Hirad nodded. Denser looked confused.
“But I'm the only one who knows what we have to do,” he said.
“For now,” said The Unknown. “But don't worry, when we understand, we'll have more to say about how we go about things. Be sure.”
There was quiet. Richmond's fire crackled and a breeze rustled the upper branches. Night was all but on them. Denser knocked the bowl of his pipe against the roots of the tree.
“If I might make a suggestion for discussion,” he said slowly, “I think it's time we got some sleep.”
Segregation. Distrust. Suspicion. Mana. The air crackled with it all.
Triverne Lake lay at the base of the Blackthorne Mountains as the great range began its slow descent to the seas of Triverne Inlet over one hundred miles to the north. Touched by magic, the lake waters were sheltered, giving perfect conditions for the vibrant green trees that bordered it on three sides, leaving only the eastern shore open. Lush vegetation thrown with bright-coloured flowers provided a spectacular matting between the trunks and the rich life clung far up into the foothills before the cooler air running off the mountains let only hardier scrub, moss and heather grow plentiful. A multitude of species of birds flocked to the shores, their song and flight in every colour of the rainbow a sight to gladden the most barren heart.
The rain which periodically crashed over the Blackthornes and ran from its peaks in magnificent waterfalls all along its length never seemed to ruffle Triverne's balance. Rivers ran beneath rock to feed the lake through every season and the waterfall which flowed in times of sustained rainfall splashed into a deep and glorious pool which overlapped the lake itself.
The surface of Triverne Lake on the day of the meeting was calm, an occasional breeze sending tiny surface ripples in every direction. The gentle lapping of the water on the shore should have completed the tableau of calm with the warm sun shining through a partly clouded sky.
But the Marquee ruined all that. Standing proud not fifty paces from the lake, it was the focal point of a tension so cloying it seemed to cling to clothes and deaden hair and skin.
The Marquee was a model of geometric perfection. It was exactly equal on each side, and had four entrances exactly equidistant from each other.
Awnings, each one coloured in a College livery, shaded the entrances, and protecting each awning was a phalanx of College Guards. A further phalanx stood inside each entrance.
Seated at identical square tables, immediately inside their respective entrances, sat the Masters and their delegations. For Lystern, Heryst, the Lord Elder. For Julatsa, Barras, Chief Negotiator and the College representative in Xetesk. For Dordover, Vuldaroq, the Tower Lord, and for Xetesk, Styliann, Lord of the Mount.
Each was flanked by two delegates, and as Styliann sat in his dark ermine chair, he gauged the mood of his—how would he describe them—contemporaries…or was it adversaries?
Barras, the Julatsan. An ancient elf he knew well. Impatient, irritable, intelligent. His clear blue eyes shone from his deeply lined face, his mane of white hair was tied back and draped across one shoulder, the fingers of his right hand, as always, drummed on the nearest surface, in this case the arm of his chair.
Heryst, the quiet man from Lystern. He sat back in his chair, his face darkened by the shadows cast by its wings. His long fingers were steepled and held just under his chin but otherwise he appeared relaxed and as at ease as was possible in this company. Styliann respected him for his careful counsel and for the fact that, at forty-five, he was the youngest Lord Elder Lystern had ever appointed. He saw parallels with himself, though his ascension had not been through such democratic means.
He sighed. Vuldaroq. Blubber and bluster. When riled, he fired with the speed of an elven arrow, but landed with the accuracy of a catapult round. Already red in the face, the Dordovan Tower Lord sat hunched forward, arms spread on the table in front of him, eyes squinting, his bulk squeezed into a chair that would surely have to be widened. And by the Gods, Styliann knew what that meant: a meeting of the College-appointed carpenters to assemble new chairs for them all. Damn the Dordovans and their petty equalities. Every time a stitch was added to a cloak it set debate back days.
But this time there could be no delays and no bickering or it would be the death of them all. And Styliann was determined that Xetesk, at least, would survive.
All eyes were upon Styliann. He checked his advisers were comfortable, sipped water from his glass and stood.
“From the one that we were, to the four we have become, I welcome you,” said Styliann. “Gentlemen, I am much obliged that you were able to journey here at such short notice.” The standard form had no meaning. When a Triverne Lake meeting was called, it was attended at the expense of all else.
“None of you can have failed to notice the increase in activity to the west of the Blackthorne Mountains.” There was an uncomfortable shifting among the delegates. Styliann smiled. “Come, come, gentlemen, I think we can dispose with the pious denials, don't you?”
“The intelligence-gathering activities of other Colleges are not as extensive as your own, you may be surprised to hear,” said Barras shortly, fingers ceasing their drumming momentarily.
“I don't doubt it,” said Styliann. “But one worthwhile spy from each College will have gained enough information to make each one of us nervous, I'm sure.”
Vuldaroq mopped his face with a cloth. “This is all terribly interesting, Styliann, but if you have merely come here to confirm our own spies’ intelligence, then I have more important things to occupy my time.”
“My dear Vuldaroq,” replied Styliann with as great a degree of patronisation as protocol would allow, “I am here to waste no one's time, least of all my own. However, I would be very interested in the scale of Wesmen activity your spies suggest is present.” He gave a small laugh and spread his hands deferentially. “If, that is, you're willing to share such details.”
“Happy to.” It was Heryst from Lystern who spoke. “We haven't had anyone in the west for some weeks but we saw evidence of a fledgling tribal unity. Frankly, though, without a binding force in the shape of an overlord, we don't see any concentrated or long-term threat.”
“I have to differ with your opinion,” said Vuldaroq. “We are currently running spies in the Heartlands and midwest. We estimate that armies in the region of thirty thousand are prepared, but intertribal conflict seems the most likely. There is no evidence of a mass movement of forces toward the Blackthorne Mountains.”
“Barras?” asked Styliann, aware of the beating of his heart. None of them had seen it. Perhaps the old elf…
“The point is that there is no real threat from the west no matter how large any Wesmen force might be. Without the magical backing of a power such as they enjoyed under the Wytch Lords, if enjoyed is the right word, they can never hope to gain dominion over us. Indeed, I doubt they would get a great deal further than Understone Pass.”
“After all, the Wrethsires are hardly an adequate substitute.” Heryst chuckled.
“Well, they could make the wind blow a little harder,” said Vuldaroq.
There was laughter around the table from all but the Xeteskian delegation. When they had quietened, Barras spoke.
“Presumably, Styliann, you have other information you wish us to hear, or is this just a social gathering?” He smiled, but it died on his face when he saw the Lord of the Mount's bleak expression.
“There has been a problem in interdimensional space.” Styliann's voice brought total quiet to the Marquee. Breaths half indrawn were stopped. Eyes widened. Styliann looked slowly around the tables. Vuldaroq's face was red and angry, Heryst looked as if he literally couldn't take in what he had heard, and Barras drummed his fingers with greater intensity. It was he who spoke.
“I take it the Wytch Lords’ souls are no longer under your control.”
“No, they are not.” Styliann allowed his head to drop to his papers. A ripple of sound ran around the table. “And that is why I have called
this meeting. Xetesk believes the situation to be very grave.”
“Styliann, I think the floor is yours,” said Barras from a dry mouth.
Styliann inclined his head. “I'll be brief. At least sixty thousand Wesmen are armed and united and ready for invasion. Currently they are based in the Heartlands and therefore ten days on average from the Blackthornes, but farming communities less than three days’ ride from Understone Pass are being primed as staging posts. Damage to the mana prison during Dragonene portal opening allowed the Wytch Lords enough mana leakage to gain the strength to break out. We believe them to have returned to Balaia, where they are presumably undergoing reconstitution in Parve. I have a spy travelling to Parve now to assess the situation. As far as I am aware, those are the bare and complete facts. We are facing catastrophe.”
Another pause for consideration followed. Scribbled notes were passed between delegates.
“A masterly failure for Xetesk and its incumbent Lord of the Mount,” said Vuldaroq. “The mana cage was surely your greatest continuing triumph. Gone now.”
Styliann sighed and shook his head. “Is that the sum total of your deliberations, Vuldaroq? We face a threat so severe that I am unsure of our chances of survival, let alone success; and yet your response is to snipe at three centuries of effort that we alone have made on behalf of all the peoples of Balaia. Unfortunately, that includes you.” He sat down.
“Let us not forget,” said Barras, taking up the cudgel, “that only Xetesk had the means and the skill to imprison the Wytch Lords. None of us in our Colleges were pushing to help them. I, for one, would like to register my thanks to Xetesk for their unstinting efforts, and indeed their instant reaction in the calling of this meeting.”
Vuldaroq's face reddened and he sat back, the cloth once again dabbing his forehead, fuming in the knowledge that he'd misjudged the mood of Julatsa and, as he was about to hear, Lystern too.
“I add my thanks to those of Barras,” said Heryst, rising to his feet. “We have a critical list of questions to answer. These are they, as far as I can see. Can the Wytch Lords regain their former power and how long will their bodily reconstitution take? Does the Wesmen invasion rely on the Wytch Lords’ reconstitution or will it take place in advance of this? Finally, of course, what is our response and can we expect help from other quarters? The floor is open.” He resumed his seat.
Styliann coughed. “I am slightly embarrassed,” he said. “There is one fact I neglected to mention.”
“Uh-huh,” said Vuldaroq, pursing his lips.
“Naturally, the assumption has been made that the mana cage has been breached recently, and this may well be the case. However, I must point out that the nature and frequency of the spell calculations means that our worst case is that they have been in Parve for three months.”
Another silence, this one angrier.
“So how long before they have reconstituted?” asked Heryst.
“I have no idea,” said Styliann. “Their work is not a speciality of mine.”
“So they could already be up and walking.” Heryst's voice was dread.
“Steady, Heryst. I think that if they were, we would have heard about it by now.” Barras held out a hand to calm the Lysternan. “Remember, they are merely collections of seared bones. I can't imagine any reconstitution being quick, can you?” He smiled.
“We've underestimated the Wytch Lords before,” said Heryst.
“And we will not do so again,” said Styliann. “Hence this meeting.”
“This part of the discussion, at least, is pointless,” said Vuldaroq brusquely. “Because we can only guess at a timetable. We have established a need for urgency and now we should move on to the shape that urgency should take.”
Styliann nodded. “But we must still search for the information. I will report my spy's findings in Parve as soon as I have them. I advise any of you with active cells to see them into the Heartlands and toward the Torn Wastes immediately. We can't afford to be taken by surprise.”
Murmurs of assent ran around the table. Notes were made.
“Returning to Heryst's agenda of questions,” said Vuldaroq. “I also believe his second to be vital but, as yet, unanswerable.” The obese Dordovan pulled at his nose.
“Why so?” asked Styliann.
“Because the answer will only become apparent when the Wesmen move. Whether it is before or after the reconstitution will give us our answer.”
“I disagree,” said Barras. “We already have evidence that the Wesmen are acting under Shamen control, and that now points to Wytch Lord influence. We don't know the extent to which the Lords can dictate events before they are walking. I suspect their influence is great. Styliann's spy will no doubt confirm this. I think we can expect an invasion attempt before reconstitution is complete.”
“Don't forget that the Wesmen have clearly been massing for some time to develop such a large force,” said Heryst.
“Indeed,” said Barras. “And they are not fighting each other so far as we can tell. Not yet. Again, that is surely down to outside influence. But, as Vuldaroq will no doubt point out, we don't know when they will move. All we can do is plug the gaps to the east, wait, and build as fast as we can.”
“And so, gentlemen, we reach the key to our meeting,” said Styliann. “We need an army. And we need it now.”
“Thank the Gods we hate each other so well,” said Barras, “or we'd never have kept up the level of our College Guards.” There was laughter. “How many men can we muster?” The laughter ceased. “Julatsa has perhaps six thousand regular soldiers, half of whom will guard my City. In a month, the reserve can offer maybe another eight thousand.”
“I have no accurate figures on our troop levels,” said Vuldaroq. “The City Guard numbers in the region of two thousand and the College Guard must be three times that. I can confirm after communion.”
“Heryst?” asked Styliann.
“Eleven hundred regular soldiers, two hundred horse and no more than two thousand reservists, most of whom are part-time City guardsmen. We don't have the funds for a retained force any larger,” he explained.
“But including the best general in Balaia,” said Styliann.
Heryst bowed his head in acceptance of the praise. “Indeed so.”
“And you, Styliann,” said Vuldaroq. “I suppose you and your demon spawn are more numerous than the rest of us put together.”
“No, Vuldaroq,” said Styliann. “Because we built walls to save manpower. The City Guard numbers seven hundred, the College Guard five thousand, and we currently retain a handful less than four hundred Protectors.”
Barras ran the calculations quickly in his head. “We are outnumbered three to one even if we include all our reserve forces. What about the KTA?” Vuldaroq sighed and sniffed.
“I wish I could say they were mobilising, but the fact is their internecine squabbles drain them of money and keep them turned inward,” said Styliann. “I have fed all the information I care to to Baron Gresse, and he, at least, takes the threat seriously. The KTA are meeting but I hold no hope of a positive outcome. They make our suspicions about one another seem like playground rumours.”
“Can we expect anything from them?” asked Heryst.
“Gresse and Blackthorne will help us out with the Bay of Gyernath, but aside from that…” Styliann shook his head.
“Worthless parasites,” muttered Vuldaroq.
“I tend to agree,” said Barras. “So, what's the next move?”
“We all agree how many men we are prepared to release, appoint ourselves a military commander and go home and review our offensive magics,” said Vuldaroq, drumming his fingers quickly on the arm of his chair.
“Heryst, is Darrick here?” asked Barras.
Heryst smiled. “I thought it prudent to bring him,” he replied.
“Well, I think we can save ourselves the agony of choice over a commander. General Darrick has to be the only man with both the respect and the ability to do t
he job. I suggest we bring him in and ask him what he thinks he needs.”
There was a warmth around the table of a quality rarely experienced when the four-College delegation met. But it was a warmth Heryst dispelled.
“And while we are waiting, perhaps we could answer a question we seem to have overlooked. How by all the Gods are we going to stop the Wytch Lords this time?”
It had been coming. The tension had been growing since they left Dordover, but it didn't make the incident any less regrettable.
Now only at most two days’ ride from the Castle, Thraun had taken his charges away from any known paths and deep into a region of typical Balaian wild countryside. Tumbledown crags and thick woodland shrouded small plateaux and sharp inclines which hid streams and bogland at their feet.
The going was difficult and slow, and more often than not, the riders were forced to dismount and lead their horses over treacherous terrain where a hoof out of place could mean disaster.
The pace preyed on Alun's faltering confidence. Thraun could sense it. And despite his reassurances, and the certain knowledge in himself that this was as safe a route as existed, Alun's impatience threatened to boil over into open dispute.
With the day disappearing behind the tree line and late afternoon cloud, Thraun brought them to a halt on an area of flat ground by a stream's edge. It was lush and green and hemmed in by sharp slopes from which scrub and tree clung precariously. A littering of large lichen-covered rocks told of falls in times long past.
Thraun dismounted and patted his horse's rump. The animal trotted away a couple of strides before bending its neck to the water, lapping gently. Cloud was building from the west and the scent of rain, though faint, was growing while the warmth of daylight was giving way to a cool evening.
“There's still daylight,” said Alun unhappily. “We could go on.”
“Light'll fade quickly in these valleys,” said Thraun. “And this is a safe site.” He laid a hand on Alun's shoulder. “We'll get there in good time. Trust me.”
“How do you know?” Alun shook his hand off and walked away, his eyes flicking over the campsite.
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