Noonshade

by James Barclay

  “Close the gates,” called Hirad as they neared and the gatemen obliged, The Raven squeezing through the gap they left. The great iron-bound wooden gates clanged shut, WardLock fizzed across the wood and the last arrows thudded in harmlessly, their impact muted by the thick timbers.

  Hirad set down the child who clung to his leg bawling, his mouth wide, terrified, eyes streaming tears. The Raven warrior wiped and sheathed his sword, feeling the gazes of his friends on him, their mouths turning up, smiling through their gasps for breath. He shrugged and patted the boy ineffectually on the head. The volume of his cries increased.

  “You're safe now,” Hirad said. “Quiet down.”

  Denser landed close by, Erienne tumbling from his grasp to snatch the toddler from Hirad's leg, holding him to her chest and patting his back, his arms thrown around her neck.

  “Do you know nothing?” she asked him, but there was admiration in her voice, not anger.

  Hirad smiled. “Not a great deal,” he said. “Thanks.” He looked about the College courtyard. It was teeming with bewildered but relieved city folk, some of whom had the presence of mind to thank their rescuers before being ushered away by College guards anxious to clear open spaces at risk from projectile attack.

  Above The Raven, who leaned against the walls, the spell barrage had ceased and outside the Wesmen clamoured, kept back for now at a safe distance, wary of magic. But soon, the false calm would be shattered and already men had fought and mages had spent themselves and it was not yet full dawn.

  And before they could join the battle, The Raven had texts to find but, more importantly, a duty to perform. One that wouldn't wait.

  Hirad indicated the infirmary.

  “Come on, Raven, we have a Vigil to observe.” The mercenaries walked solemnly across the College courtyard. Of Thraun, there was no sign.

  Styliann felt a tiny pang of sorrow for what he had led the Wesmen into.

  The Protectors had run on, indefatigable, resting only when the Wesmen behind them had to pause, and pushing on before their pursuers began again. Throughout the chase, the Wesmen never fell back by more than a few hours and Styliann was impressed by their sheer stamina and determination.

  But, with the sun at its zenith on the third day of the chase, he had met the Protector army he had summoned from Xetesk and now he waited. The scouts he had posted estimated the Wesmen force to be in the region of four to five thousand but, even though he had perhaps a tenth that number of Protectors at his disposal, he knew he would win, probably losing no more than forty of his charges in the process.

  Styliann surveyed the land on which he had chosen to fight. He sat on his horse on a small rise to the right of his main force of Protectors. In front of him, the ground rose gently to a small plateau, on the other side of which lay a steeper slope up which the Wesmen would soon be marching.

  To the left and right, tracking through areas of low crag and woodland, a dozen Protectors swept for forward enemy scouts while two groups of forty lay ready for the flanking order when battle was joined.

  That left almost four hundred to take the core of the Wesmen battle front. They stood absolutely silent below the lip of the rise, waiting for the pulsed command from Cil to surge over the top. Should everything go as planned, mêlée would be joined before the Wesmen archers could string their bows.

  Styliann had chosen a reasonably narrow focus for the attack. His front line would be no more than eighty warriors wide. Narrow enough to ensure he couldn't be overwhelmed, wide enough to unleash the full force of the Protectors on an enemy who would be totally unprepared for what they faced.

  He heard the Wesmen long before a silent order brought his Protectors to the ready, each with sword and axe in either hand. The tribal songs echoed from the slopes, filtered through the trees and rang into the clear blue sky on the gusting breeze. Ten tribesmen, making up a Wesmen advance guard, ran up the rise and over it, meeting swift, silent death on the blades of the waiting Xeteskian warriors before they had a chance to change their songs to warnings. The rest of the army were jogging, the pace and rhythm of the words told him that, driving hard toward their doom with victory on their lips.

  Styliann smiled at the irony.

  It would soon be time, and the former Lord of the Mount found himself irritated at the necessity of the fight to come. But he couldn't have the Wesmen chase him to the gates of Xetesk, as they would undoubtedly do if not stopped before. He had no guarantee that he would gain access to the city immediately and any delay could quite literally be fatal. The ground around Xetesk was too open and even the Protectors would struggle against four thousand on the fields before the walled city. No, it had to be here and it had to be now.

  Styliann turned to Cil. “Engage at will.” Cil nodded and faced the ranks of his brethren, still with a secure hand on the reins of his Given's horse. Styliann felt a stab of nerves through his confidence but he quashed it merely by looking again at his Protectors.

  Not a word was shouted, no signals fanned through their ranks, no heads turned to await command. The thunder of footsteps grew, vibrating through the ground as the enemy closed. Individual voices could be heard through the mass of the song, whose intensity never let up as they ran. Four thousand Wesmen calling death to their enemies, beating axes against thighs, the dull thumping adding a grim beat to the song. On they came, a surge racing forward, ready to crash on their foe. They had no fear. It could be heard from every throat. They were the Tribes; the land would be theirs.

  And hidden before them, the Protectors. One moment, they were standing stock still while the songs of the Wesmen and the sound of their feet rolled over them. The next, battle was joined in a ring of steel and a storm up the rise.

  Wide spaced, to allow the free wielding of both weapons, the Protectors ran mute into the unsuspecting ranks of the Wesmen, whose songs died in their throats, turning to warning and battle order as the first of their number dropped lifeless to the ground. The Xeteskian thralled force plunged in with extraordinary brutality, stopping the Wesmen in their tracks with a blistering barrage of axe and longsword. Screams filled the air.

  Styliann watched dispassionately as his Protectors destroyed the vanguard of the Wesmen before they had a chance to break from their ten-abreast column, the mana shape for HotRain playing in his mind.

  He rode further up the rise on which he was positioned, moving nearer the battle, and was greeted with the sight of his flanking forces wading in from the left and right. They scythed through the column, cutting off a section of perhaps three hundred Wesmen.

  Completely surrounded by Protectors, they were simply massacred while the Dark College force simultaneously formed a new advanced front line, again precisely spaced but with a concavity to draw the Wesmen in.

  The enemy leader finally managed to force order on his men. Commands ran throughout the panicked column, which broke and moved to attack on a broader front, meeting the Protectors head on. Behind the lines, archers peeled away and Styliann quickly adjusted his mana shape, moving from the lattice that was HotRain, to the tight spheroid that produced FlameOrbs.

  Before the first volley of arrows was nocked, the ex-Lord of the Mount's quartet of white-striated orange Orbs, each the size of a human skull, sailed over the closing battle lines to splash fire on the defenceless archers. Those not deluged, scattered, a pall of thick smoke rising from burning victims, cries of pain louder than the urgent orders to reform.

  Battle proper was joined with the Wesmen in turmoil and fighting as much for shape as for their lives. They were scared. Styliann could see it in the set of their bodies and knew what they faced. Masks and polished steel. Death whose countenance they would never see, death that was silent and unstoppable.

  The Protectors made no sound. No grunts of exertion as they struck, no battle cries, no screams from the injured and the few who died. Nothing. Just a wall of blades; flat, featureless masks and dark-stained leather, chain and plate. To Styliann's ears, the sound of their weapo
ns was almost musical, and he watched their inexorable advance, likening it in his mind to a macabre dance.

  Blades flashed in the sunlight, crashing into the Wesmen's stout defence. Axe and sword fell remorselessly as the Protectors forced the pace, their onslaught withering and awesome. The clatter of weapon on shield, the dull thud of blade on body, the sparking clash as metal found metal; all drifted over Styliann on a cloud of Wesmen blood. Three more times, at Cil's request, he launched devastating FlameOrbs into groups of archers or individual bowmen. Three times, fire washed the sky. Three times, the acrid smoke rose to mingle with the dust and the blood.

  The Wesmen were brave and resolute and Styliann admired their spirit while pitying the futility of their action. And they didn't simply queue up to die. From the rear of their lines, more than five hundred broke ranks to skirt the battlefield, aiming to flank the Protectors. Watched all the way by the scouts concealed left and right, they were met by a force of the Xeteskian warriors who peeled from the line to confront them before they could pose any threat to Styliann.

  Even that didn't deter them. Ultimately, it was the Protectors’ defence that broke their morale.

  The battle had raged for well over an hour and the Protectors had maintained their steady, silent advance, walking through the bodies of the Wesmen, never looking down to find their feet, each pace sure and certain. Those behind the fighting line directed movement, leaving them free to focus on attack, while others stooped to pull fallen brethren from the carnage.

  It was a hopeless task for the Wesmen. Even when a Protector fell, their line was never in danger of being breached. Almost before the warrior had hit the ground, another was in his place, completing the defensive net.

  Each Protector attacked without a flicker of a glance to his flanks. And while his sword or axe drove at his latest opponent, his chosen second weapon blocked and parried both strikes to his own body and those of the brother next to him; all directed by the soul mind whose conscious strength lay in Xetesk and whose eyes looked from five hundred faces. They missed almost nothing, gave the Wesmen no consistent target, and any hope that flickered was snuffed out by the turn of a blade at the critical moment.

  Styliann saw the end. To the right of the battle line, the Wesmen mounted a desperate push. Spearmen jabbed between the sword and axemen, adding a new dimension to the fight. They roared their battle cries, summoned every ounce of spirit and hurled themselves forward.

  Instantly, and almost imperceptibly, the Protectors responded. The slightest closing of their ranks, the merest quickening of their strike rate, the smallest increase of the defensive response. Wesmen axe and sword found nothing but steel; spear thrusts were caught in the gauntleted hands of the second-line Protectors, their wielders dragged to their deaths. Bodies dropped, the wounded screamed, and blood ran over the feet of those still standing. In a matter of moments, the Wesmen effort to break the Protector line was reversed, the Xeteskians punched a hole in the enemy defence and their order broke and scattered.

  Across the battle front, they turned and ran, the orders of their captains ignored, the belief gone and their spirit broken. The Protectors made no move to give chase, merely standing and watching them go.

  Styliann laid a hand on Cil's shoulder. The Protector turned smartly to him.

  “You may take the masks from the dead. But be quick with your rituals. We must be back in Xetesk before nightfall tomorrow. There is much to be done.”

  They'd found Thraun curled by the foot of Will's bed. The infirmary staff hadn't dared to move the big blond warrior, instead throwing a blanket over his nakedness to give him some warmth and dignity.

  And that was all they could do for him because flooding through the doors had been Julatsa's wounded and dying. Every bed was occupied; dark red had joined the light colours of the infirmary, and the wails of pain and fear mixed with the clatter of buckets, the whispering of mages, the urgent shouts of the tenders and the running of feet in every direction.

  Will had lain in the bed, his face covered by a sheet, waiting for The Raven to take him and honour him, the area around him and Thraun a pool of sad quiet in the hubbub of the infirmary. There had been a Vigil but no burial. Victims of the siege were to be stored in the cellars beneath the Mana Bowl, where it was cool and dry and the air heavy with incense.

  Now, with Thraun lifted on to the empty bed and left to sleep, his eyes dark hollows, his mouth moving soundlessly, framing words of grief and anguish, tears squeezing from his eyelids, The Raven took time to sit and talk in a quiet chamber in the Tower. Outside, the Wesmen gathered their forces, brought up their towers and catapults and prepared to attack, while in the skies above the sun shone down, an inappropriate warmth and freshness drifting over Julatsa.

  Hirad took them all in, knowing their first action should be to sleep all day. They had had no rest since Sha-Kaan's arrival, had fought almost constantly and Ilkar and Erienne, he was sure, were both spent as far as casting was concerned. Of Denser, he wasn't so sure. The Xeteskian appeared relatively fresh and alert, his pipe, as ever, clamped between his teeth. But his eyes had that distant look that Hirad didn't much care for. Like he was thinking greater thoughts than those in his company should be allowed to share. Still, it was an improvement on the sullen disinterest he'd shown since leaving Parve.

  “Will's death triggered his change back, I presume,” said Ilkar. Erienne nodded.

  “Had to be,” said The Unknown. “But I think such speculation is not the best use of our very limited time.”

  “We need to try and understand or we won't be able to help him,” said Erienne.

  “Yes, but we've got significant problems, other than Thraun, that I am afraid some of us seem to have overlooked in the recent excitement,” said The Unknown, his tone forbidding any interruption. Hirad almost smiled but quashed it. Denser and Erienne wouldn't have seen him like this, not really. This was The Unknown he needed. The calm assessor and practical planner as well as the colossal warrior.

  “We came here to find Septern's texts; let's not forget that. But we don't know how long the College can hold out against the Wesmen. The task is further complicated by the fact that part of the Library is now in the Heart below us. We have no idea how long the search will take and Barras cannot spare us many, if any, mages from the College defence.

  “We will have to play our part in securing the College from the Wesmen, not least to give ourselves time enough to search the Heart and Library.

  “We also have to tend to Thraun until he is fit enough to travel and, when we have what we came for, we have to get out of Julatsa whether the siege is over or not. The rip widens daily. It will not wait for us and we've already been delayed too long. If the measurements are correct, we have only seven days to close the rip and the only gateway we know of is three days’ ride away at least.” He leaned back in his chair and sipped his drink.

  “But look at us, Unknown,” said Hirad. “We can't fight or cast effectively right now. We're all shattered. The first thing we need is rest.”

  “We've made something of a rod for our own backs, haven't we?” said Denser, applying flame to his pipe. “It was a heroic rescue but they'll merely expect more of the same.”

  “Well, thanks for that incisive contribution,” said Ilkar. “Any other words of wisdom you'd care to share with us?”

  “I just felt it needed saying,” said Denser with a shrug.

  “It makes no difference what people expect,” said Hirad. “The Raven do what The Raven have to do. And what we have to do now is rest. I don't want to see any of us on the ramparts today unless there's a breach, which is something I doubt.”

  “You don't think they'll expect us to advise, or just be there to raise morale?” said Denser.

  “We've told Kard all he needs to know,” said The Unknown. “We have to look after ourselves for now. Ilkar, what's your condition?”

  “Not too bad,” said the Julatsan. “I can replenish quickly here in the College. We all
can, though Denser and Erienne have to modulate the flow they accept. It's you, Hirad and Thraun who need the rest. I'm going to the Heart to start the search and I'll sleep at night, Wesmen willing. If Erienne and Denser want to help, the Library will be open to them.” Both mages nodded. “Good.”

  “Another thing before we break,” said Hirad. “The Raven do not fight apart. I don't want to see any of us fighting or casting alone. I for one, will not stand on the ramparts without the rest of you. We are The Raven. Remember that.”

  “You'll never let us forget it,” muttered Denser.

  “Still alive, aren't you, Denser?” snapped Hirad. “Think on why that is.”

  Styliann had lost only twenty-three Protectors, an astonishing testament to the power and skill of the soul-linked army. He estimated that almost half of the Wesmen lay staring sightless at the sky and, before he left the battlefield, birds were circling over and walking among the dead, a fresh feast theirs for the taking. The rest of the routed army would report back to Tessaya and their terror would do more long-term damage than any blade.

  The gates of Xetesk were closed to the former Lord of the Mount when he arrived, not that he was surprised. Dystran had few defences left and, he suspected, even fewer friends. As he rode toward the gates, the blustery, cloudy day drawing quickly toward dusk, Styliann reinforced the natural shield around his mind. He smiled as he felt the tendrils of a spell push at his barrier. They, whoever they were, had no hope of sundering the shield but he would have been disappointed had they not tried. To remain Lord of the Mount required consummate skill at protecting the mind.

  Styliann dismounted and seated himself on a convenient grass-covered rise, around fifty yards from the gates and a stone's throw from the main trail. There was a quickening of the pulse as he took in the dark-walled power of his beloved city.

  To either side of the grand East Gate tower, with its ornate arched windows, multiple oil runs and three levels of reinforced ramparts, the dun-coloured walls ran away for over a mile, lost to sight as the dark closed in. Studded along their length with functional mage and archer turrets built in dark grey stone, the walls turned west for around a mile and a half before meeting the great west wall which faced the Blackthorne Mountains.