Ilkar, Hirad and The Unknown picked themselves up and dusted themselves off. The barbarian nodded his thanks to the big man, who in turn nodded at the now closed entrance. There was nothing, no mark in the wall at all to suggest that there had ever been a door there.
‘We were in another dimension. I knew the proportions were all wrong in there.’
‘Not exactly another dimension,’ corrected Ilkar. ‘Between dimensions is more accurate, I think.’ He kneeled by the prone mage. ‘Well, well, well. Seran a Dragonene.’ He felt for a pulse. ‘Dead, I’m afraid.’
‘And he won’t be the only one.’ Hirad turned on Denser. ‘You should have run while you had the chance.’ He advanced, sword in hand, but Denser merely shrugged and continued to stroke the cat in his arms.
‘Hirad.’ The Unknown’s voice was quiet but commanding. The barbarian stopped, eyes still locked on Denser. ‘The fight is over. If you kill him now, it’s murder.’
‘His little adventure killed Ras. It might have killed me, too. He—’
‘Remember who you are, Hirad. We have a code.’ The Unknown was standing at his shoulder now. ‘We are The Raven.’
Eventually, Hirad nodded and put up his sword.
‘Besides,’ said Ilkar. ‘He’s got a lot of explaining to do.’
‘I saved your life,’ said Denser, frowning. Hirad was on him in a moment, pinning his head to the wall with a forearm under the chin. The cat hissed and scrambled to safety.
‘Saved my life?’ The barbarian’s face was inches from Denser’s. ‘That’s your phrase for having me all but burned to a crisp, is it? The Unknown saved my life after you risked it. You ought to die for that alone.’
‘How—’ protested the mage. ‘I got its attention to let you run!’
‘But there was no need, was there?’ Hirad grunted as he saw confusion in Denser’s eyes. ‘It was letting me go, Xetesk man.’ Hirad stepped back a pace, releasing the mage, who felt his neck gingerly. ‘You risked my life just to steal. I hope it was worth it.’ He turned to the rest of The Raven.
‘I don’t know why I’m wasting my breath on this bastard. We have a Vigil to observe.’
Alun shoved the note across the table, his hands shaking. More hands covered his, they were strong and comforting.
‘Try to be calm, Alun, at least we know they are alive, so we have a chance.’
Alun looked into the face of his friend, Thraun, whose powerful body was squeezed the other side of the table. Thraun was huge, better than six feet in height, with massively powerful shoulders and upper body. His heavy features sprang from a young face and his shining-clean blond hair was gathered in a ponytail which reached halfway to his waist. He was regarding Alun with his yellow-ringed deep green eyes, earnest and concerned.
He flicked his head, the ponytail swishing briefly into view, and looked around the inn. It was busy with lunchtime traffic and the noise of the patrons ebbed and flowed around them. Tables were scattered around the timbered floor, and here and there, booths like the one in which they sat gave an element of privacy.
‘What does it say, Will?’ Thraun’s voice, as deep and gravelled as his barrel chest might suggest, cut through Alun’s misery. He removed his hands from Alun’s. Will sat next to him, a small man, wiry, bright-eyed and black-bearded, thinning on top. Will pulled at his nose with thumb and forefinger, his brows arrowing together as he read.
‘Not a lot. “Your mage wife has been taken for questioning concerning the activities of the Dordovan College. She will be released unharmed assuming she co-operates. As will your sons. There will be no further communication.” ’
‘So we know where she is, then,’ said the third member of the trio whom Alun had enlisted. An elf, Jandyr was young, with a long and slender face, clear blue oval eyes and a short tidy blond beard that matched the colour of his cropped hair.
‘Yes, we do,’ agreed Thraun. ‘And we know how far we can trust the words on that note.’ He licked his lips and shovelled another forkful of meat into his mouth.
‘You’ve got to help me!’ Alun’s eyes flicked desperately over them all, never coming to rest. Thraun looked right and across. Both Will and Jandyr inclined their heads.
‘We’ll do it,’ said Thraun, through his chewing. ‘And we’ll have to be quick. The chances of him releasing them are very slim.’ Alun nodded.
‘You really think so?’ asked Will.
‘The boys are mage twins,’ said Thraun. ‘They will be powerful and they are Dordovan. Alun will tell you himself, when they’ve finished with Erienne, they will probably kill them. We have to get them out.’ He looked back at Alun. ‘It won’t be cheap.’
‘Whatever it costs, I don’t care.’
‘Of course, I’ll work for nothing,’ said Thraun.
‘No, my friend, you won’t.’ A half-smile cracked Alun’s face. Tears glinted in his eyes. ‘I just want them home.’
‘And home they will be. Now,’ Thraun rose, ‘I’m taking you home. You rest, we’ll plan, and I’ll be back later in the day.’
Thraun helped Alun from the bench and the two men walked slowly from the inn.
Richmond and Talan had moved Ras’s body to a quiet chamber carved out of the mountain into which the castle was built. Candles burned next to him, one for each point of the compass. His face was clean and shaven, his armour sewn and washed, his arms lay by his sides and his sword in its scabbard was laid along his body from his chin to his thighs.
Richmond did not look up from his kneeling position as Hirad, Sirendor, The Unknown and Ilkar entered. Talan, standing by the door, inclined his head to each of them as they passed him.
Ranged around the central table on which Ras lay, The Raven, heads bowed, paid their respects to their fallen friend. Each man remembered. Each man grieved. But only two spoke.
As the candles burned low, Richmond stood and resheathed his sword.
‘My soul I pledge to your memory. I am yours to command from beyond the veil of death. When you call I shall answer. While I breathe, these are my promises.’ His last was a bitter whisper. ‘I wasn’t there. I am sorry.’ He looked to The Unknown, who nodded and moved to the table, walking around it. Beginning at Ras’s head, he snuffed the candles as he reached them.
‘By north, by east, by south, by west. Though you are gone, you will always be Raven and we shall always remember. The Gods will smile on your soul. Fare well in whatever faces you now and ever.’
Again silence, but now in darkness.
Denser remained in Seran’s chambers. The dead mage was lying on his bed under a sheet. For his part, Denser couldn’t work out why he was still alive, but he was grateful. The whole of Balaia would be grateful, but no City would be breathing easier than Xetesk that the barbarian had been stopped.
The cat nuzzled his legs. Denser sagged down the wall and sat.
‘I wonder if this really is it,’ said Denser, turning the amulet over and over in his hands. ‘I think it is but I have to know.’ The cat gazed into his eyes. No clue there. ‘The question is, do we have the strength to do it?’ The cat jumped into his cloak, nestling into the warmth of Denser’s body.
It fed.
‘Yes,’ said Denser. ‘Yes, we do.’ He closed his eyes and felt the mana form around him. This would be difficult but he had to know. A communion over such a distance was a strain on mind and body. Knowledge and glory would come at a price if they came at all.
They buried Ras outside the castle walls, branding the ground with The Raven mark; a simple profile of the bird’s head, single eye enlarged and wing curved above the head.
All but Richmond left the graveside, tired and hungry. For the lone warrior, kneeling in the cool damp of a windy, moonless night, the Vigil would last until dawn.
Sitting at a table in the huge kitchens, Ilkar described the events through the dimension door to Talan. It was only then that Hirad started to shake.
Picking up his mug of coffee from the table, he stared at it wobbling in his ha
nds, liquid slopping out over his fingers.
‘You all right?’ asked Sirendor.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Hirad. ‘I don’t think so.’ He raised the mug to his lips but couldn’t close his mouth on it. The coffee dribbled down his chin. His heart slammed in his chest and his pulse thumped in his neck. Sweat began to prickle his forehead and dampen his armpits. Images of Sha-Kaan’s head flooded his mind. That and the fire all around him, hemming him in. He could feel the heat again and it made his palms itch. He dropped the mug.
‘Gods in the ground, Hirad, what’s wrong?’ Sirendor’s voice betrayed alarm. The barbarian half smiled. He must look as terrified as he felt. ‘You need to lie down.’
‘Give me a moment,’ said Hirad. ‘I don’t think my legs’ll carry me anyway.’ He glanced around the table. They were all staring at him, their food forgotten. He shrugged. ‘I didn’t even believe they existed,’ he said in explanation. ‘So big. So . . . so huge. And right here!’ He put a quivering palm in front of his face. ‘Too powerful. I can’t—’ He broke off, shuddering the length of his body. Plates and cutlery on the table rattled. Tears fogged his vision and he felt his heart trip-hammering. He swallowed hard.
‘What did it talk about?’ asked Ilkar.
‘Loud. He thundered in my head,’ said Hirad. ‘He talked about dimensions and portals and he wanted to know what I was doing. Huh. Funny . . . that huge and he cared what I was doing. Me. I’m so small but he called me strong.’ He shivered again. ‘He said he’d know me. He had my life. He could have crushed me just like that. Snuffed me out. Why didn’t he? I wish I could remember everything. ’
‘Hirad, you’re mumbling,’ said Sirendor. ‘I think we should leave this for another time.’
‘Sorry, I think I’ll lie down now, if you’ll help me.’
‘Sure thing, old friend.’ Sirendor smiled. He pushed back the bench and helped Hirad to shaky feet.
‘Gods. I feel like I’ve been sick for a week.’
‘You’ve been sick all your life.’
‘Sod off, Larn.’
‘I would, but you’d fall over.’
‘Make sure he drinks plenty of hot, sweet liquid,’ said The Unknown as the friends shambled past. ‘Nothing alcoholic.’
‘Is the Xetesk mage still here?’ asked Hirad. The Unknown nodded.
‘In Seran’s chambers,’ said Ilkar. ‘Asleep. Hardly surprising after the casting he’s done today. He won’t be leaving until I’ve spoken to him.’
‘You should have let me kill him.’
The Unknown smiled. ‘You know I couldn’t.’
‘Yes. Come on, Larn, or I’ll collapse where I’m standing.’
The two men sat in low chairs either side of a fire long dead. Night hurried to engulf the College City of Xetesk and, in response, lanterns glowed, keeping the dark at bay and lighting up the massed shelves of books that stood at every wall in the small study. On a desk kept meticulously tidy, a single candle burned above the ribboned and titled sheaves of papers.
Far below the study, the College quietened. Late lectures took place behind closed doors, spells were honed and adjusted in the armoured chambers of the catacombs, but the air outside was still.
Beyond the walls of the College, Xetesk still moved, but as full night fell, that movement would cease. The City existed to serve the College, and the College had in the past exacted a heavy price for its own existence. Inns would lock their doors, patrons staying until first light; shops and businesses feeding off those who fed off the College would shutter their windows. Houses would show no light or welcome.
No longer did Protectors issue from the College to snatch subjects for experiment. And no longer did Xetesk mages use their own people for sacrifice in mana-charge ceremonies. But old fears died hard and rumours would forever fly through the markets that bustled by day but echoed silence at night.
As darkness fell, a malevolent quiet still emanated from the College in a cloying cloud of apprehension and anxiety like fog rolling in from the sea. Countless years of blood ritual would never be forgotten and forever hearts would quicken at the sound of wood splintering in the distant dark, and cries would be stifled as footsteps were heard slowing by locked doors. Dread ran through the veins of Xetesk and the foreboding receded only with the lightening of the sky on a new morning.
It made the job of City Guard simple, as at dusk they closed the gates of the only fully walled City in Balaia and patrolled the empty streets. Fear stalked the alleyways as it had done for centuries. But now it was a legacy. It had no substance.
Change was so slow and the City was suffocating. Few native Xeteskians had left to enjoy the freedom granted them by the latest Lord of the Mount as his first action on assuming the mantle of the College’s ruling mage. And in the twelve years since, Styliann had encountered nothing but reluctance to cast aside the old ways, as if his people drew perverse comfort from living in fear of everyone they met. Yet now, his failure to change the collective will and mind of his people could work to his advantage.
Styliann was an imposing figure, well in excess of six foot, with the body of a forty-year-old disguising his true age of somewhere over fifty. His hair, receding halfway across his skull, was long, dark and brushed hard into a ponytail that reached beyond his shoulders. He wore dark trousers and a shirt of deepest blue, and his cloak of office, gold-trimmed black, was draped about his shoulders. His nose was long and thin, his jaw set harsh and his cold green eyes scared all they looked upon.
‘I take it she escaped Terenetsa unharmed?’ asked his companion across the fireplace.
Styliann blinked several times and shook his head to clear his mind of his reverie. He regarded Nyer, a senior aide and archmage, for a few moments, remembering the old maxim concerning where to keep your friends and enemies. He thought he had Nyer, a wily political animal and sharp thinker, placed about right.
‘Yes, she did. Just. And she’s now well clear.’ He shivered at the memory of his recent contact with Selyn, anxious for the mage spy’s safety. Even under a CloakedWalk, she had been at risk from those she watched and the manner of her escape from Terenetsa, a small Wesmen farming community not far west of the Blackthorne Mountains, would trouble his dreams that night. He reached a slightly tremulous hand down to a low table and picked up his wine, a deep and heavy red that had not kept as well as he’d hoped. He felt tired. Communion over such a range sapped the strength and he knew he would need to visit the catacombs for prayer later that evening.
‘But something is troubling you, my Lord.’
‘Hmm.’ Styliann pursed his lips, knowing any reluctance to speak would be taken by Nyer as a personal slight. He couldn’t afford that. Not yet. ‘She saw everything we have been fearing. The Wesmen are subjugating villages near the Blackthornes. She heard the Shaman offer them life for crops and obedience. The evidence is just overwhelming. They are massing armies, they are united and the Shaman magic is strong.’
Nyer nodded, pushing his hand through his long greying hair.
‘And Parve?’ he asked.
‘I have asked her to travel there.’
‘Selyn?’
‘Yes. There is no one else and we must have answers.’
‘But, my Lord—’
‘I am well aware of the risks, Nyer!’ snapped Styliann. His expression softened immediately. ‘My apologies.’
‘Not at all,’ said Nyer. He placed a comforting hand briefly on Styliann’s knee.
‘We must be so careful now,’ said Styliann after another sip of wine. ‘Are our Watchers sure the Wytch Lords are still held?’
Nyer breathed out, a long, sighing sound. ‘We believe so.’
‘That isn’t good enough.’
‘Please, Styliann, let me explain.’ Nyer’s use of his Lord’s name was against protocol but Styliann let it go. Nyer was an old mage who rarely followed etiquette. ‘The spells to determine that the Wytch Lords are still in the mana cage are complex and are nearing completion for t
his quarter. Delays have been caused through unusually high activity in the interdimensional space in which the cage is located.’
‘When will we have an answer?’ Styliann pulled an embroidered cord next to the fireplace.
‘In the next few hours. A day at most.’ Nyer raised his eyebrows in apology.
‘You know it’s only a matter of time, don’t you?’
‘My Lord?’
‘The evidence is all there.’ Styliann sighed. ‘The unification of the Wesmen tribes, Shamen at the head of war parties, armies building in the south-west . . .’
‘Must it be the Wytch Lords?’
‘You don’t really need me to answer that question, do you?’ Styliann smiled. Nyer shook his head. There was a knock at the door.
‘Come!’ barked Styliann. A young man entered, short red hair riding above a face taut with trepidation.
‘My Lord?’
‘Bring up a fire and another bottle of this rather average Denebre red.’
‘At once, my Lord.’ The young man left.
The two senior mages paused in their conversation, contemplating the future and not liking what they saw.
‘Can we stop them this time?’ asked Nyer.
‘I fear that rather relies on your man,’ replied Styliann. ‘At least as much as the timing of the Wytch Lords’ escape. He has reported, I take it?’
‘He has, and we now hold the amulet.’
‘Excellent!’ Styliann slapped the arms of his chair with the palms of his hands and rose. He walked over to the window, hardly daring to ask his next question. ‘And?’
‘It is Septern’s amulet. We can make progress now, assuming we get the right help.’
Styliann breathed deeply and smiled as he looked out of his Tower high above the College. The Tower dominated the College and its encircling balcony gave him unrivalled views of the City and its surrounds. The night was cool but dry. A thin cloud was bubbling up from the south-east, threatening to obscure the countless thousands of stars whose pale light pinpricked the dark. The smell of oil fires and the heat of the City wafted on a slight breeze, not unpleasant to the senses. Beyond the College walls, the quiet was growing.
The Raven Collection Page 4
