressed in robes of state. The mayor's emblem hung around his neck and he was clutching a roll of parchment.

  “I'd say welcome, Blackthorne, but there's precious little of my town left for that,” he said. Blackthorne shook the man's hand.

  “But more than I can currently offer you at my own,” replied the Baron. “Mayor Scalier, may I introduce my friend, Baron Gresse.” The two men shook.

  “I have heard of your efforts,” said Scalier. “It is rare to find a man of your honour wearing Baronial colours these days. Present company excepted, naturally.”

  “Rarer still to find a victorious Eastern Balaian. I congratulate you on your triumph.”

  Scalier's smile faded a little and his long lined face took on a sadder aspect below the wisps of grey hair that blew about his head.

  “If it can be described as such. We cannot sustain another such attack; we will be driven into the sea. And as I look down on the ruins, I wonder whether that might not be a blessing.”

  “I understand your feelings, Scalier, as perhaps no one else can. But you know that my request for soldiers and mages is aimed at finishing the threat of such an attack.” Blackthorne rubbed at his beard. “I presume that parchment is your decision.”

  “Yes. I am sorry it has taken this long to deliver our answer; your messenger was most insistent about its urgency, but you can see we have had one or two other matters to attend to.” He handed over the parchment which Blackthorne unrolled quickly, his heart beating proud in his chest as he scanned the numbers it contained. His face cracked into a huge but short-lived smile.

  “You cannot afford this many men and mages. You have to maintain some defence.” He passed the parchment to Gresse whose breath hissed in through his teeth. Scalier clapped his hands together.

  “What for? Just look around you. The Wesmen must be stopped and you can stop them if you take the rest of Gyernath's army and its mages with you. We will position scouts and beacon fires on every route from the port. Should the Wesmen attack us again, we will have advance warning and evacuate to sea. You will command the forces of Gyernath and may the Gods bless you in your fight.”

  Blackthorne grabbed Scalier and hugged him, slapping his back until the older man coughed.

  “What you have done gives Balaia a chance,” he said. “Once Blackthorne is retaken and the camps either side of the Bay of Gyernath are destroyed, we
will march back north and fight at Understone. And this time, we will have victory as a true goal. Then,” he turned to Gresse. “Then will come the reckoning.”

  “How soon can these men be ready?” asked Gresse.

  “It will take a while to provision the ships and I should think the same time for you to formulate your plans with my Captains, not to mention allowing time for rest. There is a tide that will stream out in the early hours in two days’ time. You should be on it.” Blackthorne nodded.

  “Come, let us find an inn that is standing and drink to Gyernath and the whole of Balaia.” He led the way down Drovers’ Way, his head high, his mood ecstatic. There would be a victory at Blackthorne. His men, together with eight thousand from Gyernath, would sweep the Wesmen back across the Bay and into their homelands to lick their wounds. He hoped enough lived to curse their folly and to resolve never to challenge Baron Blackthorne again.

  Thraun felt it first, though Hirad didn't know it until later. Denser was still in Communion, face drawn into a deep frown, lips moving soundlessly, Erienne stroking his hair.

  To the rest of The Raven, nothing was out of the ordinary, but the wolf picked up his head and made a soft noise in his throat which became a whine. He shook his powerful muzzle and stood up, sniffing the air, hackles rising, a slight quiver apparent in his forelegs.

  He backed away from the stove, ignoring Will's calming hand and voice, looking left across the river and right into the brush that secluded them from unwelcome eyes. The whine continued from deep in the centre of his forehead then shut off abruptly. He locked eyes with Hirad and the barbarian would have laughed, swearing the wolf was actually frowning in worry, had not the pain seared into his skull.

  He cried out, clutching his head in both hands, making to rise but falling back, first to his haunches, then flat prone his legs thrashing, facial muscles horribly twisting his expression. Dimly, he heard Ilkar's voice and felt other hands grabbing at him, trying to still his body as it heaved and tremored.

  It was like nothing he had ever experienced. As if his brain was being squashed against the inside of his head by spiked mallets while, at the same time, squeezed to the size of an apple by a monstrous hand. He saw flashes of red and gold light before his eyes though the rest of the world was dark, and in his ears the sound of a thousand pairs of wings beat on his eardrums. His nose, he thought in a queer moment of total clarity, was bleeding.

  The agony had a voice. Hirad heard it echo at first, unsure whether it was another trick of the pain. It came to him on a hurricane of whispers just out of reach, sliding past his numbed mind then grabbing a hold. He wanted to open his eyes but could not. His limbs too, were leaden and immobile.

  This is death, he thought.

  “No, Hirad Coldheart, not death.” It was a voice he knew well and though it came to him from out of his nightmares, it brought strange comfort. “I am sorry for the inevitable unpleasantness. First contact over such a distance is difficult but it will ease. I will teach you.”

  “Sha-Kaan?” Hirad was aware his mouth was moving but his confusion of thoughts found a focal point in his bruised brain, allowing him to communicate.

  “Excellent. There is no damage.”

  “It doesn't feel that way and unpleasantness is hardly the word I would choose to describe what you have just caused.”

  Sha-Kaan chuckled, a gentle feeling which stroked Hirad's aching mind.

  “You have the same fearlessness I found in Septern,” he said. “It is a shame you are not a mage.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it would make our binding all the more powerful and complete.”

  “What binding?” Hirad felt a flicker of worry. It hadn't occurred why Sha-Kaan had chosen to contact him. He hadn't even conceived the possibility unless the dragon was in Balaia. The fact that he was apparently speaking from great distance was a cause for concern.

  “There is something I must ask you to do that will help my Brood to survive. I am old, even by the standards of the Kaan, yet I have had no Dragonene since the death of Seran at Taranspike Castle. You are the only human with the strength of mind to answer my calls. I may have need of you in the time before you travel to my domain.”

  Hirad was stunned. He also felt a sense of overwhelming honour but curiously didn't know why he should. He had precious little knowledge of the Dragonene save that all were mages.

  “But what can I do? I cannot cast a spell. Why me?”

  “There are others of The Raven to channel the energies of interdimensional space and to provide for my wounds and damages. But yours is a mind that burns bright for me as those of your friends do not. Even were I sorely wounded, I could find you and reach sanctuary. I ask that you agree. I will teach you what you need to know.”

  “And can I call on you?”

  “Should you need to, but I could not swear to answer you immediately, nor to be able to give you the help you desire, though I would expect nothing less from you.”

  “But what if I'm in the middle of battle?” Hirad could imagine the pain felling him as surely as an enemy axe in the midst of mêlée. He could not allow that. The Raven were too important.

  “If your mind is open as it should be, I could detect whether you were at rest before contacting you.”

  “Then I accept,” said Hirad before he knew quite what he was saying.

  “Excellent. Now tell me, how goes your search for a means to close the gateway?”

  Hirad quickly outlined his understanding of the DemonShroud, which was limited, and the distance they had to travel to Julatsa, which was far more complete.

  “I must know more about this Shroud. Is it pandimensional?”

  “I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about,” said Hirad. “All I know is that nothing living can pass through it, that it stretches as high as heaven and as low as hell and all who attempt to cross it lose their souls to the demons.”

  Sha-Kaan was quiet for a moment but Hirad felt his presence, and his worry, no less keenly. He had a moment to reflect on the enormity of what he had done and found himself unperturbed by it. There was one thing, though.

  “Why did you choose me now?” he asked.

  “Because I must attempt tasks that will provoke attack and damage. I must have a Dragonene. Now to this Shroud. Let me investigate. Your mages have dabbled again in something they do not fully understand or can control. I will contact the Brood and probe the space around the city you head for. There may be a way to get through. Be ready for my contact tomorrow as your sun passes its highest.”

  “I will.”

  “Thank you, Hirad Coldheart. You have taken a solemn oath but you are not alone. There are Dragonene everywhere there are mages. Until tomorrow.”

  And then he was gone and Hirad realised he had no idea how to contact the Great Kaan himself. He opened his eyes.

  “Gods in the ground, Hirad, what the hell happened to you?” Ilkar's face loomed over his, colour returning to his cheeks, frown relaxing.

  Hirad smiled, his head encased in sponge, his eyesight not quite sharp and the ache of Sha-Kaan's presence a reminder it had not all been a dream. He was lying flat on his back, a cloak pillowing his head. A female hand reached across with a rag and wiped what had to be blood from his nose.

  “How long have I been out?”

  “A couple of minutes,” said The Unknown.

  “Maybe less,” added Ilkar. There was a low growl. Thraun's muzzle appeared suddenly in his vision, the wolf's yellow eyes searching his, heavy furred brows forced together, an almost comical frown rippling the skin above them. Apparently satisfied, his tongue whipped out to lick Hirad's cheek then he moved away.

  “He's happy anyway,” said Hirad.

  “Yes, but he wasn't. Not happy at all,” said The Unknown.

  “Do you mind if I sit up?” asked Hirad. They helped him to a sitting position. Denser sat cross-legged away from the group, his pipe newly lit, smoking into the afternoon sky. He wore a deeply t
roubled expression. Will stood nearby, stroking Thraun's flank. Ilkar, The Unknown and Erienne crowded him, Ilkar handing him a mug of coffee.

  “You dropped your last one,” he said.

  “I don't remember.” He was feeling more human now, the pulp encasing his brain fading, his thoughts sharper, as was his sight.

  “So what happened?” asked Ilkar again.

  “It was Sha-Kaan; he spoke to me, from his own lands. From Wingspread.”

  “From where?” The Unknown leaned back on his haunches. Hirad shrugged. He had no idea where the word came from. Sha-Kaan had not used it.

  “Wingspread. Sha-Kaan's place, I suppose.” Hirad scanned the faces of Ilkar and The Unknown. The former was thoughtful, the latter worried.

  “I presume it wasn't good news,” said Ilkar. “I mean, why is he contacting you?”

  “How, is more pertinent,” added The Unknown. “Look at you. You're paler than a two-day corpse.”

  “Thanks,” said Hirad. “Look. I'm not sure what the news was but he's worried about getting hurt and needs a new Dragonene. Me, to be exact.”

  “What?” chorused the trio of mages.

  “Yeah, that's what I said. But apparently I can be the contact and you three can do whatever he needs you to do. He picked me because he's familiar with my mind. It's very strong, he said.” Hirad sat up a little straighter.

  Ilkar chuckled. “Well, your head's thick enough anyway.”

  “You didn't agree, did you?” asked Denser. It was more of a statement than a question.

  Hirad raised an eyebrow. “Well, yes, of course. I had to.”

  “Thanks very much,” snapped the Xeteskian.

  “What's your problem?” Hirad felt the pricklings of anger. “Did I really have a choice?”

  “Yes, you did. You could have said no. Suppose I don't want to be a Dragonene?”

  “You aren't, Xetesk man, I am. You're a…I don't know, you're a consort or something.” It was the wrong word and Hirad knew it. He only half-regretted saying it. Denser rose.