It at least was resting easy once again.
Hirad Coldheart shifted his back where he leant against Sha-Kaan’s broad neck, feeling the scales chafing him through his wool shirt. He got a taste of the dragon’s strong sour oil and wood smell as he did so and was glad they sat in the open air. The Great Kaan’s enormous body, more than one hundred and twenty feet from snout to tail, was stretched out along a contour of the slope on which they rested, overlooking the tarnished idyll of Herendeneth.
The small island, no more than a mile and a half wide and two long, lay deep within the Ornouth Archipelago, which basked under the warm sun of the Southern Ocean off the north-eastern tip of Calaius, the Southern Continent. It was a perfect mix of lush green slopes, waving beech groves and spectacular rock faces surrounding a shallow mountain peak on which stood a great stone needle, monument to the long-dead of an ancient magic. But the perfection had been scarred for ever by battle and the death of innocence.
Sha-Kaan had positioned his head so that he could see both Hirad and down the slopes to the groves, graveyard terraces and gardens. Beyond them were the ruins of the once proud house of the Al-Drechar, now devastated by a magic that had threatened the entire Balaian dimension. His left eye swivelled to fix the barbarian warrior with an unblinking stare.
‘Are my scales an irritant to you?’ he rumbled.
‘Well they aren’t the most ideal cushion,’ said Hirad.
‘I’ll have someone rub them smooth for you. Just point out those which require attention.’
Hirad chuckled and turned to look into the Great Kaan’s startling blue eye which was set into a head almost as tall as he was.
‘Your sense of humour’s coming on, I see,’ he said. ‘Still a long way to go, though.’
Sha-Kaan’s slitted black pupil narrowed. ‘One roll and I could snap your frail body like a twig.’
Hirad felt the humour in his mind like tendrils of mist on the breeze. There was no doubt the dragon had mellowed during their enforced stay on Herendeneth. In times past, he might have made that comment with both sincerity and intent. Still, joke or not, it remained true.
‘Just being honest,’ said Hirad.
‘As am I.’
They fell silent. It had been a long time coming, getting on for six years, but Hirad felt he could now describe Sha-Kaan as a friend. He had likened his relationship to the dragon to an apprenticeship. Ever since he’d agreed to become the Great Kaan’s Dragonene, so giving the dragon a life-sustaining link to the Balaian dimension, he’d been the lesser partner in an unequal alliance. Although the benefits of direct contact and support from a dragon were obvious, throughout the time they’d known each other, the awesome creature, secure in his mastery and power, had felt he had nothing to prove to the human. Hirad had felt absolutely the reverse.
But the inequality had lessened during Sha-Kaan and his Brood brother Nos-Kaan’s long exile in Balaia. Locked in a foreign dimension by a violent realignment of dimensional space and his home lost to his senses, Sha-Kaan had become aware of his mortality as his health slowly suffered. And Hirad believed that his unflinching loyalty to the Kaan dragons had proved that he was far more than a glorified servant but was a true friend. It seemed that at last Sha-Kaan concurred with that view.
Hirad’s attention was caught by movement down on the terraces. A woman walked from behind a small tree-studded grotto and knelt
by a beautiful array of flowers on a small mound of carefully tended earth. She was mid-height, with a full figure, her auburn hair tied back with a black ribbon. She plucked some weeds from the bed and Hirad saw her nipping the dead-heads from some of the taller fronds whose large yellow blooms blew in the gentle warm breeze.
As always when he saw her, Hirad’s heart thudded a little harder and his mood dipped, sadness edging into his mind. To an untutored eye, the woman might have been simply enjoying the beauty she had created. But she was Erienne, who was enduring pain beyond comprehension, because beneath the bed lay the body of her daughter, Lyanna.
Lyanna, whom The Raven had come to save; whose five-year-old mind couldn’t contain the power within it; and whose uncontrolled magic threatened to destroy Balaia. Lyanna, who had been allowed to die by the very people Erienne had trusted to train her and so allow her to live.
And that last was something Hirad found impossible to really understand; even though during his half-year on Herendeneth he’d had plenty of opportunity to work it out. After all, two of the four Al-Drechar who had let Lyanna die were still alive and living in the habitable areas of their house here on the island. But their explanations about Lyanna’s burgeoning power and her inability to ever control it, given her age and physical frailty, went straight over his head.
All he knew was that the nucleus of the One magic that Lyanna had hosted had been transferred to Erienne even as the little girl had died. And that Erienne hated it - felt it was a disease she couldn’t cure - and that made her hate the surviving Al-Drechar even more. It made her head ache, she said, and though the Al-Drechar, both frail old elven women, said they could train her to control, use and develop it, she wouldn’t as much as acknowledge their presence.
Hirad could understand that reaction. In fact he remained astounded she hadn’t tried to kill the surviving pair. He knew what he’d want for those who murdered any child of his. But he was grateful nonetheless. Because, despite Sha-Kaan’s current light mood, the dragon’s exile in Balaia was slowly killing him; and the Al-Drechar with their understanding and expertise in dimensional theory were the Kaan’s best chance of getting home.
It all added to the bowstring tension they had endured every day for their two seasons on Herendeneth. Hirad found himself needing the very people Erienne hated with a deep and abiding passion. Yet, even within that hatred, there was a part of her that needed the Al-Drechar too. Lyanna had been a child of the One, the ancient magical order that had dominated Balaia before the establishment of the four colleges over two thousand years ago. Erienne and Denser, her husband, still believed in it and the Al-Drechar were its last practitioners. What Erienne carried in her mind was the last hope for the order, but she would have to accept help from the Al-Drechar. That knowledge merely added to her misery.
‘Her mind is clouded,’ said Sha-Kaan, looking down at Erienne.
‘Grief obscures rationality.’ There was no sense of any particular sympathy from the Great Kaan, who had been edging at the extremities of Erienne’s mind with his own.
‘That’s only natural,’ said Hirad.
‘For humans,’ returned Sha-Kaan. ‘It makes her dangerous.’
Hirad sighed. ‘Sha-Kaan, she’s seen all three of her children murdered; Lyanna by the Al-Drechar, her twin sons by the Black Wing witch hunters. I’m surprised she retains any sanity at all. Wouldn’t you feel the same?’
‘In truth, birthings are an increasingly rare event among the Kaan,’ said the dragon after a pause. ‘But when a young Kaan dies, we have to replace the infant. We don’t have time to mourn.’
‘But you must have feelings for the mother and the youngster that dies,’ said Hirad.
‘The Brood mourns and the Brood supports. The mother’s mind is warmed by the Brood psyche and her pain is lessened by sharing. That is the way of dragons. For humans, grief is solitary and so is prolonged.’
Hirad shook his head. ‘It’s not solitary. We’re all here to help Erienne.’
‘But because you can’t get into her mind, you cannot help where she needs it the most.’
A reptilian bark echoed across the island and Nos-Kaan flew around the thirty-foot-high stone needle, gliding in to land close to Sha and Hirad, his golden back scales glittering in the sunlight, the earth vibrating as his hind feet touched the ground. His mighty wings, a hundred feet and more tip to tip, beat once to steady him then swept back to fold along his long body, air whipping across Hirad’s face. Nos-Kaan’s neck half coiled to bring his head next to Sha-Kaan’s and the two dragons touched muzzles briefly
. Even now, so many years on, Hirad found the sight awe-inspiring and felt a moment of pure insignificance in the face of such size and grace.
‘Well met, Hirad,’ said Nos-Kaan, his voice pained.
‘How did the flight go?’
‘Do you wish the truth?’ asked the dragon. Hirad nodded. ‘I must have the healing flows of inter-dimensional space or I will die. Before that I will be land-bound.’
Hirad was shaken. He had assumed the rest both Kaan had enjoyed these last two seasons in the warm climate on Herendeneth would cure them of the magical wounds they had suffered fighting the Dordovan mages.
‘How long?’
‘Another season, no more. I am weak, Hirad.’
‘And you, Great Kaan?’
‘I am in better health,’ said Sha-Kaan. ‘But death is inevitable if I cannot get home before too long. Where are your Unknown Warrior and his researchers?’
‘He’ll be here. He said he would.’
But Hirad had expected him before now. So long out of contact with the big man and he was beginning to fear something had happened to him. They had little news from Balaia - what they did get was through the incomplete knowledge of the Protectors - but none of it was good.
‘Your loyalty is commendable,’ said Sha-Kaan.
‘He’s Raven,’ said Hirad, shrugging and standing. ‘Time to check the sea for ships anyway.’
The truth was, he wanted to be alone for a moment. Only a season and Nos-Kaan would be dead. With the best will in the world, the research wouldn’t have led to meaningful realignment spells by then. Nos-Kaan’s grave was going to be Herendeneth.
He walked quickly down the slope, giving Erienne a wide berth and breaking into a trot as he passed the shored-up front doors of the house. The Protector, Aeb, stood at the entrance, unmoving, staring out northwards. Hirad nodded to him as he passed.
The single path down to the island’s only landable beach wove through waving beech groves to the small, reefed inlet. It was a peaceful walk. The warm breeze through the trees rustled leaves; the calls of birds on the wing filtered through the branches as did the distant sound of waves on the shore. Despite what he’d just heard, Hirad found himself smiling. He turned a corner and it dropped from his lips.
‘Gods burning,’ he whispered, reaching instinctively for the blade he hadn’t worn in a hundred days. He backed up the path.
Coming towards him were robed and cloaked men. Two dozen, maybe more. Mages. And where there were mages, there would be soldiers.
‘Aeb!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Darrick! We’re under attack!’
One of the mages held out his hands towards Hirad. Casting, surely. Caught unable to run and hopelessly outnumbered, Hirad did the only thing he could. He attacked. Yelling to clear his mind, he flew at the mage, fists bunched, braided hair streaming out behind him.
‘Hirad! Gods’ sake calm down!’ came a voice from beyond the group of mages, who had stopped and were looking at him in some alarm.
Hirad slid to a stop a few yards from them, kicking up dust.
‘Unknown?’
He looked harder. The unmistakable shaven head was approaching, a woman at his side, Protectors around him. Lots of them. Relief flooded through Hirad and he blew out his cheeks.
‘Gods drowning, you had me scared,’ he said.
The mages parted and The Unknown walked through, his limp pronounced, a look of discomfort on his face.
‘It’s good to see you,’ said The Unknown, crushing Hirad in an embrace.
‘And you, Unknown. You’re looking pale though. Brought the family to pick up some colour, have you?’
The Unknown laughed as he released Hirad, stepping back. Diera, her long fair hair tied back and strong beautiful face pale, came up to his side, Jonas squirming in her arms as he tried to see everything all at once. He fixed Hirad with a wary stare which the barbarian returned with a chuckle. The Unknown enveloped his family in one arm, pulling them close.
‘Well, we’ve not had the luxury of relaxing in the sun these last two seasons,’ he said. ‘Unlike you, apparently.’
‘It’s not been quite like that,’ said Hirad.
‘I’m sure it hasn’t,’ said The Unknown.
‘I’m forgetting my manners,’ said Hirad. He leant forward and kissed Diera on the cheek then stroked Jonas’s head. ‘Good to see you, Diera. I see Jonas has got his father’s hair sense.’
Diera smiled and looked down at her son’s completely bald head. ‘Hirad, he’s not a year old, poor little boy. He had plenty of hair a season ago.’
Hirad nodded. ‘It’ll grow back, young man,’ he said to Jonas. ‘Probably. And how are you, Lady Unknown? Looking a bit tired if I may say.’
‘Sea travel didn’t agree with me,’ she said.
‘You should talk to Ilkar then. He’s our expert on shipboard vomiting.’
‘Hirad, you’re disgusting,’ admonished Diera gently. ‘I just need a place to sleep that doesn’t move about.’
‘I expect we can find you somewhere.’ Hirad looked back to The Unknown, tilting his head at the massed Protectors and Xeteskian mages.
‘So what’s going on?’ he asked. ‘Bit more than a research party, isn’t it?’
The Unknown’s humour faded and he shook his head.
‘Much more,’ he said. ‘Look, we can’t stay here. There’s work for The Raven on Balaia.’
‘Calaius first, I think.’ Hirad showed the way up the path with a last look at the Xeteskians. ‘Ilkar’s not going to like this. Come on; let’s get you up to the house.’
Chapter 3
Dystran, Lord of the Mount of Xetesk, Balaia’s Dark College of magic, sat back in his favourite chair, leather-upholstered and deep. A fire warmed the chill late afternoon of early spring, filling his study with a yellow flickering light, augmenting the pale sun that shone through the window. A mug of herb tea steamed on a low table by his right hand.
He’d held Xetesk’s highest office for more than six years now, a fact that truly astounded him. His ascension had been orchestrated by a powerful splinter group while the incumbent Lord, Styliann, had still been alive - an unprecedented series of events. Dystran had been aware that his tenure was intended to be brief and bloody, but circumstances and fortune had conspired in his favour.
Styliann had been killed, an invasion repelled and a period of calm demanded. It had left him alive but a puppet. The intervening years, though, had allowed him to build his own power base largely unopposed. The puppet master had become a subservient adviser and, while no Lord of the Mount was ever completely secure, Dystran had at least the respect of the Circle Seven, Xetesk’s senior mages whose towers ringed the centre of the college.
And now, if Dystran was correct, Xetesk was on the verge of rightful dominion, though victory would be costly. The events leading to the unfortunate death of the Nightchild, Lyanna, had left a legacy of hatred and mistrust in the minds of non-mages. It was a disorganised threat and would be put down by aggressive magic when the time was right.
More positively, those same events had revealed the Al-Drechar. Dystran was determined to control them and the first steps were already in hand. A shame Dordover had chosen to fight him but, one way or another, war had been inevitable. As long as he could keep Lystern on the sidelines and Julatsa helpless, it was a war with only one possible winner.
Better even than the Al-Drechar, though, was a discovery his agents had made while studying texts on the complexities of natural elven links to the earth and magic. It had given him an idea, the successful fruition of which would very much hasten Xetesk’s control over not just Balaia but Calaius too. He was impatient for progress but understood the need for care and secrecy, as did the former puppet master sitting across the fire from him.
The ageing Ranyl was not far from death yet retained a vitality and sharpness of mind that lit the eyes in his sagging face and belied his failing cancer-ravaged body.
‘And when will we hear from the exped
ition?’ asked Dystran.
‘Not for some time, my Lord,’ said Ranyl. ‘Communion over such a distance is impossible. I have requested an interim report within thirty days but this could prove a long and difficult operation. ’
‘We must have the writings, though,’ said Dystran. ‘I have to be sure. You have my permission to commit resources as necessary.’
Ranyl inclined his head. ‘Thank you, my Lord.’
Dystran picked up his mug and let the fresh, slightly sweet herb aroma fill his nostrils. He sipped the hot liquid, enjoying the taste.
‘So, what of the food supplies?’ he asked.
‘We are fortunate to live within a walled city,’ said Ranyl by way of reply. ‘Our rationing has been effective and our people will survive until the new harvest. Not in comfort but none will starve. I cannot speak as confidently of the refugees at our gates, nor of the rest of Balaia. I understand conditions near Korina to be poor, also inland areas like Erskan and Pontois.’
‘Yet those refugees threaten us, Ranyl. They occupy our farm land and they practically surround our city. When the harvests start, they will demand food I am unwilling to give them. I need them moved by whatever means necessary.’
‘Be careful you do not drive them into Selik’s greedy hands.’
Dystran waved a hand. ‘There is a man and an organisation we can dispense with on a whim. And what would even he do with ten thousand starving Balaians, eh?’
‘It’s public opinion that should concern you,’ chided Ranyl.
Dystran chuckled. ‘I have no time for it. My concern is Dordover and the threat she poses. How are our forces holding out in Arlen? That route must be kept open.’
‘The situation is difficult but not disastrous,’ said Ranyl. ‘Dordover is a tenacious opponent.’
‘Keep me updated,’ said Dystran. ‘And you, my friend?’
Elfsorrow Page 3
