Dawnthief

by James Barclay

  “We'll be fine so long as it doesn't rain,” said Will, glancing in Alun's direction, a frown on his brow. “Is he—”

  “No, not really,” replied Thraun. “I think his nerves are going. Try to treat him gently. He needs all the reassurance we can give him.” He sniffed the air. A light breeze was rustling the foliage. “And it won't rain, either.”

  “Just keep him calm,” warned Will. “We can't risk him buckling on us.”

  Thraun nodded. “You get the stove going, I think I ought to be explaining a few things to him.”

  Will inclined his head. Thraun moved off toward his friend, his footfalls absolutely silent across the ground. Alun was sitting on a spit of gravelled stone on a right-hand bend in the stream. He had a handful of small stones and alternately rattled them in his fist or flicked one into the slow-moving water. Thraun sat beside him, startling him from his thoughts.

  “Gods…”

  “Sorry,” said Thraun. He flicked his ponytail absently.

  “How can you be so quiet?” Alun's question was only half good-humoured.

  “Practice,” said Thraun. “Come on then, tell me what's on your mind and I'll tell you why you shouldn't be worrying.”

  Alun's face reddened and he looked hard at Thraun, his eyes moist.

  “Isn't it obvious?” he said, his voice overloud for the peace of the stream bank. “We're travelling too slowly. By the time we get there, they'll be dead.”

  “Alun, I know what I am doing. That's why you came to me, remember?” Thraun kept his voice deliberately calm and quiet, though its native gruffness was always evident. “We know the motive for the kidnap wasn't murder or they wouldn't have taken them in the first place. We also know that Erienne will buy as much time as possible, and will be as cooperative as possible while she waits for rescue or release. I know how hard it is for you, I'd feel the same way, but you just have to be patient.”

  “Patient.” Alun's voice was bitter. “We're going to sit here, calmly eat and sleep, while my family are one step from death. How dare you be so calculating? You're playing with their lives!”

  “Quiet down,” hissed Thraun, the yellow in his eyes gaining intensity. “All your shouting will bring us is unwelcome attention. Now listen. I understand your pain and your desire to be on the move all the time, but I am playing with no one's life, believe me. We can't afford to flog ourselves in the rush to get there or we'll be serving ourselves up for slaughter. If we are to save your family, we have to be fresh and alert. Now please, come and eat.”

  “I'm not hungry.”

  “You need food. You're not helping yourself and you're not thinking clearly.”

  “Well, I'm sorry, but I can't just sit here and do nothing!” Alun's voice put birds to flight.

  From nowhere, Will appeared and clamped his hand over Alun's mouth. The little man's eyes were wild and his face was angry and contemptuous.

  “Oh, you're doing something all right. You're risking my life with your bleating. Stop it, or I'll open your throat and the rest of us can get on with it.”

  “Will, let him go!” growled Thraun. He half rose but the look in Will's eye stopped him. Alun, his expression frozen, stared at Thraun demanding help his friend could not, or would not, give.

  “We will get your family our way.” Will spoke into Alun's ear. “We'll go slow and careful, because that way we'll all get out alive. Now whether you're with us or facedown in this water makes no odds to me because I'll get my pay. But I think your family would rather it was the former, so I suggest you keep your loud mouth firmly shut.” He thrust Alun away and stalked back past Thraun. “Never let clients come along.”

  From the other side of the stove, on which sat a pan of water, Jandyr paused and watched the exchange at the water's edge, a heaviness in his heart. For him it was easy to see why they would never get far as a recovery team although the ingredients were all there.

  They had the master thief, the silent trailfinder and the hunter. All were quick, all could fight and all had good brains. But the personalities were wrong. Thraun, despite his size and presence, was too gentle, too easy to persuade. Witness that Alun was with them rather than keeping the lights burning at home. And Will was far too high-strung; his need for quiet and control spoke of his lack of inner calm, and it was at odds with his profession.

  Looking at himself, Jandyr knew that his heart wasn't in it. He wasn't a mercenary, not really. Just an elf who could make money from his skill with a bow until he stumbled on his true vocation. He only hoped he'd find it before it was too late.

  Tasting the angry atmosphere and seeing the three men sitting apart from one another, he thought it probably already was.

  General Ry Darrick smoothed the map out over the table. The senior mages from the four Colleges grouped around him; the delegates had to be content with viewing from whatever angle they could. Only Vuldaroq remained seated.

  Darrick was a tall man, well in excess of six foot, with a mass of light brown curly hair cut over the ears, across the forehead and above the nape of his neck. The untameable mane gave him a boyish look which his face, round, tanned and clean, did nothing to discourage despite his thirty-three years.

  Few people mistook his youthful appearance for naïvety more than once, and as he bent over the map, the senior mages hung on his every word.

  Darrick's reputation as a master tactician had been made in the years that culminated in the loss of Understone Pass to Tessaya and the Wesmen. He led raids deep into Wesmen lands to disrupt the buildup of men and provisions, extending eastern governance of the pass by probably four years.

  Since then, Barons who could afford his and Lystern's fees, and who didn't already have The Raven, sought his advice in larger conflicts. That he would command the total respect of any four-College army was not in question.

  “Well, the good news is that given our regular troop levels, we are defensible, but that does rely on your estimates of Wesmen numbers being accurate. I would also be happier if they attack without Wytch Lord support, because if they do breach our defences, I fear we will have little in reserve to halt their march to Korina, Gyernath and the Colleges.” He looked left and right. “Can everyone see all right?” He gestured at the map of Balaia, the Northern Continent.

  Dominating Balaia's geography were the Blackthorne Mountains, which ran like an untidy scar north to south, coast to coast, not quite dividing the land into two equal parts.

  To the east, the marginally smaller area that its indigents liked to call civilisation. Rich farmland, dense forests, free-flowing water courses and natural harbours gave ideal conditions for people and trade to flourish.

  To the west, rugged terrain, crag, thin windblown soils and shrubland predominated, with only small pockets suitable for settling to any profitable degree. Southwest, the crowded Wesmen Heartlands; northwest, the Torn Wastes.

  Popular myth held that East and West Balaia were once wholly separate lands drifting in the vast ocean waters before colliding with slow and cataclysmic result. The rockfalls that still blighted areas of the Blackthornes gave some credence to the story.

  “Now, you don't have to be a general to know there are three points of potential entry into the east. To the south, the Bay of Gyernath, to the north, Triverne Inlet and, of course, Understone Pass a third of the way down the range. We can discount the three recognised overground passes here, here and here in terms of an invasion because they are long, dangerous and simply unsuited to mass troop movement. That doesn't mean, though, that I will be ignoring them completely.” He reached across the map and picked up a glass of water, standing straight while he drank.

  “You don't think they'll attempt to sail further along the northern and southern coasts, I take it?” asked Barras.

  Darrick shook his head. “Not in great numbers, no,” he said. “I fully expect them to send skirmish and raiding forces at least as far as Gyernath, but they don't have the ships for mass troop carriage. Going across the bays is easy, quick
and any size of vessel will do.”

  “So what will they do?” Vuldaroq's eyes traced the outline of the map and Balaia's uneven, pitted coastline.

  “There are two linked agendas we have to consider, one subordinate to the other,” replied Darrick. “The Wesmen have long vowed to rid the world of the four Colleges. The Wytch Lords want that too, but only as part of the plan to control the entire continent.

  “The main thrust of an invasion is therefore likely to be concentrated on Understone Pass and Triverne Inlet. I'll take the two in turn.

  “Understone Pass will take the majority of traffic. It's quick, heavy equipment movement is relatively simple and the Wesmen already control it at both ends. Fortunately, its width is not so great that overwhelming numbers can emerge at too fast a pace, but any army will have to be confronted right at its eastern entrance, so limiting our defensive options.

  “I will station myself there with five hundred horse and five thousand foot as a matter of urgency. Understone itself is merely an early-warning station; its KTA garrison numbers fewer than one hundred and is pitifully trained and experienced. I will call for more magical support when I have assessed the defensive requirements firsthand.

  “I can't overstress the importance of holding them at the pass. Understone is less than four days’ ride from Xetesk, only five from where we are standing now, and there is precious little in between to halt an advance.”

  He paused to gauge reaction. The senior mages were concentrating hard. Barras was biting the tips of his fingers, Vuldaroq's lips were pursed and Heryst was nodding, still scanning the map. Styliann frowned.

  “You have a point to raise, my Lord?” Darrick asked of him.

  “Could we not take the pass?” he suggested.

  “It is not tactically necessary given my defensive brief, and I personally would consider it an act of monumental folly to try. The pass is undoubtedly being reinforced as we speak. The barracks inside can accommodate in excess of six thousand men.”

  “But with significant offensive magic…” said Styliann.

  “Hand to hand, we would lose men in a three-to-one ratio. We don't have the numbers to spare. Your magic would be required to improve those odds better than one-to-one for me to consider it as a serious option.” Darrick shrugged. “I know of no such magics that can be brought to bear to that effect.”

  Styliann smiled. “No. But should taking the pass become a strategic necessity—after all, we will surely need to take on the Wytch Lords, and they can hardly be expected to come to us—is it possible?”

  “Everything is possible, my Lord Styliann.” Darrick's response was cool.

  “Do you have something in mind you'd like to share?” asked Vuldaroq.

  “No,” said Styliann. “I just do not wish to see us closing the door on any potential advantages.”

  “I believe I can be trusted to ensure that doesn't happen.” Darrick's bow was almost imperceptible. “Now, Triverne Inlet, open, hard to defend away from the beaches and less than four days’ ride from Julatsa…”

  But Styliann wasn't listening. Not to retake the pass risked ultimate victory. But he couldn't push the point without giving a clue to his aspirations. Something would have to give and, looking at Darrick, he knew he couldn't change the General's mind alone. Perhaps it was time to let the Colleges know of Xetesk's latest experiments. It would redefine the phrase “significant offensive magic” for certain. He smiled inwardly and returned his attention to the military planning, suddenly desperate for a meeting with his best dimensional research mage, a man named Dystran.

  The Raven travelled for three days through countryside that changed by degrees from flat woodland to rough shrub and finally to barren hills, moors and valleys. The weather settled into a cycle of sunshine interspersed with cooling cloud blown up by occasionally strong winds, but throughout it all, the temperature had a warm evenness, even at night, and riding was comfortable.

  They saw no one.

  Approaching Septern's house across a high moor, the ground changed from heather-strewn hard soil to lifeless dusty earth. In the distance, the air shimmered, light shining through a thin film of what looked like dust whipped up by the wind. The horses moved easily over the flat ground, and all around them, as far as the eye could see, the terrain was largely featureless but for the odd stunted tree or plate of rock jutting from the cracked dead earth.

  “What happened here?” asked Hirad. He looked back over his shoulder to where the vegetation sprang up in a line almost as if it had been planted deliberately.

  The Dark Mage blew out his cheeks. “I don't know. The aftereffects of a spell battle, I should think. It's a little like the Torn Wastes, though not as blasted.”

  “Could it be something to do with Septern's workshop?” asked Ilkar, peering into the dust-filled distance.

  “Possibly.” Denser shrugged. “Who knows what effects an unmaintained dimensional rip might have on its surroundings.”

  “What in all the hells is a ‘dimensional rip’?” The Unknown's face was blank.

  “Well, basically, it's a hole in the fabric of our dimension that leads to another one or simply into interdimensional space, although there's obviously far more to it than that.”

  “Obviously,” muttered Hirad.

  The Unknown glared at Hirad. “And are we near enough to this dimensional thing to suffer some kind of interference?”

  “Hard to say. I'm no expert on dimensional theory,” replied Denser. “What Septern might have done is anyone's guess. Septern was a genius, but his records are incomplete.”

  “He certainly was,” said Ilkar. He scanned the horizon in the direction in which they had been travelling. He narrowed his eyes and spurred his horse into a walk forward. Hirad, dragging on the reins of his mare, fell into step by him.

  “Can you see something, Ilks?”

  “Nothing much,” replied Ilkar. “That shimmering messes up my long sight, I'm afraid. All I can say is that there appear to be large dark shapes a little to our left. How far, I can't say.”

  “Shapes?” Talan was the next to speak as the rest of The Raven began moving.

  “Buildings, at a guess. It could be rocks but I don't think so.”

  “Well, let's head for them,” said Hirad. “They seem to be the only landmark we've got.” Hirad dug his heels into his horse's flanks and led the way across the plain with Ilkar at his side.

  As they began to close, Ilkar added flesh to his earlier description. They were riding toward the ruin of a large mansion house and an outbuilding of some kind, probably a low barn.

  “Ruined? Are you sure?” asked Denser.

  “’Fraid so,” said Ilkar.

  “Is that bad?” asked Hirad.

  “Not necessarily, though it certainly adds weight to the spell battle theory. Mage houses aren't known for being easy to knock down,” replied the Dark Mage.

  “Except by other mages,” said Ilkar. “Or Wytch Lords.”

  Denser raised his eyebrows. “Exactly.” Inside his cloak, his cat hissed loud enough for all to hear, poked its head out briefly then withdrew in a hurry.

  “Oh dear,” said Denser.

  “What is it?” The Unknown turned in his saddle.

  “I think—” began Denser, but a chilling howl cut him off. “That we are about to have company.”

  “What the hell was that?” Hirad searched around him but could see nothing, though the single howl had been taken up by more throats.

  “Wolves,” said Ilkar. “Big ones.”

  “No, they're Destranas.” The Unknown chewed his lip.

  “Destranas? Then that means Wesmen,” said Talan, loosening his sword in its scabbard.

  “Yes,” confirmed The Unknown. “We've got to make cover. Where are they coming from?”

  “The outbuilding.” Ilkar pointed, and now they could all see, through the swirling haze that made up the horizon, large moving shapes in front of the distant black barn.

  “We're in t
rouble,” said Richmond.

  “Well spotted,” muttered Hirad, staring around him for a way out. There was none.

  “All right,” said The Unknown. “Let's circle north and west and come to the buildings from another direction. We might lose them that way, and at least we'll have made up some ground.” He caught Hirad's eye and added, in a low voice, “Although what good it'll do is open to debate.” He pushed his horse into a gallop, leaving the rest of the party temporarily trailing in his wake.

  For a time it looked as though The Unknown's idea had paid off. Hirad could see the dogs heading away from them, their handlers following more leisurely on horseback. He spurred his horse on, glanced behind him again, and suddenly the beasts were so much nearer and closing with appalling speed. They were huge, four feet high at the shoulder, and their howls and barks tore at the air and stung the ear.

  “Unknown!” called Hirad. “We can't outrun them. Look.”

  The big warrior turned, looked and immediately wheeled his horse to a stop. “Everyone dismount!” he ordered.

  “Ilkar, Denser, take the horses and let them loose if they are what the dogs want.”

  “They won't be,” said Denser. “If the Wesmen are here, we're in bigger trouble than I thought. I'm going to try something. Only disturb me if you have to.”

  “What—” began Ilkar.

  “Don't ask,” said Denser, and he turned his eyes to the skies and spread his arms wide.

  “We'll have to protect him,” said Hirad. The four fighting men formed a loose semicircle in front of Denser, the rhythmic tap of The Unknown's sword on the ground a metronome for Hirad's heartbeat. Behind them, Ilkar slapped at Denser's horse and it trotted away with the others. The elf took up station to Denser's rear, his sword ready, as the first of a dozen Destranas tore into the waiting quartet and the Wesmen, four of them, galloped up.

  Fangs bared and flecked with foam, a huge dog leapt at Hirad's head. Surprised by the distance and speed of the jump, the barbarian swayed reflexively aside and put his sword arm across his face. The animal caught the side of his head and both tumbled to the ground.