Dawnthief

by James Barclay

  Now at least Ilkar smiled. His ears pricked and he kneaded his forehead between thumb and forefinger.

  “I'm an elf, Unknown,” he said. “It's not a great story, I'm afraid. Travers is either a shining hero waging a long war against the evils of magic, or a once-great soldier who's blind to today's reality. It depends which side of the fence you're on.”

  “And which side are you on?” Hirad leaned forward in his saddle, his hands on its raised pommel, stretching his back and breathing in the smell of leather mixed with the strong odour of his horse. He found it strangely comforting.

  “The blind man,” said Ilkar. “Look, it all started out as a grand scheme and there were many people who wanted him to succeed. I was one of them. After Understone Pass, he founded a group dedicated to creating a kind of moral code which was aimed primarily at restraining the destructive magics of Xetesk and, to a lesser extent, Dordover. Not outlawing, mind; he didn't believe they should be stopped, not then; just monitored and kept to quiet research.

  “Anyway, at that time they were called the Winged Rose and had tattoos put on their necks of a red rose head in between a pair of white wings.” He stroked the left side of his neck in a circle as he spoke. “It was supposed to signify passion and freedom, I think.”

  “Does that make sense?” asked The Unknown.

  “Sort of,” replied Ilkar. “Initially their ideals were pure. It was all about their desire to see the country freed from the shadow of what they saw as dark magic, and they were going to pursue that aim without recourse to violence.”

  “Bloody hell,” breathed Hirad.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” said Ilkar. “As you can gather, the ideals slipped by degrees, and what had been a plan for, I don't know, regulation, I suppose, became a witch hunt; and one aimed at any College's adepts Travers deemed dangerous. That, of course, now includes me, particularly since my unfortunate association with our glorious would-be leader up there.”

  “Do they still wear this tattoo?” Hirad indicated his own neck.

  “Not quite,” said The Unknown. “They've recoloured it a rather unoriginal all-black now, although the motif itself is the same.”

  “That's right,” agreed Ilkar. “Black Wings, they call themselves. The rose must be an embarrassment or something.”

  “That's how I knew the woman was trouble.” It was a beat before Hirad realised that The Unknown wasn't talking to either of them. “Damn.”

  “What are you talking about, Unknown?” asked Hirad.

  “I recognised that tattoo, didn't I? If I'd acted sooner, I could have saved Sirendor. Maybe. The trouble was, for a moment when I knew she was after Denser, I had no desire to stop her. I couldn't have cared less if he lived or died, and in some ways I still can't.”

  “Until Dawnthief came along,” remarked Ilkar.

  “If you believe that,” said The Unknown.

  “Still sceptical, are you, Unknown?”

  “Still an elf, are you, Ilkar?”

  The buildings of the Korina Trade Alliance retained the grandiose air of centuries gone by.

  The halls, offices, kitchens and rooms of the once proud organisation were set in gardens still tended beautifully by the City's gardeners thanks to a legacy gifted by the third Earl Arlen in recognition of the KTA's sacrifices in the first Wesmen wars three hundred years before. How the Arlen family's fortunes had changed since then, swallowed up by the rising power of Baron Blackthorne on the back of the new rich trade in minerals.

  The KTA put on a brave face for the public. A sweeping drive through ornate iron gates led to a pillared frontage whose double doors of ebony sat within a marble frame. The main building rose three storeys and was formed from quarried white stone brought from the Denebre Crags some seventy miles north and east.

  It was inside that the cracks showed. The entrance hall was lined with standing armour, all dull and dusty. There was no money to employ the polisher any more. Paintwork peeled, damp and mould inhabited the corners of walls, and the air was musty in the nostrils.

  The banqueting table was chipped, scarred and rutted, its chair fabrics torn, stuffing oozing from rents in the faded material. As for the rooms, no Lord or Baron would take one without a trusted bodyguard in attendance.

  The whole atmosphere depressed Baron Gresse. His initial optimism that the meeting had been called at all disintegrated as the usual internecine bickering grew among the dozen delegates who could be bothered to attend.

  Lord Denebre, who had called the meeting following losses he had suffered in a Wesmen raid on one of his convoys inside Understone Pass itself, was the nominal Chairman of the KTA, and popular belief held that he would be the last. He had contested that Tessaya, the tribal leader holding the Understone Pass treaties, had broken the safe passage agreements and that military action was necessary to keep the trade route open.

  But around the table, the dozen Barons and Lords, ranging from the white-haired, craggily old but still powerfully built Lord Rache, and the black-bearded, bloated obscenity that was Lord Eimot, to the young, hawk-featured and very tall Pontois, wore their cynicism like armour.

  For three hours, futile arguments, speeches and discussions drove the delegates into two factions. Gresse, Denebre and the elder son of Lord Jaden, whose lands lay to the north of the College Cities, found themselves in an increasingly beleaguered position. Orchestrated by Pontois, Rache and Havern, resolution after resolution led to the systematic dismissal of Denebre's claims, accusations that he had triggered the skirmish, and calls for his words to be struck from the record. The culmination was a one-sided debate on how the KTA might best profit from any potential tribal unity, while the three excluded delegates sat in bewildered but furious silence.

  Gresse, who had said little throughout, spoke only in response to a direct question from Pontois.

  “Strangely silent, Gresse. Still wondering how to pay for the damage to your castle wall, or just keeping your thoughts to yourself?”

  “My dear Pontois,” replied Gresse, “I am rather of the opinion that you lost the little tiff that you began and that your wounds require significantly more licking than my own. Meanwhile, I am afraid that my thoughts do not tally with the decisions you are about to make. Particularly your move to begin again the selling of arms to the Wesmen.”

  “Oh dear,” said Pontois. “You are presumably in possession of harder facts than my Lords Rache and Havern?”

  “Yes, I am,” said Gresse, and the respect in which he was held sobered the audience at least temporarily. “The Wesmen, as Denebre has been trying to intimate, could invade Balaia at any time, given the numbers I believe are massed in the Heartlands even now. They are organised, strong and united, and I will be marching to the aid of Blackthorne at first light tomorrow.”

  “Really?” Pontois held his smile. “A costly venture.”

  “Money is nothing,” said Gresse. “Survival is everything.” There was a ripple of laughter around the table.

  “Your fears are out of all proportion to the facts,” said Lord Rache. “Perhaps your age is addling your mind.”

  “For generations now, we—and I include my family in this—have lived off the ample fat of Balaia, its people and its rich resources. We have drunk in its beauty and basked in its security. Our disagreements blow away like chaff in the wind when set against the warfare that has so often torn the west apart. But no longer. There is unification and it is us to whom their attention is turned. We stand on the brink of a fight for our lives, all of our lives, and the enemy is stronger, fitter, more numerous and better trained than we are,” said Gresse. “Don't you see it? Don't you hear what Denebre is telling you?” He turned to Pontois. “I would weep tears of joy on my ramparts at the sight of your men trying to take Taranspike Castle again, I really would. But unless we deal with the threat that affects us right now, Taranspike Castle will be flying a Wesmen standard.”

  “I would prefer to wait for these Wesmen while drinking wine from your cella
rs,” said Pontois. “Balaia has such changeable weather this time of year.” His words found favour with others around the table. A chuckle echoed off the walls.

  “Laugh now,” said Gresse, “while you can. I pity you for your blindness, and I pity Balaia too. I love this country. I love being able to look out from my castle and see the distant Blackthorne Mountains shimmering in the morning sun, the dew lifting from the pasturelands below me, and smell the freshness of the air.”

  “And I will be happy to reserve a place for your rocking chair on my ramparts,” replied Pontois.

  “I sincerely hope you are dead long before I need my rocking chair,” spat Gresse. “And I will curse every day the fact that I am protecting your sorry hide while I and those truly loyal to this country strive to save it.” He spun about and strode to the door, a tittering laugh in his ear. He paused, fingers on the handle. “Think about the real reasons Blackthorne isn't here. Think about why the four Colleges are meeting at Triverne Lake right now. And think about why The Raven are working for Xetesk, something they swore never to do.

  “They all want to save our country from the Wesmen and our women from mothering their bastard sons. And any of you who refuse to ride to Blackthorne, Understone or the Colleges to lay your lives before the Gods for Balaia will be cast down when the reckoning comes. And come it will.”

  The banqueting hall was silent as Gresse departed the KTA for the last time.

  As the day waned toward dusk, Denser took the party from the main path into an area of thick woodland. He stopped when they were well hidden from anyone riding on the trail. Once all had dismounted, Richmond set about a small fire.

  Denser wandered over to his horse, put his mouth close to its ear and pointed deeper into the woods. The brown mare ambled away in the direction Denser's finger indicated, followed by all the others.

  “Nice trick,” said Richmond.

  “It was nothing.” Denser shrugged. He sat with his back to a tree and lit his pipe. The cat poked its head from his robes, darted to the ground and disappeared into the undergrowth.

  “So what's the plan, Denser?” asked Talan, wiping at an eye smarting from the dust of the road.

  “It's quite simple. We think the amulet gives the location of a dimension door that will let us into Septern's workshop. We are presuming it rests in interdimensional space. Given the lore on the amulet, Ilkar's going to have to cast the spell to open the door.”

  “No problem, Denser,” muttered Ilkar. “I cast dimensional spells all the time.”

  “Right,” said Hirad. “I've been hearing you talking about dimensions and portals for too long and I still have no idea what you're talking about. Any chance of an explanation I can understand?”

  Ilkar and Denser looked at each other. The Xeteskian nodded to the Julatsan.

  “Actually, the concept is simple but it takes quite a mind leap to come to terms with it all,” said Ilkar. “The fact is that there are a so far unknown number of other dimensions, worlds you'd call them, that coexist with our own. We—that is, mages in general—have identified two, but there are clearly many more than that.”

  “Oh, clearly,” said Hirad, pursing his lips.

  “What's the problem?” asked Ilkar, his ears pricking.

  “I know you saw a Dragon and you say it was in some other dimension, but now you're saying there are other worlds littering the place, that's what,” said Talan. “Look, put it this way. We go outside, we see sky, ground and sea. Now you're asking us to believe there are other dimensions there with us, we can't see them and you gaily announce you even know what two of them are!”

  “Sorry, Ilkar,” continued Richmond. “But this has all come as rather a surprise.”

  “Yeah.” Talan again. “I mean, how the hell did anyone get the idea there could even be such things?”

  “Denser?” prompted Ilkar. The cat reappeared from the undergrowth and curled up in Denser's lap, eyes on his master's face.

  “We think Septern always knew, though probably no one will ever know how. He was the mage who first postulated the existence of other dimensions in addition to the one we'd long known about through mana research. It seems obvious now; but at the time, Septern was shunned by the greater mage community, though he is now regarded as a genius. It was the reason he left Dordover and built his own house.”

  “I'm none the wiser,” said Hirad, deadpan.

  “Our best guess is that something in Septern's mind made him open to the nuances of mana flow and flux that signify activity beyond our dimension. He could see and sense things no other mage ever could. He was unique,” said Denser. “Sorry to be vague, but much is missing from Septern's early work. He understood the magic required, though, and developed lore that would base spells to create dimension portals of his own—or so we have to assume.”

  “All right,” said The Unknown. “So we accept Dragons have a world separate to ours, that they link to us to escape, whether we like it and can get our heads round it or not. That leaves me with two questions. What's stopping Dragons from any side of their war coming here to rule, and what's in the other dimension?” He rose and added a few branches to the fire.

  “Denser, still yours.” Ilkar's tone was less than friendly.

  “We know very little of the Dragon dimension. No one has ever travelled there, except perhaps Septern. The Dragon you met—” he nodded at Hirad—“will, we think, have been one of a large Brood, or family, who have exclusive use of the corridor between our two dimensions. The corridor has many links to our world, one for each member of the Brood and their Dragonene mage. The Dragons defend the corridor against attack from other Broods—and what Sha-Kaan told you pretty much confirms that.” He drank deeply and chewed his lip, considering his answer to the next question carefully.

  “No one,” he said slowly, “has been able to replicate Septern's work. So there is no travel between dimensions. Finding the key to his workshop may well lead to our making great strides to change all that. In Xetesk, we know a good deal about interdimensional space based on Septern's writings, and it's where we launched the Wytch Lords’ cage. We have also found evidence of other dimensions but we've only penetrated one.”

  “But it was the only one you really needed, wasn't it, Denser?” Ilkar's face held an expression of deep distaste.

  “We certainly found it to be useful, yes,” replied Denser testily.

  “Please share this knowledge.” The Unknown's voice suggested it was not a request.

  “In simple terms, it's a dimension inhabited by what you'd call demons, but don't get too excited,” said Denser. “They can't live in this dimension without extensive, umm, modification and continuous help from a mage.” Denser's hand reached out and stroked his cat absently. The animal purred and stretched.

  “Why not?” asked Richmond.

  “Because they exist on mana. It is the air they breathe. And the concentration of mana here isn't even close to being enough. Likewise, we could not live there. What Xetesk does, I will freely admit, is tap this demon dimension for mana.”

  “And that's bad, is it, Ilkar?” Richmond turned to the Julatsan.

  “It's not so much the use of the mana, but the methods used to make the opening. There's no point going into them now, it's a moral thing.”

  The group fell silent, each man taking in, or trying to, what he had heard so far. To Hirad, it was all so much bluster and babble. He'd asked the first question but he'd barely taken in that answer and he wasn't sure he understood, or cared if he didn't. He couldn't concentrate, his mind continually wandering to dreams and images of Sirendor while his heart tolled death in his chest.

  “Have you heard enough?” asked Denser.

  “One more question.” Richmond was frowning. “Where are these other dimensions in relation to our own? I mean, I can see the stars, are those what you are talking about?”

  “No,” said Denser, a half smile touching his lips. “Although it's not a bad analogy. Day to day, there is no hint
or clue where other dimensions lie. The easiest way I can describe it is to ask you to consider a void more vast than you can possibly imagine and then populate it with bubbles, a possibly infinite number, each representing a single dimension.

  “Then, and here's the tricky part, imagine the bubbles being everywhere and nowhere at the same time, so that no matter the number of bubbles, and the vastness of the void, there is no distance between each bubble, making travel between them theoretically instantaneous, subject to certain alignment criteria.” He paused. “Does that sound right, Ilkar?”

  “It tallies with my understanding, such as it is,” said Ilkar, though his face suggested he'd learned something new.

  “So how come the Dragon had the amulet?” asked Talan.

  “Good question,” said Denser. “Shortly after Septern announced the text for Dawnthief, he disappeared. We're guessing he went through his Dragonene portal, or one of his own. We had to assume that Septern meant us to have his findings one day, and it made sense that, as a Dragonene, he would entrust the effective key to it all, this amulet, to the Dragons and let them decide when we were ready. We just got one step ahead, that's all. Anything else?” There was silence. “Good. We'll set off at first light.”

  Hirad glared at the Dark Mage, who was searching a pocket.

  “Let me make something very clear, Denser,” said the barbarian evenly, fetching a dagger from his belt and testing its edge. He stared studiously at the short blade. “You are not in charge here. If the members of The Raven agree, we will travel to this mage workshop of yours when we are ready, and not before.”

  Denser smiled. “If that's the way you want to play it.”

  “No, Denser,” said Hirad. “That's the way it is. The moment you forget is the moment you're on your own. Or dead.”

  “And Balaia would die with me,” said Denser.

  “Yeah, well, we only have your word for that,” said The Unknown.