But that was for men to decide. Once the Aryn Hiil was retaken, the elves had but one more task on Balaia before they left it forever.
The Raven, bolstered by Rebraal and two Al-Arynaar mages, moved quickly through the block of administrative offices that bordered the Mana Bowl on one side and were accessed through doors set into the eastern arc of the central dome of the tower complex.
Rebraal had made short work of a locked window, allowing them into the building, and, with Denser able to advise on the position of locks, wards and alarms progress was fluid. Soon they were gathered by a door into the dome itself. In their wake lay a short corridor and six offices for the use of the Circle Seven’s private secretaries. Nothing useful had been gleaned from them, despite Denser having hoped they might gain clues as to who was in residence. Unfortunately, given the lights they’d already seen, it was likely every tower was currently occupied.
The Unknown Warrior took a moment to collect himself. He knew exactly what lay through that door. Last time he had seen it, it had been from behind the mask of a Protector. It was a majestic place. The bases of the six outer towers bordered it, the column of the central tower drove straight through its centre and down to the Heart. Its alcoves held statues of great masters long gone, the tower columns were carved with murals and warnings, the floor was spectacular tiled marble. And winding passages radiated out to a maze that led to the doorways to the towers and, ultimately, the catacombs.
He couldn’t help it, he shuddered. Down there, lost in the network of chambers, tunnels, caverns and hallways was the Soul Tank. Every Protector was taken there to see for himself where his soul was held and why his thrall was binding until death. He winced as a hand touched his arm.
‘Suffering, big man?’ asked Hirad.
The Unknown nodded. ‘I can feel them. No Protector likes to be this close to the Soul Tank. Standing outside your own prison brings a pain I cannot describe in here.’ He touched his chest above his heart.
‘And tonight the means to release them can be in our hands. We know it must exist,’ said Denser.
‘I don’t share your confidence,’ said The Unknown. ‘And I don’t know if we should release them, even if we discover how.’
‘That’s a question for later,’ said Denser. ‘There’s much for us to do here. One thing at a time, eh?’
Another nod from the Unknown. He swallowed, unable to push the visions from his head. He focused hard on what they’d agreed.
‘Go, Denser. Let’s get this over with.’
Hirad grunted. ‘Time to strike back.’
Denser crouched by the door. There was no conventional lock. What held the offices from unwelcome visitors was what Denser described as a magical door wedge. It was moved at dawn every day and replaced every night by the tower master, a mage with influence only bettered by the Circle Seven themselves. Not a difficult spell to overcome but, like everything in Xetesk, it could link to a hidden trigger that might do anything from setting off an alarm to firing a disabling spell.
‘Nothing here,’ said Denser. ‘No. Hold on.’ He fell silent again. ‘Ah. Clever. Very clever.’ He chuckled. ‘Hold on.’
He drew in a deep breath and held it. The Unknown looked on, brow creasing deeper and deeper. Denser was working his fingers at an extraordinary rate. All the movements were minute but there was an order and complexity at which he could only wonder. The casting, or teasing of mana as The Unknown suspected it was, went on far beyond the time Denser should surely have taken a breath. His face displayed no discomfort and his face defined his level of concentration, eyes screwed tight, jaw clenched, neck muscles corded.
At the last, he shuddered. ‘Release,’ he muttered and rolled onto his back, to exhale and heave in a fresh breath. They gathered above him, looking down as he recovered himself.
‘What the hell was all that about?’ asked Hirad. ‘You mages make things so difficult for yourselves, you know. Keys. They make sense.’
‘The whole point is that the Tower Master should be alerted if someone tries to break in,’ managed Denser.
‘I expect they’d just come in through the window like us, wouldn’t they?’ Hirad held out a hand and helped Denser to his feet.
‘Thanks. You see, what you don’t know is what we’ve triggered, coming through the windows and the office doors. It’s a clever system and I’ll explain it to you some other time.’
‘So what did you do this time?’ asked The Unknown, happy to be distracted.
‘The Tower Master had a single strand of mana attached to the holding spell on the door. I suspect releasing the spell would have the effect of a ringing a bell in his chambers. I had to put in a lattice that would keep the strand at the right focus - that’s tension to you, Hirad - and for that I had to calculate the focus. Not simple but not insurmountable.’
‘And you reckon you got it right?’ asked Hirad.
‘No, I’m just killing time until the Tower Master gets here.’ Denser shook his head.
Hirad suppressed a laugh. ‘Not bad, Denser. Not bad.’ He sobered almost immediately. ‘But not Ilkar. Not yet.’
‘Let’s form up, Raven,’ said The Unknown, taking the cue. ‘Hirad, with me, Rebraal, your bow behind us. Mages centre, Thraun, Darrick you get the rear. And no debate. We see someone, we kill them. With one exception. Everyone understand? Denser, we’ll do best with a SpellShield from you, I expect. Erienne, you and the others remember, no casting unless we’re caught. We can’t afford to be discovered through the mana spectrum.’
The Unknown indicated to Hirad to open the door. He stood to one side as the barbarian edged the gap wider. The domed hall was chill. Lanterns and braziers hung from wall spurs, the arcs of the outer towers and around the circumference of the dominating central stack that was Dystran’s seat of power.
It was a huge chamber. The dome wrapped the towers some thirty feet above their heads. Directly ahead and mostly hidden by Dystran’s tower, the massive gold-embossed arched wooden and iron doors kept out the night, reflecting the brazier and lantern light. Far left, a more sedate set of red-curtained doors led into the banqueting area while to the right, reception rooms were similarly shrouded, closed and empty.
But it was the unlit openings that set The Unknown’s pulse quickening. There were seven. They twisted around and down, led to blind alleys, wards, alarms and, for the mage or guard trusted enough to know, to the base of spiral stairs and the top of the entrances to the catacombs. Seven up to the towers, seven down to where, historically, the seat of Xetesk’s learning lay.
‘Ahead,’ whispered Denser. ‘Skirt Dystran’s tower to the left; we’re headed for the curtained passage to the left of the dome doors.’
The Unknown led them out, his footsteps muffled by the cloth still wrapped around his boots but torn and wearing thin. The marble would give them away if it could. So would his breathing, the creak of his armour, the heat from his body or the call of his soul. Gods, he was prepared to believe anything would. The trouble was, if one Protector was near enough, they would be discovered through him.
A knife was in his hand now and he indicated to Hirad to keep an eye right while he took left, knowing those behind him were doing the same. It was a walk that went on forever beneath Xetesk’s most secure quarters. Every pace could bring doom so quickly. Each footfall might reveal those that surely waited for them.
The Raven crept gradually around the base of Dystran’s tower. Pace by pace, their target passage was revealed and, inch by inch, he began to believe they would reach it without incident.
Footsteps. Echoing. The direction hard to tell but the sound was growing. The Unknown clenched his fist. The Raven stopped, the Al-Arynaar half a pace slower. Rebraal’s bow tensed. Hirad gestured left, the other side of the tower. The Unknown nodded, pointed either side of the tower and shrugged. Hirad shook his head. Denser pointed left and raised his eyebrows. Mouthed ‘trust me’, and began to edge back the way they had come. Right now they were visible from the
dome doors. Whichever way the enemy came around the pillar, that was bad.
The footsteps were from more than one person, walking briskly, and clearly now from one of the tower entry passageways. The Unknown locked eyes with Rebraal. He nodded his readiness. All they could do now was to wait.
Men came into the dome. The muffling of the echoes gone as a curtain was pulled aside. The footsteps clattered across the marble, steelshod toe-caps and heels tapping out counter-rhythms. Soldiers. That was something.
There were two of them. Cloaked, helmets under one arm and marching purposefully towards the dome doors. They were talking, one plainly disagreeing with the other. The Unknown recognised the profile of the older one. The younger, the angrier one, he didn’t. He held up a hand, putting it in front of Rebraal’s arrow. The Raven watched the men through the doors, which opened and closed for them, the guards on the outside not looking in as they pulled the slick-hinged and counterweighted halves together.
‘Well, well,’ whispered The Unknown. ‘Still alive.’
‘Who?’ said Hirad, voice dead quiet.
‘Suarav,’ said The Unknown. ‘Must be the oldest soldier on the staff if he trained me, eh?’
‘And the other was Chandyr,’ said Denser. ‘Reporting to Dystran, the pair of them no doubt. Well, Raven, that’s the heads of defence of city and college introduced.’
‘I could have had them,’ said Rebraal, bowstring relaxed once more.
‘Not both of them and not without risk,’ said The Unknown. He stared squarely at Hirad. ‘We aren’t here to kill unnecessarily. Come on. We’ve work to do.’
For Ranyl, rest was elusive. A new pain had been growing just beneath his ribs above his stomach and he feared that very soon even the thin soups he was currently able to take in would prove too much.
Now, even his familiar was asking him to submit to spells to numb the agony. He had seen the referred pain in the creature’s eyes but was still determined that he would not allow others to cast on him that which he could not cast himself.
Having abandoned all hope of sleep, Ranyl had retreated to his most comfortable and supportive upright chair. His familiar had added logs to the fire, before curling up in his bed as a feline to sleep. Burrowing under the covers for warmth, his vitality was fading as his master slipped slowly away.
Ranyl knew he wouldn’t be seeing too many more dawns. It was an abiding sadness. From his highest balcony, he had seen the most spectacular fire-red dawns when the season was right. But autumn was more than a lifetime away.
Perhaps worse, though, was that he was unlikely to see the outcome of the war or the final fruition of either the elven or dimensional researches. He allowed himself a smile. Good of Dystran to give him so much involvement. Further sign if it was needed that Dystran had become a worthy and wily Lord of the Mount. After all, he had only allowed Ranyl access to such potential influence in Xetesk after discovering early that the cancer would be terminal.
Before Ranyl had, in fact.
Still, at least he would witness the first use of the adaptable dimensional magics gained from the understanding of the ageing Al-Drechar and the dragon, Sha-Kaan.
And there was another regret. How he would have loved to have met them, elf and beast alike. Again, though, he conceded he should really be grateful. He had, after all enjoyed a key decision-making position in these central affairs.
He must have dozed off momentarily because he felt the cool air on his face without seeing the door to his bedchamber open and close to admit whoever it was who had come to see him. He sighed and opened his eyes, his vision swimming slightly as it always did. Another messenger, was it? Or perhaps Dystran. That would be comforting. He had a sudden urge to know what was going on and how the hunt for the elven raiders went.
The room was darker. It was because two figures were standing in front of the fire. He could sense others in the room too but he focused on the nearest. Strange there should be so many and he felt a menace that unnerved him.
‘Our apologies for disturbing you, Master Ranyl,’ said one, the smaller of the pair. He could make out a beard but the finer features were still blurred. The voice he recognised but couldn’t place. At least it was human, not elven and he felt himself relax. He blinked and his vision cleared further.
‘But we have messages to pass to you and the Circle Seven, and we have information to collect and you know where it is.’ This was the other man. Huge, shaven-headed and deep-voiced.
Ranyl’s calm deserted him. He knew these men. And a glance told him he knew nearly all in the room. His bedchamber. His heart was racing and pain flared in his stomach.
‘Dear Gods burning, how did you get in here?’
Chapter 18
The TaiGethen fanned out from the base of the stairwell and ran across the ground floor. Two cells, six elite hunter-warriors armed with short blades, jaqruis and bows. Silent through the grid of shelves and cases, feet caressing stone, wood and carpet, their eyes missing nothing.
The Al-Arynaar mages walked in their wake, drinking in the mass of Xeteskian knowledge all around them, calm in the certainty that while the TaiGethen hunted in front of them, they had nothing to fear.
Auum ran at their head, with Duele and Evunn to his left, flitting in and out of his peripheral vision between the shelves. Marack and her cell mirrored them to the right. As on the upper floors, they expected to find no one. Their sweep took them through the desks and tables and all the way to the doors closed against the night and a threat that had already bypassed them.
Auum paused at the doors and the TaiGethen gathered about him. The library was a welcome change from the city outside and its filthy cloying odours. The air smelled of ancient paper, treated wood and the mustiness of age, mixed with traces of lantern oil. He breathed it in deeply before he spoke, voice low.
‘You have all seen the five doors we passed on our left. These are the archive chambers of which Denser spoke. If the Aryn Hiil is here, it will be in one of those. You have all seen the light from beneath two of the doors. Split by Tai cell, one mage to each. Remember Denser’s warnings and let Tual’s hands guide yours. We move.’
Auum led his Tai back into the library, heading past tables and around bookshelves to the row of five doors that led into the secure archive chambers. He stood back to let the mage move to the door. She stood directly in front of it and tuned to the mana spectrum. Beside Auum, Duele held his bow, and Evunn, two short swords.
Two doors along, Marack was ready. Auum nodded. The mages got to work.
Nyam’s curiosity was undimmed. And he had no doubt the Al-Drechar were shielding a One mage despite their obstructive comments. Ever since their arrival, they had been kept from the most private rooms in the old house. The few remaining elves from the Guild of Drech were most insistent that their mistresses be afforded quiet and rest much of the time, so limiting the Xeteskian interrogation and, importantly, observation.
It was also clear that they were friendly enough with Diera who in turn had the ear of Sha-Kaan. And the dragon, weakened and without fire though he was, had let it be known that he didn’t see the roof and walls of the house as a barrier to killing those who stepped out of line.
There came a time, however, when a mage had to make his move. Had to be noticed by the Circle Seven for initiative, ability, courage and loyalty. Gods drowning, on this small rock buried in the Southern Ocean that was difficult but Nyam had always been taught to grab opportunities, and he saw one now.
Let the others lick their wounds and remain scared of two old women and a dying dragon. He had listened to the messages passed via the Protectors through the Soul Tank. He knew the growing anxiety over the reality that the One still blossomed outside Herendeneth and not in Xeteskian control. He had heard the rumours of the identity of the practitioner; and in so many ways it all made sense though their research hadn’t revealed how The Raven mage, Erienne, might have developed the talent following her daughter’s death. Best guess was it arose coinc
identally but the fact remained that there were two people on this island who knew the truth. Nyam had the chance for quick promotion sleeping not thirty yards from him. He wasn’t about to let his colleagues take it first. He had to gamble on the rumour being true and he had to do it now.
The night was humid and, as ever, still. Stars scattered the night sky delivering nothing in the way of light and the house itself had few lanterns burning. Nyam walked through the damp-smelling corridors to the wing where the Al-Drechar, Diera and Jonas slept. Two Guild elves stood guard at its entrance, barring his way.
‘I apologise for the unpleasantness of the hour but I have news concerning The Unknown Warrior that Diera must hear.’
‘She is sleeping,’ said one of the elves in heavily accented Balaian.
‘I know, and I would normally keep news until the morning but this she must hear now. He is in serious danger.’
‘You would worry her this much about things she cannot influence? ’
‘She has always said she would know everything,’ countered Nyam. ‘Please. Come with me to her. Ask her yourself before I even see her. At least give her the option.’
He knew they had no choice. He knew he looked innocent and sincere. One shrugged, the other nodded and the door was opened for him. He was accompanied the short distance down the corridor by the elf who had spoken to him, arriving at Diera’s door where he was told to wait. Further down the corridor, more Guild elves stood guard in front of the Al-Drechar’s private rooms. Shortly, the elf reappeared and beckoned him in. As they passed, the elf caught his arm.
‘Do not wake the child. Do not betray our trust,’ he said. ‘You are here but we do not want you here. Remember that.’
Nyam nodded and walked inside. Diera was sitting on the side of her bed, a light shawl draped over her shoulders and covering the top of her nightdress. One hand stroked her sleeping son’s head. A lamp, wick turned low, was enough to reveal her anxious face and knotted hair. Gods but she was so alluring. A woman just woken. How sweet it would be if she were to beckon him to her.
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