Dawnthief

by James Barclay

  “What do we really have to lose?” asked Will.

  “Not a lot,” said Thraun, checking Alun was out of earshot. “If we don't go in soon, we'll find nothing but corpses.”

  Water. Lapping and bubbling, splashing off a stone. Wind, rain, water and cold. And pain. Thumping in his temple and howling in his ear.

  Hirad moved, sending a wave of nausea through his body. His stomach lurched.

  “Oh!” He opened his eyes. The mist was deep and disorienting. A light rain still fell.

  He sat up gingerly, probing a swelling at the back of his jaw just under his left ear. He opened his mouth slowly and wide, feeling the dull ache in the bone but knowing at least that it wasn't broken.

  There was a strange taste on his tongue. A taste that reminded him of a smell that he couldn't quite…

  “Damn.” He'd been drugged. He slithered to his feet, firewood and water skins forgotten, swaying as his brain and stomach protested the sudden action. He put a hand to his temple. Another bruise, a big one, was forming. He felt groggy. Like a hangover but with none of the good memories. All he could remember was that helmet looming out of the mist and the force of the blows. And the voice. Familiar. Definitely familiar.

  The path was slippery. Three times he fell painfully, retching the last time as his head connected with stone.

  There were bodies outside the overhang. Inside, the fire guttered, almost dead.

  “No,” he moaned through clenched teeth. He slid to a halt in front of a pile of gear, and relief flooded through him. The two bodies face up in the rain and mist were not Raven; and Richmond and Talan were both propped up by the fire. Talan's eyes were open, and while Richmond's were not, he was most certainly breathing.

  Talan managed a limp smile. “Hirad, thank the Gods. I thought you must be dead.”

  “Where?” Hirad gestured to the empty spaces by the dying blaze. Talan raised a hand to silence him.

  “The Black Wings attacked us. They just melted out of the mist. Denser must have sensed something, ’cos he smoked those two.” He paused, breathing heavily. Hirad noticed his eyes blackening, and a trail of blood was dried under his nose.

  “They've taken them, Hirad. They've taken Ilkar and Denser.”

  “Alive?”

  “Yes, I think so. I was already down. Gods, that brophane is strong stuff. I feel awful.” Talan opened his eyes and mouth wide, stretching his face. Then he shook his head hard, smacking his lips together. “That didn't help. So, what now?”

  “We wake him up and get going.” Hirad shrugged. “What else is there to do? Are you fit to ride?” Talan gave a short laugh. “What?”

  “Hirad, you're missing something.”

  The barbarian's shoulders sagged. “They took the horses.”

  Talan nodded.

  “Bugger it! Why didn't they just kill us? Have it done with?”

  “Their fight isn't with us,” said Richmond, opening his eyes at last. “It's with the Colleges.”

  “Well, they got that wrong, didn't they?” said Hirad, feeling his anger gathering.

  “Yeah, they did,” agreed Talan, levering himself to his feet.

  “How far to the Black Wings’ castle?” asked Hirad.

  “Six hours on foot. Seven because it's getting dark and we aren't right just now.” Talan's face was pasty white in the gathering gloom.

  “That's a long time,” said Hirad. “Right. Ten minutes to chuck your guts up and be ready to leave. All right?”

  “What're we going to do?” Richmond's mind was still confused. His legs wobbled as he pulled himself up the wall.

  “We're going to get them back. Then we're going to torch that place and everyone in it.” Hirad's head was clearing with every passing moment, though he could feel that his body was still weakened by the drug clotting his muscles. “If they didn't kill them, it's because they need them. It can only be for information, and you know how much mages hate talking.”

  Richmond and Talan both looked at him, nodding their understanding.

  A movement caught Hirad's eye. It came from beneath Richmond's cloak, which lay by the dead ash of the fire. As he watched, a black furred head poked out and tested the air. Denser's cat looked up at him, then jumped clean on to his shoulders, turning quickly so it could look into his face.

  “A new friend, Hirad?” asked Talan, managing a smile.

  “I don't think so.” The cat meowed loud and long. “We're going, we're going, all right? We'll find him.”

  The cat looked away past Hirad up the valley. The mist was a little clearer, though rain and approaching dusk kept visibility poor.

  “Think he understood you?” asked Richmond.

  “Probably.” Hirad shrugged. “Come on, let's get out of here.”

  “Nasty spell, this. Planning a little surprise for someone, were you?” Travers had leaned in close to Denser's cut and bleeding face, dangling the amulet from its chain so it knocked gently into the mage's left ear. Denser could smell alcohol on Travers’ breath.

  He hoped the shock he'd just experienced didn't show on his face. Right at the time he thought things couldn't get any worse, he'd been betrayed by another mage. And one working for Travers. The Witch Hunter.

  Ever since their capture at the overhang, Denser had been wondering why he was still alive. It wasn't Travers’ way. The assassin was his way, but now he couldn't understand why one had been sent. Presumably they'd wanted him dead that night in The Rookery, so what had changed in the days following to make Travers so eager to question him?

  He supposed it didn't matter much. At least while he was alive there was still a chance, however slim. It was obvious, though, that rescue was his only option; and that meant Hirad had to be alive, because if he was, he'd try to rescue Ilkar, no question about it.

  But for now he was helpless, and it was clear the Black Wings were expert in keeping captured mages subdued. Their hands had been tied from the moment they'd been taken and the ride to the castle had been under the unending scrutiny of four men. At the castle they'd been pushed to the ground and walked straight through the gates, courtyard and main doors into a large hall, bare but for a few chairs, two low tables and a fireplace that was as cold as the room.

  And then a beating, delivered professionally and, curiously, without malice. Its purpose was plain. Blows to the head, chest, stomach, upper arms and legs had left his body aching and throbbing and had sapped what little energy he had. Never mind that his arms were tied, he couldn't have cast a spell if his life depended on it and they knew it.

  “Saying nothing, Denser?” Travers drew back. “Plenty of time. And of course you don't know what we know, do you?” Travers stood up. Men stood to either side of him. There were eight of them in the hall. And Ilkar. He hadn't said one word since they'd been taken, not even to confirm his name. His beating had been more vicious. Denser wasn't sure why, but Travers looked at the elf with a mixture of disappointment and disdain. Tarred with the Xeteskian brush, perhaps.

  Denser found himself wondering who had read the amulet and betrayed him. The fact was that it had to be a mage from either Xetesk or Dordover. Septern's name, the location of the rip and an allusion to what lay beyond it only appeared in Dordovan lore script.

  He still couldn't quite believe it, and his feelings were swamped by disgust that a mage from either college would work for the Black Wings. It had to be a Dordovan. A Xeteskian would choose suicide first.

  He breathed in and let his head fall forward. There was a pain under his right arm and his mind turned to his missing Familiar. He presumed it was at the overhang. It was certainly alive, but unless it found him soon, it would weaken and die. Denser wasn't sure his brain could stand the pain right now.

  A slap to his cheek brought him back to his grim here and now. He looked up into Travers’ face.

  “Let me tell you a little of what I know,” said the Captain. “Please pay attention. I'd hate to think your mind was drifting.”

  He pulled up a c
hair and sat down opposite Denser. One of his men brought over a small table, bottle and glass. The Captain poured himself a generous measure of what looked like a spirit, and took a long sip before leaning back and stretching his legs out in front of him.

  “My sources tell me something big and very worrying is happening.”

  “We agree there.”

  A complete silence followed Denser's words. Travers locked eyes with Denser and drilled him with a baleful stare.

  “Never interrupt me again or I will cut your tongue from your mouth and nail it to your forehead as a reminder.”

  “Perhaps you should do it anyway, Captain,” said one of his men, a tall, rangy swordsman with a harsh face. “Not much of a mage if he can't speak, eh?”

  Denser and Travers both turned to him, the Xeteskian barely avoiding a smile. How wrong could a man be?

  “Go and warm a kettle or something, Isman. Our friend might care for a hot drink. It is cold in here.” Isman left the room. “Idiot.” Travers faced Denser once more. “He is slow to learn. Now, where was I?” He drained his glass, then refilled it, picking it up to swirl the liquid around as he thought.

  Denser watched him, his mouth firmly shut. Travers was well into middle age and it was beginning to show. Still, the sword at his side would be sharp and Denser had no doubt that he would carry out his threat. Travers did not have the reputation of a gratuitously cruel man, but he certainly had proved to be a man of his word.

  “Now then, big and worrying. Dawnthief, I understand, is the most powerful spell in existence, and this—” he produced the amulet again—“is the first step in recovering it. What I also know is that you need three catalysts to make it work. Apparently, this amulet doesn't list them.” He put the amulet away again, drained and refilled his glass. “Well, that's enough of what I know. Now I want you to tell me a few things and so you are free to speak. Indeed, I insist that you make use of the privilege.”

  Isman returned with a few mugs and a large copper pot. “There's soup,” he said.

  “Very good,” said Travers. “Pour a mug for Denser and his rather quiet elven friend. Release one hand each and see that they hold their mugs steady and with all fingers.” Travers looked again at Denser. “Now then, to work. Will you speak?”

  “Don't count on it.”

  “Maybe not immediately anyway.” Travers smiled, leaving Denser cold. Isman ambled over with two steaming mugs. At a nod, a man behind Denser and Ilkar released one hand.

  “Thank you,” said Denser as he was handed his soup. It smelt strongly of onions and tomatoes. Ilkar said nothing, but accepted the drink anyway.

  “Good,” said Travers. “Now we're feeling more comfortable. Perhaps you'd like to tell me what Xetesk was planning to do with Dawnthief.”

  “You won't believe me.”

  “You could at least try.”

  Denser shrugged and considered that the truth couldn't hurt the situation any further.

  “The Wytch Lords are back. There are Wesmen armies massing on our borders even now, and with Shamen magic to support them, Balaia will be lost unless the Wytch Lords are destroyed. Dawnthief is the only way.”

  Travers laughed out loud, causing Ilkar to start. He and Denser shared a look before he dropped his head and stared back into his soup.

  “That's good. Very good,” said the Captain. “But I do know my history very well, I am afraid. The Wytch Lords are long gone, and will never return.”

  “I did say you wouldn't believe me.” Another shrug from Denser, another laugh from Travers.

  “Of course, I'd forgotten how slavishly you believe your Xetesk Masters.” He continued chuckling. “Yes, I can quite believe that is what they told you. And a grand reason on the face of it for one so eager to impress, eh?” Denser didn't reply. He sipped his soup and regarded Travers from over the rim of his mug, aware he was frowning.

  “Let me ask you this, Denser. Do you seriously believe that the Wytch Lords are not already destroyed by the forces of Xetesk?”

  “Your interpretation of history and mine differ, Travers,” replied Denser. “We did not have the capability to destroy the Wytch Lords then. And they have now escaped their prison.”

  “Oh, yes, the…what was it? Prison between worlds or something?” Travers shook his head. “Nice story. Good for keeping the other Colleges in line, I'll grant you. You believe that as well, do you?”

  Denser said nothing.

  “Of course you do,” said Travers. “Still, I can hardly expect you to turn against all your years of teaching and dogma, can I?”

  “You misunderstand the motives of Xetesk,” said Denser. “Our image is slow to change but our ideals and morals already have.”

  Now Travers clapped slowly and Denser could feel his anger rising. He fought to keep it in check.

  “Said with such feeling, but I am afraid you have been sadly misled. My knowledge of your researches paints a very different picture, and you must agree that Dawnthief is hardly a ‘moral’ spell, eh?”

  Another silence. Denser drained his mug and his hand was retied.

  “So, have you discovered the identity of the catalysts?” asked Travers conversationally. He leaned forward, cradling his drink in both hands.

  “No,” said Denser.

  “I see. Very well. Never mind.” The Captain turned to Isman. “You may as well show Denser to his room.” Isman nodded, untied the Xeteskian's hands and pulled the mage upright. Tall and rangy he might have been, but he was also very strong. “You will find, Denser,” Travers continued after topping up his glass, “that your soup was somewhat drugged. Unfortunately for you, Ilkar of The Raven, yours was not.”

  The rain stopped slowly and the mist lifted from the hills to leave a dark layer of low cloud. Hirad felt as if he would never be dry again, or clear headed for that matter. They'd been walking continuously for over three hours and the damp clogged his every pore. Worse, the lasting effect of the brophane was a headache that grew to a steady pulsing pain that covered his entire skull. Glancing left and right, he could see that Talan and Richmond looked as bad as he felt.

  Earlier, before the light had gone and the talking had given way to the sullen but determined sound of boots on rock and mud, Richmond and Talan had agreed that they wouldn't reach the Black Wings’ castle until perhaps two hours before dawn. A combination of their physical condition, the difficult ground underfoot and the dark deepened by the thick clouds dictated a slow pace. Steep crags rose to either side of them and stunted trees, wind-blown heather and thick-stemmed grass were all that clung to the bleak landscape. The rock-strewn mountains ran away east and west as far as the eye could see, and the gentle slopes of Pontois’ lands were already a distant memory.

  As he trudged, head down, half a dozen paces behind his friends, Hirad was hit by a wave of hopelessness and anger. Less than a week earlier, The Raven, seven strong and invincible, had stood on a castle's battlements and overseen another victory. He had been proud, vital and alive, continually buoyed by what they had achieved over ten great years.

  Now they were reduced to three tired swordsmen crawling blearily toward what would probably be their deaths. And it was all down to one man. Denser. The Xetesk mage and his plans had already taken Sirendor and The Unknown from Hirad. And now it looked as if he had taken Ilkar too. All in the space of a few days. Hirad found it almost impossible to believe.

  He shook his head and forced his mind into focus. The only thing that mattered right now was the attempt to rescue Ilkar. Denser could go to hell, and the fight for Balaia would have to be fought another way. They had no plan, though, and when they stopped another two hours later in a sheltered grove, they turned their thoughts to the attack.

  “Has either of you seen the castle?” asked Hirad, shivering from the moment he stopped moving.

  Both Talan and Richmond nodded.

  “It was a Baronial seat before the fighting started,” said Richmond. “It's actually a walled mansion. I'm sure that Travers
has attended to the defence but it shouldn't prove too difficult to get in.”

  “Any ideas?” Hirad himself had none. Try as he might, all he saw in his mind was the death of his friends, of The Raven, and of himself.

  “Well, we had a chat a little earlier, and despite whoever it was telling you to go home, I suspect Travers at least will be expecting a rescue attempt,” said Talan. “He will also know about how long it'll take us to reach him, that we'll be tired and his men won't. And we have no idea how many men he has, where Ilkar and Denser will be and what condition they're in.”

  “Got any good news?”

  “We should be free of magical attack or defence.” Talan half smiled.

  Hirad brightened, seeing a glimmer of light.

  “We can Rage then,” he said.

  “Exactly,” said Richmond.

  “Interesting. So?”

  Richmond shrugged. “So much depends on our getting into the house undetected, not just the grounds. If we do, a Rage might work. Neither of us has more than seen the place from a distance and it's set in open land, as you'd expect.

  “If this cloud cover keeps low, we should be able to make the walls unseen. There is, or was, a stable block and a large kitchen garden at the back. Whatever, we're walking into the unknown, Hirad.”

  “I only wish we were. Another blade, particularly his, and I'd be confident.”

  “We'll do it, Hirad,” said Talan, rising and stretching. “Or we'll take as many of those bastards with us as possible.”

  Hirad nodded. “Right,” he said. “Right.” He too stood, a rush of energy hitting him. The cat moved in his cloak, making him start. He'd forgotten the animal was there. It poked its head into the open and Hirad scratched its ears, surprised to find that it was shivering and distinctly cool to the touch. They locked eyes but the cat's had lost their strength—dulled by distance from its Master.

  “This thing isn't well,” said Hirad. “We need to get it to Denser quickly. C'mon, let's not waste any more time.”

  The pace for the next hour was fast. Trade trails were well worn in the area and Richmond asserted that they were on a more or less straight line right to Travers’ front door.