‘Which takes us back to our original starting point which is pooling all College papers on Septern and dimensional magics, largely one and the same thing. We also have Septern’s last diaries but I suggest a return to his workshop is a must,’ said Ilkar.
‘So we all go back to our Colleges and pilfer from the libraries?’ Erienne’s tone expressed clear doubt. ‘I don’t think I’m welcome there any more.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Styliann. ‘As we near the Blackthornes, I will commune with Xetesk and issue instructions to all the Colleges to find everything they have for us. I believe Dordover and Julatsa hold the bulk of his works. Scholars there can sift the mass and we can view anything relevant at Triverne Lake.’
‘I think you’re forgetting something rather important, my Lord,’ said Ilkar. ‘There are fifty-odd thousand Wesmen running about over there. Triverne Lake won’t be an option.’
Styliann smiled. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘How easily one can forget.’
‘We’ll have to visit the Colleges ourselves,’ said Ilkar.
‘Assuming we can reach them.’ Denser adjusted his position. ‘There are bound to be armies marauding around the Colleges. You know the Wesmen’s ultimate goal.’
‘Yes, but they have no magic,’ protested Erienne.
‘That won’t stop them encircling the Colleges,’ replied Denser tersely. ‘There are other methods of victory than hand-to-hand warfare.’ Erienne frowned at his tart reaction but said nothing.
‘And you haven’t heard The Unknown’s assessment, have you?’ Ilkar raised his eyebrows. ‘I’ll let him fill you in if you want but in a nutshell, he doesn’t see we necessarily have much of a home to go to.’
Styliann snorted. ‘No College will fall to a non-magical army, however big.’
‘They don’t have to batter it, they can starve it,’ said Ilkar. ‘And anyway, none of the Colleges has the strength of offensive mages to halt an advance by an army that doesn’t care about the level of casualties it takes. That’s what is worrying The Unknown. Nevertheless, it seems our course is clear. Dordover and Julatsa must be apprised of our needs. Following that, we, that is The Raven—’ he looked pointedly at Styliann ‘—will revisit Septern’s workshop, and perhaps the Avian dimension should that be necessary. It all depends what we find in the libraries.’
‘So, no real problem there then,’ said Denser, smiling. ‘I can’t see why we’re so worried about it. Any chance I can sleep now?’
Chapter 5
Funeral pyres were burning for the fallen members of Darrick’s cavalry. Wytch Lord acolytes, Guardians and Wesmen burned together in one corner of the square, filling the air with an acrid taint and the ash of battle’s end.
Near the pyramid, which Darrick’s mages had assured him was the exact centre of Parve, the General and The Raven’s warriors had waited for midday. Brisk conversation had died to the sporadic remark, then quiet.
Now, with the sharp-edged shadow of the rip cast from the cloudless sky etching the ground, the stone of Parve was stained by more than blood. The shadow covered an area of around five hundred paces on the longer side, three hundred on the shorter - as far as the irregular shape could be said to have sides. It was, at best guess, ten times the size of the rip itself. The Unknown, watched by two of Darrick’s Dordovan Communion mage specialists, marked the shade at four points.
Already in agreement was a calculation of noon based on the disappearance of shadow from the east face of the pyramid.
The Unknown straightened. ‘There we are. Today, of course, tells us nothing. Tomorrow won’t either as we will have no idea of the rip’s rate of growth until we have made measurements for a week or so. Are we all agreed on the calculations?’
The mages and Darrick nodded. So, after a pause, did Will. Thraun simply shrugged.
‘Hirad?’ The Unknown was smiling.
‘You trying to be funny?’ Hirad said more irritably than he intended. The Unknown walked over to him.
‘I apologise. Something’s wrong, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, not so’s you’d notice,’ said Hirad. ‘I mean, all that’s happened today is we’ve beaten what we thought was the biggest threat to Balaia, only to find there was worse lurking around the corner. What on earth should be wrong?’
The Unknown put a hand on Hirad’s shoulder and turned him away from the onlooking Will and Thraun.
‘That’s one thing. What else?’ Hirad stared at the big warrior. ‘Come on, Hirad. I’ve known you ten years. Don’t pretend that’s it. Not to me.’
Hirad turned his head, looking over at the three Raven mages and Styliann as they talked by the fire.
‘We’re going to have to go there,’ he said, frowning. ‘Sha-Kaan said the rip had to be closed back to front, or something. Erienne understood. But . . .’
‘I know,’ said The Unknown.
‘Unknown, I don’t know if I can.’
‘I’ll be standing beside you. We all will. We’re The Raven.’
Hirad chuckled. ‘At least I’ll be dying in good company, then.’
‘No one’s dying, Hirad. Least of all you. You’ve got more lives than a cat.’
‘It’s my destiny.’ Hirad shrugged. The Unknown looked at him bleakly.
‘You know nothing about destiny,’ he said, voice low and cool. Hirad bit his lip, cursing himself for his flapping tongue. The Unknown was a man for whom that word had a truly bitter meaning.
‘How do you feel?’ he asked.
‘Empty and alone,’ said The Unknown. ‘Like I’ve lost something precious.’ He watched a group of Styliann’s Protectors who were examining the dead dragon. ‘You can have no idea what it’s like. I can feel them but I can’t be close to them, not really. They know me as one of them but can’t relate to me. I’m outside of their conception yet evidently real. It’s as if I’m neither Protector nor free man.’ The Unknown pulled off a glove and scratched his forehead with his thumb. ‘You don’t know what your soul really is until you lose it.’
‘But you wouldn’t still want to be one of them, would you?’ Hirad too was staring at the Protectors. Xeteskian warriors, all taken before their time to the service of the College and enthralled, their souls removed from their bodies but kept alive. And kept alive to be held together in the Soul Tank, deep in the catacombs of Xetesk where the demons could reach them and punish them should they step out of line.
The Unknown had said it was both the tragedy and the glory of existence as a Protector. Never had he felt so close to his fellow men, their souls mingling in the tank, enabling them to operate as one in the flesh - the understanding of the human at the most basic level making them the awesome power they were.
But all the time, the DemonChain linking each body to the essence of the soul could be the source of unending pain. No Protector could return to his former life though he would remember every detail. The ebony mask each wore was both reminder and warning. Protectors belonged to Xetesk. They had no identity; the Dark College’s deal with the demons saw to that.
Hirad shuddered. And The Unknown had been one until Laryon, the Xeteskian Master who believed in an end to the Calling, had sacrificed his life in freeing the Raven warrior.
But the legacy remained. The Unknown’s time in the Soul Tank had left him permanently bonded to the remaining Protectors, some five hundred in all. And though his soul rested in his body once more and he could live maskless, without fear of retribution from demons, Hirad knew the big man would never really be free. He could see it in The Unknown’s eyes. And though he smiled, laughed and cared as much as ever he did, something was missing. He was wounded, his brotherhood cut from him. It was a wound Hirad doubted would ever close and if it did not, The Unknown would always carry with him that sense of loss.
‘Hmmm?’ The Unknown hadn’t heard his question.
‘I said, you wouldn’t still want to be a Protector, would you?’ repeated the barbarian.
‘I can never properly describe to you wha
t I lost when my soul reentered my body but what I gained was my former life and it was the life I loved and had chosen to live. No, I would never want to be a Protector again but neither will I demand the release of those still within the Calling either. For some of them, the shock would kill them. They’ve been in the tank too long and their past has become meaningless. They have to want to be free.’
Hirad nodded. He thought he understood. He gazed up at the rip, boiling in the sky, its white-flecked brown surface like the eye of a malevolent God surveying Balaia.
‘I guess that’s a task for later,’ he said. ‘C’mon, let’s see what the mages have dreamed up.’
Tessaya slept little on a night he should have slumbered deep and untroubled, cocooned in the comfort of victory and the promise of conquest. But he was restless, the fat soldier’s words eating at his dreams and breaking his rest.
Darrick. The thorn in the Wesmen’s hide nine years before, when the original capture of Understone Pass was first a dream, then a desire and finally a key. And still he rode, clearly instrumental in the battle which saw the devastation of Wesmen in the water magic which had scoured Understone Pass only a few days before.
Darrick. Through the pass and deep into Wesmen territory. To Parve, where the Wytch Lords were strongest and were beaten. There was no doubt he was pleased that the Wytch Lord influence had been removed. Though it had galvanised and united the tribes, it was a wholly unequal partnership which demanded the subjugation of the Tribal Lords beneath the Wytch Lord standard. But with the ancients gone and the power of the Shamen - which had most certainly aided the invasion - reduced once again to that of soothsayers, spirit guides and medicine men, the Tribal Lords could assume their rightful positions.
Yet anyone capable of orchestrating the downfall of the Wytch Lords was a threat only a fool would ignore. Tessaya wondered whether he hadn’t exchanged a tyrannical master for an even greater danger to his life and leadership.
Still, as he sat up in his bed in the early hours of the morning, with the silence of Understone ringing in his ears, a mug of water in his hand to ease his throbbing head, he couldn’t help but feel respect.
Respect for Darrick, his cavalry and The Raven. The latter, men surely not a great many years younger than himself but who defied death through skill and courage. He smiled. They represented an enemy he could understand and so defeat. It was his ace but a card he would have to play just right.
He knew where they must be and Parve was more than ten days’ ride from Understone. Not only that, their passage to the East would be difficult in the extreme, if not impossible. Tessaya smiled again, relaxing at last. While Darrick was a man to be watched, for now at least he could be watched from a distance.
The Lord of the Paleon Tribes fought back the urge to sleep now his mind was calm. Dawn was approaching and there was a great deal to organise. Tessaya wanted all of Balaia and for that, he needed lines of communication between his armies.
With the Wytch Lords gone, messages could no longer be sent via the Shamen. Tessaya found himself smiling once more because, again, they would have to rely on the old methods. On smoke, on flags and on birds.
Tessaya had known it was likely. Despite the best efforts of the Shamen to dissuade him, he’d brought all of his messaging birds with him and had insisted his Generals do the same. His foresight meant that communication would be swift and effective but first, men would have to take his birds to each Wesmen stronghold in Eastern Balaia. There lay the risk.
If he was right, however, and the forces of the East were shattered all along the Blackthorne Mountains, his riders would comfortably reach their targets and the links could be made. Tessaya called for a guard to summon his riders, dressed quickly in shirt and leather and met them on the baked earth outside Understone’s inn.
The morning was clear and bright. A cool and gentle breeze ran off the Blackthorne Mountains, which rose stark and black in front of Tessaya, stretching away north and south, stopping only to dive into the sea. He had always hated the mountains. Without the freak feature, the Wesmen would have plundered the East generations before and magic would never have been born.
The Spirits had been unkind, leaving the mighty range as a constant challenge to the Wesmen desire for conquest. Tessaya turned his tanned and weather-worn face from the unending miles of black rock at the sound of footsteps behind him. His riders approached, accompanied by Arnoan, the Shaman. Tessaya quashed a scowl. Much as he respected Arnoan, he would have to move him firmly aside from the decision-making process. Conquest was the province of warriors, not witch doctors.
‘My Lord,’ said Arnoan, inclining his old head. Tessaya acknowledged him vaguely, focusing on his riders. Six men, lean, fit and expert horsemen in a race for whom riding was traditionally the right of nobles only.
‘Three north to meet with Lord Senedai, three south to meet with Lord Taomi,’ said Tessaya without preamble. ‘You will split the birds evenly between you. To the north, you must travel to Julatsa. To the south, towards Blackthorne. I can spare you four days only to find our armies. You must not fail. Much of the glory of battles to come rests with you.’
‘My Lord, we will not fail you,’ said one.
‘Ready yourselves. I shall prepare messages for you. Be back here in half an hour.’
‘My Lord.’ The riders trotted away to the stable blocks which were housed at the east end of the town.
‘Arnoan, a word if I may.’
‘Certainly, my Lord.’ Tessaya gestured for the old Shaman to precede him into the inn. The two men sat at the table they had shared the day before.
‘Messages, my Lord?’
‘Yes, but I feel well able to phrase them myself.’
Arnoan reacted as if slapped.
‘Tessaya, it is the way of the Wesmen that the Shamen advise the Warrior Lords, as befits their senior positions in the affairs of the tribes.’ The old Shaman frowned deeply, his wispy grey hair flying in the breeze that eddied through the open inn door.
‘Absolutely,’ said Tessaya. ‘But this is not a tribal affair. This is war and the Warrior Lords shall have complete control over all command decisions, choosing who they will to advise them, and when.’
‘But since the new rise of the Wytch Lords, the Shamen have gained respect throughout the tribes,’ protested Arnoan, his hands gripping the edge of the table.
‘But the Wytch Lords are gone, and the respect that you saw was sown in fear of your masters. You no longer have magic, you cannot wield a sword, you have no concept of the pressure of war from the front line or the command post.’ Tessaya remained impassive.
‘You are dismissing me, my Lord?’
Tessaya allowed his face to soften. ‘No, Arnoan. You are an old and trusted friend and as such, I am giving you the opportunity to take your rightful place without the eyes of the tribesmen upon you. I will ask for your advice when I require it. Until then, please do not offer it, but take some from me. The time of Shaman domination of the tribes died with the Wytch Lords. Assumption that your hold over the Wesmen still remains could prove a costly, not to say dangerous mistake.’
‘You are so sure that the Wytch Lords are gone. I am not so,’ said Arnoan.
‘The evidence was there for all to see. As was the fear in your eyes when the magic was taken from you. Do not try to convince me it is any different.’
Arnoan shoved his chair back, eyes suddenly ablaze.
‘We helped you. Without the Shamen, you would still be west of Understone Pass, dreaming of conquest and glory. Now you have it and you cast us aside. That too could prove a costly mistake.’
‘Are you threatening me, Arnoan?’ asked Tessaya sharply.
‘No, my Lord. But ordinary men and women respect us and believe in us. Put us aside and perhaps you will lose their support.’
Tessaya chuckled. ‘No one is putting Shamen aside and I believe in you as much as the next man,’ he said. ‘But you have a very short memory. I do not. I thank you and your Ca
lling for the job you have done. It is now over. You are merely returning to your rightful position as spiritual leaders of the tribes. Power is not the province of the Shamen but of the Lords born to it.’
‘Pray that the Spirit will still support you, Lord Tessaya.’
‘I need no spirits. I need skill, tactics and courage in battle. Things I already possess. Tend to those who need you now, Arnoan, I will call you when I do. You may go.’
‘There are times when we all need the Spirit, my Lord. Do not turn your back or risk losing favour.’
‘You may go,’ repeated Tessaya, his eyes cold. He watched Arnoan walk from the inn, stance erect and proud, his head shaking in disbelief. Regretting the harshness of his words for a brief moment, Tessaya wondered whether he had made an enemy of the old man and whether it mattered if he had. He decided that, barring assassination, it did not. A short while later, he was delivering final words to his now mounted riders.
‘It is critical that I receive details of ours and enemy strengths, field positions, ability to move and supply other battles, consistency of supply lines and magical resistance. It is all in the briefing notes which I expect you all to learn in case of separation or loss. There is another thing. Make the point forcefully, with my authority, that any news of The Raven, General Darrick or this dread force must be communicated to me immediately, outside of normal messaging times.
‘I expect you to travel back here separately, carrying the same messages despatched with my first birds. You will also bring back birds from Lords Senedai and Taomi. I cannot risk a hold-up at this stage. Do you understand everything I’ve told you?’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘Excellent.’ Tessaya nodded at each man. It was a mark of respect for courage and these men would almost certainly need that. He had toyed with the idea of sending them back through the pass and then north and south to the water crossings at the Bay of Gyernath and Triverne Inlet. But that would increase travel time by two days at least. It was time he did not have.
The Raven Collection Page 59
