Dawnthief

by James Barclay

  “Into other dimensions. To explore, to chart, to meet other races. The possibilities are endless.” Erienne was enthused in spite of herself.

  “To conquer, to subvert, to rule, to steal.” The Captain's tone was hard but not unpleasant.

  “Is that the basis for your concern?”

  He inclined his head. “I believe we have no place interfering in other dimensions. We have our own and it is difficult enough to control without linking it to other places and times. I see nightmare scenarios where others might invade to avenge what we have done. No one will be safe anywhere because no one will ever know when or where a door might be opened.”

  “All the more reason to complete our research and understanding,” said Erienne.

  “Neither of us is naive enough to believe that Dordover and Xetesk research this magic to benefit the population of Balaia, are we? I would hate to think you were opening doors which you were then powerless to close.” The Captain scratched an ear. “Tell me, is Xetesk further advanced than Dordover?”

  Erienne stared at him blankly. “If and when the missing elements of Septern's dimensional texts are recovered, we may be forced to form a research group,” she said slowly. “Until that time, communication remains minimal.”

  “I understand.”

  “It was a stupid question to ask a Dordovan.”

  “Stupidity sometimes elicits the real gems.”

  The door opened and a man entered carrying a jug of water and two glasses. He set them on the table and withdrew. Erienne filled a glass and drank it back in one.

  “Anything else?”

  “Oh, a good deal,” said the Captain. He drained and refilled his wine glass. “I have hardly begun, although your information is gratefully received. I should let you get back to your children but think on this. Given that you appear to know all you can about dimensional magics already, I find it disturbing that there has been such a recent surge in interest surrounding Septern's research.

  “Mastery of dimensional magic wasn't his only triumph, was it? There was one of even greater notoriety. He created a spell, didn't he? And I want to know why Xetesk has suddenly put all its muscle behind looking for it.”

  Erienne's face became deathly white.

  The Raven and their charges rode from Taranspike Castle as the sun picked at the dew lying heavily on the grass of yesterday's battlefield. The rain of the previous night had blown away west across the central flatlands toward the dark line of the Blackthorne Mountains and a gentle breeze blew warmth through the dawn of the early spring day. Baron Pontois, his soldiers, mercenary warriors and mages were gone, disappeared north through the Grethern Forest from which they had come. All that was left of their encampment was flattened brush and a single, wood-picketed mound where the dead were buried.

  At the head of the small horseback party were Hirad, Richmond and Ilkar, while much to his bodyguards’ displeasure, Baron Gresse chose to ride flanked by Talan and The Unknown Warrior. Denser and Sirendor Larn rode behind the second trio, leaving Gresse's quartet of men bringing up the rear.

  For the Baron, the ride was clearly a chance to shake off the shackles of an overprotective family and ride free. For The Unknown and Talan, the habit of gleaning information from whatever source came their way was impossible to break.

  “Are you still allied with Blackthorne?” asked Talan.

  Gresse nodded. “We have a reciprocal passage arrangement but I wouldn't call it an alliance. He travels toll free through this pass to Korina; I have similar rights through his lands to Gyernath.”

  The Unknown frowned. “Did he take the lands east of Gyernath? I heard he—”

  “Six months ago. He's all but annexed Gyernath now, though the City Council has applied significant pressure on him to keep his passage levies low. Successfully so far.”

  “So what happened to Lord Arlen?” asked The Unknown.

  “He works for Blackthorne.”

  “Ah—” Light dawned.

  “Gods, no, there was no fighting. No more fighting, should I say. Arlen still nominally controls the lands east of Gyernath, though the truth is he's supported by Blackthorne's considerable muscle, furnished with metals from the southern mines and taking a rake off the levy on traffic from the southeast, including Korina.” Gresse chuckled and reached a hand out to pat The Unknown's thigh. “If I were you, I'd cross Arlen off my list of potential employers. Blackthorne has all the finance around Gyernath now.”

  “Anyone else we can strike off?” Talan asked.

  “Not me,” said Gresse. “Pontois hasn't finished yet, I'm sure. He's either already planning another strike on Taranspike or hoping I'll overfortify there and leave myself open to him further west.”

  “Well, if you need us, get in early,” said The Unknown.

  “Very early,” said Talan.

  “Heard a rumour you lot might be hanging up your leather,” said Gresse, careful not to catch either man's eye.

  “Believe it on seeing it,” advised Talan, raising his eyebrows.

  “So much for a trade of information,” grumbled Gresse, a smile touching his eyes.

  “You'll be the first to know if it happens, how's that?” said The Unknown.

  “It'll have to do.” Gresse fell silent, shaking his head.

  Taranspike Pass was sheer grey and no less than four hundred feet high all the way to Korina, its cool slate home to birds and tenacious vegetation. Either side of the walls of the pass, the land was precipitous, falling to black chasms, deep ravines and harsh, lifeless valleys where water ran beneath rock, its sound like the souls of the lost as it poured under the ground. In the pass itself, run-off from the previous night's rain puddled on the soft earth, making the way muddy. But with the sun lighting the pass throughout the day, that softness would be driven away and the cracks in a trail which varied between a dozen wagons and just three wagons wide were testament to the heat that sun on rock could generate in the hot season.

  The sounds of birds, horses’ hoofs and men's voices echoed from the walls, bringing with them an atmosphere that would have provoked discomfort in a lone rider but which a company, with the confidence of companionship, could ignore.

  Sirendor Larn took another deep breath of the clean air of Taranspike Pass, revelling in the cool rush that filled his lungs and driving from his mind the smells and smoke of the castle and its surrounds. They would encounter no trouble along the pass. Gresse's men kept the way safe enough and, to Sirendor's knowledge, it wasn't particularly dangerous anyway. With Korina less than a day's ride away, his mood, never down, was lightening by the moment. The only cloud over him was the meeting, and he feared how Hirad would react.

  He had kept up a light conversation with Denser for much of the ride, grinning at Ilkar's scowls when he caught the elf's eye. Denser seemed all right. It certainly wasn't the first time Sirendor had fought a man one day and ridden home with him the next. Such was the way of mercenaries. He was clearly a capable mage and, cut from the rules of war, was just another man wondering where the next job would take him. The only difference was that this mage seemed a lot more certain than most. Sirendor took that to be a function of his upbringing in Xetesk and he reminded himself to ask Ilkar more about the Dark College.

  Looking across once again at Denser, he smiled. That pipe was clamped between his teeth, gently smouldering as always, and the cat was balancing on the front of his saddle. The mage had been very reticent when pushed for details about the cat, mumbling only that it was an ideal companion for what was, for him, a life largely consisting of solitude. Denser himself was, not for the first time, trying to drill holes with his eyes through The Unknown's back.

  “He fascinates me, too,” said Sirendor. “Always has.” Denser glanced around, his reverie broken.

  “What?”

  “The Unknown. I've known him ten years and I still don't even know where he was born.”

  “Or his name?” Denser asked.

  “No. Nor his name,” agreed S
irendor.

  “I thought you lot were the only people he told.”

  “Another rumour, I'm afraid. Not even Tomas knows.”

  “Who's Tomas?” asked Denser.

  “Landlord at The Rookery. Well, joint landlord with The Unknown. Tomas has known him more than twenty years. Looked after him at first when he turned up in Korina when he was thirteen.” Sirendor shook his head. “You learn not to ask him certain questions.”

  “So why do you call him The Unknown Warrior?”

  Sirendor laughed. “Our most popular question. Tell me what you've heard, first, then I'll tell you the truth.”

  “All I've heard is that he didn't want to be found.” Denser shrugged. “So he refused to tell anyone his name and took on the one he has now.”

  “Common but fatally flawed,” said Sirendor. “I mean, if he was trying to lose himself from someone, calling himself ‘The Unknown Warrior’ and fighting with The Raven is about the worst way he could have chosen, don't you think?” Denser nodded. “No. When we first formed The Raven ten years ago in The Rookery, it was after we'd met on a contract we'd taken as individuals out by Gyernath. By we I mean him, me, Hirad and Ilkar. I remember us all riding back to Korina and how he said he was owner of an inn and we could have lodgings and food because there was something he wanted to discuss.

  “The Raven name came up because of where we were drinking, then the code, and we all signed the parchment which Tomas keeps mounted in the back room. When it came to The Unknown's turn, he wouldn't sign, saying his name wasn't important, and it was only then that the rest of us realised that through the week of fighting, he'd not once told us who he was.”

  “Why The Raven? Rooks live in rookeries.”

  “Same family of birds, better name. Can you really imagine us being called ‘The Rook’?”

  Denser chuckled, the sound dying on the rock in front of him where the pass opened out a little. Sirendor continued.

  “Anyway, I remember what Hirad and Ilkar said like it was yesterday. The loudmouth said, ‘We don't want any mystery man in the team, so either sign up or bugger off.’” Sirendor shook his head at the memory. So typical, so very, very Hirad. “And Ilkar said, ‘Yeah, what are you, some kind of mystical unknown warrior or something?’ That was the name that went on the parchment, under the code. And it stuck.” Sirendor shrugged. “It's as simple as that.”

  Denser chuckled. “Well, well, well. Of such things are legends made.”

  “We sincerely hope so,” said Sirendor.

  “But doesn't it fascinate you to know what his name really is and why he won't tell you?” asked Denser, his tone serious again. “I can't imagine why any man should claim his name wasn't important.”

  Sirendor turned in his saddle and put a finger to his lips. He lowered his voice.

  “Yes it did, and I suppose still does in moments when my mind wanders. And don't think we haven't asked him, got him drunk and tried to trick his name from him, refused to speak to his face, anything. But he won't let on, and if you press him, he gets angry. You learn to keep your fascination to yourself. He is our friend. If he wishes to be private about something, even his name, we respect it. He is Raven.”

  “But he's hiding something from you,” pushed Denser. “He's not telling you—”

  “Enough,” said Sirendor. “It is his decision. Let it rest.” But the look in Denser's eyes suggested he might not.

  A flight of large grey-winged white gulls swept along the pass toward them, angling up away into the sunlight, their calls clattering into the clefts above. More birds, smaller, quicker, darker, rose in protest, their harsh calls scattering the flight, which re-formed high above to continue its journey west. With a loud fluttering of wings, the birds of prey returned to the cliffs, the nests and chicks protected from the marauding carrion gulls.

  Gresse followed the exchange, straining his neck upward before turning to The Unknown. “Tell me, did Blackthorne show any concern about the Wesmen rumours?”

  “I think you have an overblown view of our importance,” replied The Unknown. “Mercenaries don't get to talk to Baron Blackthorne.”

  Gresse turned in his saddle and fixed The Unknown Warrior with his bright eyes.

  “Unknown, I am the oldest Baron and I have overblown views about very few things. The Raven's reputation and importance are not among them. I also speak to Blackthorne on occasion and know he enjoys your company.”

  “So talk to him again.”

  “He is two hundred and fifty miles southwest of here, so I am asking you,” said Gresse testily. “You aren't telling me everything.”

  The Unknown glanced across at Talan, who shrugged his shoulders. The party were moving at an easy trot and Denser was some way behind them, still chatting to Sirendor.

  “Six months ago, when you say Arlen sold out to Blackthorne, we were in Eastern Balaia, assessing the Wesmen threat,” said The Unknown. Gresse punched the pommel of his saddle.

  “I knew there was more. Sly bastard.”

  “It just made good sense,” said Talan. “Let's face it, if the Wesmen invade through Understone Pass and head south rather than north, Blackthorne will catch it rather than the Colleges, at least to begin with. The same goes for an invasion across the Bay of Gyernath, which would leave them only five days from the City itself and a couple of hours from Blackthorne Castle.”

  “And what did you see?”

  Ahead of them, Hirad called a halt and the party reined in and dismounted for rest and food. It was shortly past midday and the pass was heating up pleasantly. They had stopped in a natural bowl where the rock was scooped out on either side, focusing the strength of the sun.

  “Nothing to back up anything you've heard.” Talan shrugged, dusted off a rock with a gauntleted hand and sat down. To his left, Gresse's bodyguards set about lighting a fire, gathering armfuls of the thick dry scrub that clung to the base of the pass the whole of its length. “We went through the pass as guard to a Blackthorne wine convoy heading for Leionu. We went south after the pass and tracked the Blackthornes for four days, eventually crossing the Bay of Gyernath. We saw no burning villages, no war parties, nothing to suggest the Wesmen were even raiding.

  “The Wesmen, if they are massing, are doing so in their Heartlands in the southwest peninsula. Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “But that was six months ago.” Gresse sat beside him, choosing the softer grass and heather over a slab of stone.

  “Granted, but Baron Blackthorne is not, to my knowledge, concerned about a Wesmen invasion,” said The Unknown. He sifted briefly through his pack and pulled out a small leather bag, stoppered at its neck. “Hey, Sirendor, salt.” He tossed the bag at the warrior, who jumped to catch it one-handed. “And use it this time. It makes your soup just about drinkable.” Hirad laughed. Sirendor swore.

  “Then he should be concerned.” Gresse was thoughtful for a while. “And what about the pass itself?”

  “Well guarded. Tessaya is not a fool. He gets good revenue from the pass and isn't about to give it up to the KTA or a rival tribe.” The Unknown scratched his nose.

  “The barracks?”

  “Boarded and empty.” The Unknown shook his head slightly. “He had a significant guardpost at either end of the pass but was not shoring up for siege.”

  “Thank you,” said Gresse. “Both of you. Sorry to press.”

  Talan shrugged. “No problem. You have other sources, I take it?”

  “More recent and no less reliable. The pass is reportedly closed to the east, full of Wesmen, and war parties are emerging from the southwest. If it's true, we're in trouble. We have no organised defence and neither Blackthorne nor the Colleges are strong enough. Just keep your eyes and ears open is all I ask.” Gresse sighed. “I haven't a hope in hell of persuading the Barons to ally at this meeting, not without Blackthorne. I only hope it's not all too late.”

  Talan raised his eyebrows. “It's that serious, you think? What about the Wytch Lords rumours?”
>
  Gresse snorted. “Yes, it is that serious. We could all be in a fight for our country very soon. As for the Wytch Lords, if by some appalling miracle they are returned, we can kiss Balaia goodbye.”

  The fire crackled into life, flames casting pale shadow on the sunlit walls of the pass. The men lapsed into silence, each preferring his own thoughts on the exchange as he stared into the hypnotic flickering. It was a good time for a little quiet, and Sirendor's meat broth, when it arrived, tasted fine.

  The Raven rode through Korina's East Gate as the sun began to be lost behind some of the City's few tall buildings. Where some were stopped and questioned, if not searched, The Raven were, as always, simply waved through to the crowded cobbled streets of Korina's late afternoon trading.

  “Now that's an advantage of being us,” remarked Sirendor. “And there aren't as many as you'd think.” Denser said nothing.

  Shortly after their entry into the City, Gresse and his men made their goodbyes and headed south toward the offices of the Korina Trade Alliance and the tightly guarded apartments the Barons found it necessary to maintain.

  Korina was the Capital City of Eastern Balaia, boasting a stable population of somewhere around two hundred and fifty thousand, which swelled to as many as three hundred thousand at festival and principal trading times. Most of the latter were dictated by the arrival of merchant fleets from the lands to the east and south of the Northern Continent. Korina sat at the head of the River Kour estuary and had developed safe deep-water ports that attracted southern traders away from the shorter but less profitable journey to Gyernath.

  The City was characterised by its sturdy sprawling low buildings, a legacy of the high winds and hurricanes that periodically swept along the estuary as the season changed from winter to the warmer weather of spring. In three places, connected by streets packed with businesses and shops, inns and eating houses, brothels and gambling dens, markets bustled with life every day of the week.

  Beyond the triangle, and closer to the port, heavy industry boomed, clanged, fired, sawed and moulded, producing goods for home and across the seas. And in every gap between the places of entertainment, trade, officialdom and work, people lived. Some in squalor, some in luxury undreamed of by those who saw nothing but the dirt on their hands, and most in a state of perpetual shift on a line between the two.