Noonshade

by James Barclay

  Time to believe. Time to fight.

  “Sol?”

  The Unknown spun round at the sound of his given name. It was Cil. He, Ile and Rya were standing over the mound of recently-turned earth under which the remains of Styliann's blasted body now lay. There had been no reverence, indeed no interest from any but Denser who had felt a collegiate responsibility for the ex-Master's burial.

  No grand ceremony for Styliann in the crypts of Xetesk. No lying in state, no train of mourning, no ritual entombment. No honour. Just a rude grave dug in the soft ground away from the river under a rock overhang in an alien dimension. Dug by Protectors using Vestare tools and infilled the same way.

  The Unknown walked toward the trio. Vestare woven rope coils over his shoulders.

  “What is it, Cil?” he asked.

  “The decision has been made. We won't travel back to Balaia. We are staying here, to live among the Kaan.”

  The Unknown nodded. “I thought you might. Now, you are sure you can still feel your souls.”

  “And should the loneliness become too much, we can return,” said Rya.

  “The masks?” The Unknown touched his cheek, a painful memory returning unbidden.

  “You are the one chosen to be first to see,” said Cil. “The demons can't harm us here. They have no control in this dimension. Here, we are free.”

  Without hesitation, each Protector unstrapped and lifted off his mask and clutched it in his hands.

  The Unknown held his breath but the wonder in their eyes told him all he needed to know. They were feeling the air on their faces for the first time in months, maybe years. They took in huge lungfuls, shook their heads and drank in a world where their sight was unencumbered by the edges of their moulded eyeholes.

  Rya, Ile and Cil were all young men, none of them older than twenty-five. Their faces, white but for the dark areas around eyes and mouth, were striped by red weals and marked by boils and sores that, though treated by Xeteskian healers to prevent infection, were never able to fully heal under the masks. Now they would and Cil's young, handsome face, strong-featured with deep green eyes, would be a loss to the women of Balaia. The Unknown smiled to himself; at least that was one less in competition with him when he returned.

  No words were needed to express their feelings. Their eyes said more than the longest text in Xetesk's library. The Unknown, Sol, walked to the men, free while they remained in the dragon dimension, and hugged each one. He looked deep into Cil's eyes, seeing the hope of every Protector reflected there.

  “One day, we will all be free and you can return unmasked as you are now. Our brotherhood will never be forgotten and, though we all once again own our souls, we will never be parted. Believe me, I still feel you.”

  Cil nodded. “You'd better go. We're joining the second wave of ground defence with the Vestare.”

  “Good luck,” said The Unknown.

  “And to The Raven.”

  The Unknown trotted back to where The Raven stood by the dragons that would carry them to the rip. Each stood in the shadow cast by an enormous body, looking along the neck and up to the head that was held high and proud. Ilkar and Hirad would sit at the base of Sha-Kaan's neck, the warrior behind to hold the mage in place when his casting took all his concentration. The Unknown and Denser would ride Nos-Kaan and Erienne would be held by Thraun on Hyn-Kaan.

  “Ready?” asked Hirad.

  “Yes,” said The Unknown, glancing back again to the free men. “There's a lot of work to do back in Balaia. Let's get going.”

  There had been a feverish discussion about how best to attach themselves to the dragons. Sha-Kaan and Jatha had joined them and, in the end, the solution chosen was a relatively simple one. Each member of The Raven would have a rope looped and tied around their midriff, leaving both arms and legs free for grip and balance. The rope would then be tied hard around the dragon's lower neck.

  The idea wasn't that the rope should hold them firmly in place but to stop them falling should they slip. The lower neck would move the least while still being narrow enough to sit astride. The mound of the body would provide anchor against slipping backward and if the dragon dived…

  “…we'll just have to hang on,” said Hirad. “Right, let's be aware that communication's going to be very difficult. Sha-Kaan will lead the flight, keeping the dragons as close together as possible. We'll have as much defence as they can spare from the rip cordon. Denser, I think you should lead the casting. Thraun, Unknown, you know what you have to do. Don't let your mages go.”

  “What if we're forced to break formation?” asked Erienne.

  “Well, I'll know through Ilkar whether it breaks spell concentration, meaning a restart, and Sha-Kaan knows to bring the formation back together as soon as he can. We have to trust them to fly defensively as necessary. What can I say? Don't fall, any of you.”

  With back slapping, shaking of hands and hugs and a long, lingering kiss between Erienne and Denser, the three pairs split to their respective dragons, allowing Vestare woodsmen to fit their ropes. As they climbed on to the dragons’ necks, laid flat on the ground, Hirad could feel the ire rise from the chosen Kaan carriers.

  “This is most uncomfortable,” grumbled Sha-Kaan.

  “Yeah,” said Hirad, “and not just for you.” He adjusted himself behind Ilkar, feeling the rough scales against his trousers and stretching his legs around the broad neck. It was like riding a bull. “I'll not father children after this.”

  “I don't understand,” said Sha-Kaan.

  “Never mind,” said Hirad. Ilkar looked around at him and shook his head.

  “You are quite unbelievable,” he said.

  “Scared, Ilks. Very scared.”

  The Vestare tied the ropes under necks, using nicks in bone and scale to provide anchor points. Hirad found he could move but, so far, not loosen the rope enough to slip. In front of him, a second loop of rope gave him something to hang on to.

  Now astride Sha-Kaan, he felt a new sense of the immense power of the dragon. Breaths shuddered down his neck to fill his lungs; everywhere, muscles bunched and relaxed beneath his scales, rippling his entire body, and the rumblings and gurgles of the gargantuan internal system reverberated through his legs and up his back. Looking over his shoulder, Hirad saw the mound of Sha's body arch up, blotting out everything behind him. He couldn't even see its tail. Below and just to the rear of his feet, the roots of the wings sprang from the torso. They too twitched, the wings slapping quietly against his body. Sha-Kaan was a flying mountain and he was an ant tied to it. The notion didn't bear close consideration.

  “Whose idea was this?” he muttered. He looked across at The Unknown, who sat silent and pale as he was fixed to his dragon. “Hey Unknown!” he called.

  “There's nothing you can say that'll make this better,” growled the big warrior.

  “I'm looking forward to shaking your hand in Balaia,” said Hirad.

  “What is it they say?” said The Unknown, and then a smile flickered for the briefest moment across his features. “See you on the other side.”

  “Hirad Coldheart.”

  “Yes, Great Kaan.”

  “Are you and The Raven ready?”

  Hirad took a deep breath. “Yes. We are.”

  “Then let me introduce you to the Skies.” Sha-Kaan's deafening bark ripped through the relative peace of the Broodlands. From the high ledges, Vestare called back before setting off to the plains. dragon calls answered the Great Kaan, flights of the huge beasts took to the air and Sha-Kaan lurched to his feet, sending Hirad's stomach tumbling end over end. The dragon's wings swept out and extended with a noise like a wave dragging on a pebbled shore. Hirad clasped Ilkar's shoulder, the mage's hand covered his and, with a beat of those wings, Sha-Kaan propelled himself into the air.

  Barons Blackthorne and Gresse stood by one of the forward watchfires as dawn crept across the sky. The cloud kept the day dark but they could now just about see the shapes of Wesmen moving about. With
the injured helped or carried to a hiding place deep into the crags to the northwest, Darrick's cavalrymen divided themselves into saddling their horses and appearing to be many more than they actually were.

  “Ever feel like you've been left out, Blackthorne?” asked Gresse, taking a swallow of coffee in the chill damp of the morning.

  “I've been given more exciting orders,” agreed Blackthorne. “But I think he's right. I'm too old to run through the night.”

  “What do you think they'll do?”

  “The Wesmen?”

  “Yes. Stand or come on?”

  Blackthorne scratched at his immaculately tended beard. “Well, they're too late to join the fight at the Manse today so if I was them, I'd make sure we were definitely all gone before I tried to join my colleagues. Then I'd go.”

  “So saddling up's a good idea for us,” said Gresse.

  Blackthorne nodded. “But I don't think they'll chase us down. We need to be visible enough to be counted but out of range of arrows.”

  Wesmen were around a hundred and fifty yards distant and spread from crag to forest. And while those visible numbered less than three hundred, Blackthorne had no doubt that the weight of Wesmen would be positioned not far behind. Had Darrick made it through? He had to assume so. No alarms had been raised in the Wesmen ranks and no one had returned with news of disaster.

  With light growing, he knew they couldn't maintain the illusion much longer and he was relieved to hear that the horses were saddled and ready. His heart beat faster. It was going to be an exciting first half of the morning.

  Beside him, Baron Gresse had swept the dew from a stone and sat down, a refill of coffee in his gloved hand. Every man and mage was ready. Packs were tied to saddles, swords cleaned and scabbarded. They'd have to abandon the forge, the armoury and hundreds of yards of canvas but it didn't matter. Equipment could be replaced. Able Balaian fighting men and mages could not.

  “Ready to run?” asked Blackthorne.

  “Absolutely,” said Gresse. He placed his mug on the ground and pulled off a boot, emptying out an imaginary stone.

  “Gresse, I will not hesitate to leave you to die,” said Blackthorne.

  Gresse laughed. “Everyone else in this war is experiencing tension and fear like never in their lives. I didn't want you to feel left out.”

  Beside Blackthorne, a cavalryman cleared his throat.

  “Yes, Captain,” said Blackthorne. The man, mostly hidden under nose-fluked helm, heavy cloak and leather armour, bowed slightly.

  “My Lords, I believe we should be ready to move.” He gestured toward the main trail which was rapidly filling with Wesmen. Shouts rattled across the whole front with answers bouncing back, the anxiety and urgency clear in the tones though the language was alien.

  The cavalry still patrolled as they had all night, moving in and out of sight behind tents, making great play of stoking perimeter watchfires and calling out that all was well each half an hour.

  “Gresse, get that boot back on,” said Blackthorne.

  “Trouble with the lace, old friend,” came the reply.

  “Gresse, your boots have no laces. Get it back on. This game of chicken is fast reaching a conclusion.” He looked down to see Gresse take a glance at the opposition and ram his foot into his boot and stand up, his drink forgotten.

  Wesmen were advancing.

  “Cavalry!” called the Captain. “Ready the retreat. Eyes backward. Slowly!”

  “I've got an idea,” said Blackthorne as they moved slowly away, the Wesmen taking ground cautiously. “If we can, let's mount up, keep a respectful distance and HardShield ourselves. I'd like to talk to whoever's in charge.”

  “What by all the Gods for?” asked Gresse.

  “Just trust me, all right?”

  Gresse shrugged. The cavalry Captain issued his revised orders.

  Hirad had vomited his stomach dry well before Sha-Kaan levelled out to fly directly for the rip. They would arrive there in no more than an hour, such was their speed, Nos and Hyn-Kaan tucked in behind, the mass of the Kaan dragons either circling the rip or flying on ahead.

  The roar in his ears of the wind whipping past his head dragged all sense from him and it had been a long time before he had been able to open his eyes more than slits. Below him, the ground was impossibly far away. It was a mass of colours and textures fogging before his nauseated vision and the confusion of Sha-Kaan's banks and turns as he oriented himself left Hirad with no idea where they had come from. Only the size of the rip ahead gave him any sense of direction and even the sight of that was punctuated by the clouds that he knew worried Sha-Kaan more than anything.

  He felt a warming pulse through his mind and Sha-Kaan was there, cooling his blood flow and slowing his heart rate.

  “Calm, Hirad Coldheart. I will not let you fall.”

  “Small comfort,” mumbled Hirad. He felt mirth, then seriousness.

  “The cloud will hide our enemies. We will have to be careful.”

  In front of Hirad, Ilkar turned round, his face bright and alive and full of the excitement of the flight. But then, of course, if he fell he could cast ShadowWings before he hit the ground.

  “How are you, Hirad,” he shouted, leaning back as far as he could. Hirad just shook his head and gripped harder at the rope the Vestare had looped around Sha-Kaan's neck. “You're doing fine.”

  “It doesn't feel like it.” He shouted back. He risked a glance behind him, seeing the other two dragons in close formation. Denser waved but The Unknown didn't see him. His head was tucked in, his hands gripping his rope as hard as Hirad was.

  Facing forward again, he saw the gentle flying of the dragons around the rip change. Calls echoed distantly and trios of Kaan formed up and shot away. He followed their direction and felt his body quail at what he saw. Heading their way, the sky was black with hundreds of small dots quickly resolving into enemy dragons. Sha-Kaan roared and stepped up his pace, the sound rumbling through his body and shaking Hirad to his very bones.

  “Hang on, Hirad Coldheart. Soon it will start.”

  Sha-Kaan powered through the air, the beats of his wings a thundering tumult assailing Hirad's ears. His legs ached from their grip around Sha-Kaan's thick rough neck and his hands were cold through his gauntlets, his grip on the rope that of a dead man. He only hoped he could lever his fingers free to hold Ilkar when the time came.

  The cohesion was no longer there. The messages flew through their minds with the speed of the day before but somehow the thought was not converted to the instant action they had taken as right. And it cost them lives.

  Within half an hour of dawn, Aeb heard twice the number of his brothers fall as in the whole of the previous day. He sported a deep cut on one arm, making his axe little more than a defensive pole while his sword arm worked double time just to keep him alive.

  The Wesmen could sense it. They pushed all around the circle and the first cracks began to appear as the reserve stepping up to take the place of the dead and wounded were themselves already damaged.

  Think and act. Let it happen. Aeb pulsed urgently but now they were all face to face with the truth. Without a Given to bring them to one entity, they couldn't retain the driving force that made them the awesome force that was their earned reputation. Still the Wesmen died five to their every one but at that rate they would have gained the Manse by midafternoon.

  By the time the first fire flared in the Wesmen encampment, Aeb was already facing the alien concept of defeat.

  Darrick's mages launched a ferocious attack on the Wesmen reserves. Simultaneously, Izack delivered his first strike. The Balaians ran through burning carts, tents and wooden barricades, Wesmen struggling to understand what was happening even as they died under magic and sword. FlameOrbs sailed out over Darrick's head, HotRain fell in a torrent from the drenched sky, fizzing as it came, and DeathHail roared across the enemy ranks, its razor-sharp edges slicing and rending through to a thousand bones.

  “Centiles, detach!
” ordered Darrick, his order carried away through the army by his Captains. The force split along drilled lines, scattering through the bemused arc of the encampment they attacked. The General led his depleted double centile of yesterday, storming up to the hastily forming defensive line, chopping through the weaponless and clashing with those a little quicker to arm. Opposite, across the battlefield and beyond the Manse, detonation after detonation told of Izack directing fire on to Wesmen positions. Darrick swung his blade through, waist high, its edge cleaving stomach to the spine. His victim fell, too shocked even to scream.

  “Break this line, come on!” he yelled. All around him, his forces drove hard, harder than ever in their lives. Blood clouded the air, the acrid smell of smoke laced with burned cloth, wood and flesh floated in the rain and the screams of the wounded, the howls of attackers and urgent shouts of defenders filled his ears.

  He exulted, deflecting a well-aimed axe blow to his chest, pushing the enemy back and drilling his sword straight through the man's heart. He crumpled. Darrick kicked the body aside and stepped forward. Ahead of him, he could see the line attacking the Protectors. If it was the last thing he did, he would get to them.

  Senedai swung around in complete amazement, staring back a hundred yards to where his tent dissolved into flame and his second line were suddenly engaged in battle with an enemy that should be lying dead on a field far away. Caught on the precipice of fatal indecision, he called a Captain to him.

  “What, by the Spirit, is happening?”

  “My Lord, the Easterners have launched a surprise attack. They are here on two fronts.”

  “I can see that!” Senedai snapped, grabbing the Captain's furs and dragging his face close. “Just tell me we can hold them. I must have the Manse before the sun reaches its zenith.”

  “We will hold them—”

  Another series of explosions, this time on the opposite side of the Manse.

  “What is happening here!” yelled Senedai to the sky. He turned on the Captain. “If one of those bastards runs across this grass to attack me, I shall personally tear out your heart and eat it. Stop them.” Unsnagging his axe, he pushed his way through his front line.