‘We have to think straight,’ Pheone said, trying to force her own thoughts into some semblance of order. ‘There are steps we can take and we can’t afford to give up. Not after all we’ve achieved.
‘Lempaar, could you take as many people as you need and scour what texts we have for any hint of what is going on in the Heart? Maybe we can, I don’t know, feed it or revive it in some way. Anything to prolong its life, if indeed it is the Heart that is the problem.
‘Buraad, Massentii, Tegereen, we need a clear plan to get out our plea for help. Every Julatsan mage must have felt this. Every one of them must come here to help us raise the Heart.’
‘We need so many,’ said a voice from across the crater.
‘Then we’d better start getting them here now,’ replied Pheone.
‘Why do you think we’ll be more successful this time than before? We’ve asked, you know we have. So few answered. And now there’s a war going on out there.’ It was the same voice, from a mage who looked like they all must feel. Washed out. Lost.
‘I know. But we have to succeed. And at least the war has brought elves here from Calaius, though the Gods only know why. They are all Julatsan-trained and we have to make them understand what is at stake. What other choice do we have than to try? The alternative is unthinkable.
‘Listen, we have to stand strong, support each other. Anyone not included in the library detail, probe the mana. Let’s find out exactly how it feels to construct spells now. Can you shape as easily? That sort of thing. But be careful. We can’t afford to lose anyone to a backfire.
‘Is everyone clear?’ Silence. ‘Good, then let’s get cracking. We’ll talk again at dusk.’
Tessaya, Lord of the Paleon tribes of the Wesmen, looked down at the flowerbuds bursting through the earth at his feet, a smile unbidden on his lips. All around him, his village buzzed with activity. Water was being drawn from the wells, farmers were sharpening tools ready for the planting, dwellings were being re-thatched and strengthened. He could smell a freshness in the air. It was the smell of new life. It was the smell of hope, and hope was something his people craved.
Six years after the wars that had seen so many of the menfolk die fighting in the east, the mortal enemies of the Wesmen had sent more misery to haunt them, fractured as they were. To Tessaya it had appeared to be weather the like of which none had experienced in living memory. But his Shamen had smelled magic in the gales, the rain storms, the lightning that burned and in the earth that heaved and sucked the living down to hell.
Day after day they had been struck, and when the storms eased, they were roasted in hot suns. The crops had drowned or withered, the livestock had not bred and when winter had come, though the elements had ceased their battering, it was clear many would die.
Deep in the Heartlands, Tessaya had entrenched himself, calling surviving lords to him and pleading for a pooling of all they had. If, indeed, this was the work of the eastern mages, then their aim was to wipe out the Wesmen forever. Only by working together could they survive and come back stronger.
The lords had listened. Tessaya was the oldest among them and had survived wars with the east and tribal conflicts over two decades. He alone had gathered the tribes into a force strong enough to take on the east. And the lords, many of them new and scared, believed he could do it again.
But they had suffered through the winter. They had had wood to burn but nothing to cook above the flames. Animals had had to be kept alive to breed. Men, women and babes grew gaunt, and the weak and sick did not survive. Pyres burned daily on all the holy sites to remind them of their tenuous hold on life.
It was a time when the Shamen grew to a new stature. They preached the mercy of the Spirits and indeed, it seemed even to one as sceptical as Tessaya that they were not alone in their struggle. Perhaps the winter wasn’t as harsh as they remembered. Perhaps the hunting parties found more wild game than they had a right to do. Perhaps the hardy berries and roots had spawned a naturally greater harvest.
Or maybe some force was giving them the tools to live.
Tessaya was happy for his people to believe what they wished. His pact with the tribal lords meant there was precious little theft of food, and that which took place was punished by staking and death. And as the days of cold crawled past, he could see a new determination growing within the Paleon. Where so recently he had seen the acceptance of weakness, now he saw the desire to live, and more importantly, to grow again. What the mages had sent, the Wesmen would turn into strength.
And now, with the new season upon them, and life returning to the hard soil in abundance, he could look forward again to a glorious future. While there would still be hardship until the next crops were gathered, at least there would be Paleon to take in the harvest. It would be a time of celebration like no other.
Tessaya grieved for all those he could not help. Those who chose to live beyond the Heartlands; and those already too far gone to live on will alone. But now his mind turned again, inevitably, to thoughts of conquest.
Because the Shamen had only been half right, if the stories he had been hearing these last days were true. Yes, the elements had been powered by magic. But they had not been sent by the colleges. And even more interesting, the destruction that had been visited on the east was perhaps even more severe than they had suffered in the Heartlands. What state were their enemies in? Good enough to fight and win?
He had heard rumours of Julatsa’s failure to rise from its ashes and that the colleges were at war with one another, tearing each other apart. And even better, that the ordinary people, those not afflicted by magic, were turning against their would-be masters. And that these same people desired to rebuild their lives without the use of spell and chant. Very interesting.
Tessaya needed answers and he needed proof. He had made mistakes before, believing in the tales of others, and his people had died in their thousands because of it. This time he wanted to hear the truth from mouths he could trust. He knew the Wesmen were weakened, that his armies would be small. But if the prize were truly there for the taking, and if much of the east no longer supported the colleges, there was hope. Hope that the Wesmen could finally claim their birthright and dominion over Balaia.
Lord Tessaya breathed deep. He would need to talk to his closest advisers and Shamen. This was a matter that would need particularly careful handling. He bent and plucked one of the early flowers from the earth at his feet and took it back in to show his wife.
The smoke had cleared from the battlefield; the spells and arrows had stopped falling. The pleas for help were fading echoes against the blank walls of Xetesk and the only sounds filtering across the space between the enemy forces were the taunts of the victors and the calls of carrion birds.
Dila’heth, her head thumping at the site of the gash she’d sustained, stood up from the dying Al-Arynaar elf she’d been tending and looked again over the battlefield. Bodies lay where they’d fallen. Scorched mud and shallow craters signified where FlameOrb and HellFire had landed. Scraps of charred clothing blew on the light breeze. Beyond the bodies, the Xeteskians had stood down their front line, leaving a handful of guards to watch while the rest celebrated in full view.
She felt someone moving up beside her. She glanced sideways.
‘Why don’t they attack?’ she asked.
‘They don’t need to,’ said Rebraal. ‘All they have to do is keep us away from the walls and occupied while they finish their research of the texts they stole from us.’
The leader of the Al-Arynaar pointed to a group of Protectors and mages who were moving back towards the gates.
‘And they aren’t going for a rest, I guarantee you that.’
‘Where, then?’ asked Dila.
‘Well, they were struggling to the south, so the messengers said, so it could be there.’ Rebraal shrugged.
‘But you don’t think so.’
‘No. If The Raven are right, they’ll be looking to strike north as soon as they can.’
<
br /> ‘North?’
‘Julatsa.’
‘Would they?’
Rebraal nodded. ‘Why not? They want dominion, Julatsa’s the weakest player . . .’
‘But . . .’
‘I know, Dila,’ he said, touching her arm briefly to comfort her rising anxiety. ‘Tell me what it felt like. Out there.’
‘How could you understand?’ she asked, unwilling to recall the void she had touched. ‘I don’t know, it was like the magic just . . . failed. For that time, it just wasn’t there. I felt like you feel every day and you can’t know how horrible that is for a mage.’
‘Ilkar had been trying to explain.’ Rebraal’s smile was weak. His brother’s death had affected him more than perhaps it should, given Dila’s admittedly incomplete knowledge of their relationship. ‘But what does it mean?’
Dila shook her head. ‘We don’t know. We need to get someone to Julatsa, find out. Whatever it was, they’ll have more information, I’m sure.’
‘The reason Ilkar came to Calaius was to recruit mages to take back there to raise the Heart. Perhaps he knew something was going wrong. Is that possible?’
Dila shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Like all of us, I expect he just wanted Julatsa returned to her former position. And if you’re right about Xetesk’s intentions, then that has become an urgent consideration. How many mages did he think he wanted?’
‘He wasn’t specific,’ replied Rebraal. ‘Hundreds, I think.’
Dila’s heart sank. ‘Rebraal, we’ve barely got two hundred spread around Xetesk now.’
‘I know,’ he said.
‘When will our reinforcements arrive?’
‘Hard to tell. When we left Ysundeneth to come here with The Raven there was precious little activity. The word has only just gone out and the Elfsorrow has taken so many.’
‘So what will we do?’ Dila’heth felt a surge of desperation. And the sensation that, despite the open ground on which she stood, she was trapped.
‘How many did we lose today?’ asked Rebraal.
‘Too many.’
‘That’s not an answer.’
Dila nodded. ‘But it’s still too many. There are one hundred and seventy-four bodies out there. And up here, seventy-eight won’t be fit to fight or cast for ten days. Another forty or so will be buried where they lie.’
She looked into Rebraal’s eyes, saw him doing the addition, the result making him wince.
‘We lost over half of our Al-Arynaar warriors and mages in less time than it takes to boil an egg.’ Dila gestured at the Xeteskians. ‘They could snuff us out on this front right now, so why don’t they?’
‘Like I said, they don’t have to. And actually, I’m not sure they could. Izack is still strong and they don’t know the extent of our magical problems. Anyway, why lose men against an enemy not threatening you?’
‘So what will we do?’ Dila searched Rebraal’s face for the answers she couldn’t find.
‘Wait and watch. Messengers have gone north and south. We’ll get relief. And you must organise your message to Julatsa, either by horse or Communion. Until then, we have a border to keep until The Raven arrive. And Auum gets back.’
‘Where is he?’
Rebraal gestured at the blank walls of Xetesk with his chin. ‘Where do you think? They’ve got our property and we want it back.’
‘Gyal’s tears, how did he get in? More, how will he get out?’
Rebraal smiled. ‘He’s Auum. Duele and Evunn are with him. They’ll find a way. They’re TaiGethen.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘Trust me,’ said Rebraal. ‘Trust him, too.’
‘Rebraal?’
The Al-Arynaar leader turned at the sound of his name, Dila following his gaze. It was Izack. Armour dented and blood-streaked but still very much alive.
‘Commander, we have much to thank you for. Without you, today could have been much worse.’
‘It is worse, believe me.’ Izack’s face was grim and his eyes darted around, as if the facts he knew confused him.
‘How?’
‘I’ve had word by Communion from Lystern. You aren’t going to like it.’
Chapter 3
Hirad flew from his seat as the guards closed in to take Darrick to the holding cell in the Tower, their swords drawn. His chair squealed across the polished wooden floor and Denser watched him, trying to take in everything at once: the six guards striding towards Darrick from around the left and right of the table; the law mages who had stood as Heryst delivered his verdict; and the rest of The Raven, who had spread reflexively to defend the condemned man.
‘Not one more step,’ warned Hirad. He reached for his sword but of course, he was unarmed as they all were. ‘You aren’t taking him, so back off.’
‘Hirad, this isn’t helping,’ hissed Darrick.
The swordsmen came on. Denser saw The Unknown turn towards Hirad as the barbarian switched his gaze to Heryst.
‘Make a new decision. Don’t let them make you murder him.’
Hirad’s voice was a growl, his eyes were bulging and his whole body tensed for action. Muscles rippled in his neck and arms and his breathing had the natural depth of the ready warrior. Denser had seen the danger signs before; they all had.
‘Stand aside, Hirad,’ warned Heryst. ‘You will not obstruct this court’s officials.’
‘I’ll do more than that to any man who tries to take him.’
The guards hesitated, looked to Heryst for guidance.
‘Hirad, please,’ said Darrick. ‘Do as he says.’
‘You’re Raven, Darrick. And this isn’t happening.’
At a nod from Heryst, the guards made another move. Hirad exploded. He took off at a speed Denser didn’t think him capable of any more. But The Unknown was both ready and quicker. The huge shaven-headed warrior met the barbarian square on, wrapping his arms round him and shoving hard, legs braced, feet slipping on the wood floor. The slap of the impact echoing around the hall made Denser wince.
‘Get out of my way!’ Hirad pushed, trying to lever The Unknown’s arms away.
‘Gods’ sake, Hirad, calm down!’ The Unknown shouted into his face. ‘Thraun, help me.’
Erienne was gaping. Denser made a half move and stopped. The guards kept on coming and Darrick stepped around Hirad’s back and walked towards them.
‘No!’ Hirad forced one of The Unknown’s arms back. ‘Let go of me. They’ll kill him.’
He pivoted and lunged after Darrick, threatening to break free, his rage giving him a strength to match even the big man’s. But as he turned, Thraun caught his free arm and the two Raven men bore him backwards, cursing, spitting his fury and heaving against their grip.
‘No, Unknown, you bastard. Don’t let them do this. Let me go, now!’
‘You are not helping, Hirad. Let it rest.’
The Unknown’s face was red with exertion. The muscles in his shoulders were bunched beneath his shirt and the cords of his neck stood proud. Hirad’s feet slithered, searching for purchase. But he had no answer to the combined power of The Unknown and the quiet, determined Thraun.
‘Damn you, Heryst!’ shouted Hirad as he was all but carried through a door and out into the corridor beyond. ‘You’re a murderer, you hear me? A fucking murderer. You should be the one dying, not Darrick. He’s trying to save Balaia. What are you doing? Murderer!’
‘Hirad! Enough!’
‘And damn you, Unknown. Damn the lot of you bastards who stood by and let this happen.’
The voices started to echo as the unequal struggle moved away and out of sight. A curious calm descended on the hall. Darrick had given himself up to the guards who were flanking him but not restraining him. Denser was aware of Erienne’s anxious breathing close by and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Across the table, Heryst and the law mages stood. Metsas and Simmac wore slight smiles while their clerks gathered around them, pale and frightened.
Heryst walked around the
table to stand in front of Darrick. The Raven swordsman met his gaze squarely.
‘I am sorry, Ry,’ said the Lord Elder Mage. ‘But you gave me no option.’
‘I thought you a man of strength and vision. A man I could trust and be proud to serve,’ said Darrick. ‘But I saw it first in Dordover and here again today. You are weak. You would betray anything to cling on to power. What a disappointment. You are not the Heryst to whom I swore loyalty. I have nothing more to say to you.’
He looked away.
‘Take him,’ said Heryst. ‘Give him anything he wants.’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
Darrick led his jailers from the Great Hall.
‘You’re making the worst mistake of your life,’ said Denser.
Heryst glanced over his shoulder; the law mages were watching him.
‘You know, I’ve always respected The Raven,’ he said, walking across to Denser and Erienne. ‘You fight well, you’re honourable and you’ve helped Balaia through some of her darkest days. But sometimes, I think you forget who you are and where you came from. At heart, you’re mercenaries. You spent a decade fighting for money and glory. You’re the best, I’ll grant you that, but it does not put you above my laws. Not anyone’s laws. Hirad would do well to remember that.’
‘He’s just trying to save his friend,’ said Erienne. ‘His only mistake was thinking you were doing the same.’
Heryst sighed. ‘Ry Darrick refused my help and he is beyond salvation now. I cannot break the rules for anyone, and the Gods know I bent them as far as I could, or where would my authority be? I would be corrupt, favouring some and condemning others. That is not Lystern’s way.’
‘Darrick is Raven. Hirad isn’t going to forget this,’ warned Denser.
‘Hirad is one barbarian. And a short-tempered one at that,’ said Heryst. ‘The best thing you can do for him now is calm him down, get him saddled and get him out of my college. In fact, out of Lystern. He’s a nuisance that I don’t need.’
The Raven Collection Page 215
