Dawnthief

by James Barclay

  It wasn't just the look, though. A look you could get used to, however awful. There was something else. In demon form, the Familiar exuded an aura of contempt, as if it was only there on a whim and could break out at any time and do anything.

  The sound of a door opening brought Hirad to himself. Jandyr walked in.

  “What do you think?” asked Hirad.

  “Of this place?”

  “Yes.” Denser had brought them to a farm some three hours outside Xetesk before riding immediately for the College City with Ilkar, Erienne and Sol. It was a working property, sprawling across several dozen acres and providing meat and cereal crops for nearby villages.

  The house itself stood apart from the collection of barns and outbuildings, but all were clustered in the centre of the farm's land. In every direction, the ground undulated gently away, giving clear vision for a good six hundred paces before a stand of trees or a low hill obscured what was beyond.

  Denser and Evanson, the farmer, were clearly on good terms, and though Hirad had initially opted for a barn, the farmer insisted they stay in the house.

  “It's more comfortable for one thing, but more important, it keeps you out of sight of my workers. Village locals all of them, and none would keep their mouths shut if they saw you.” Evanson was middle-aged, with a face deep russet brown and wrinkled from long exposure to the elements. He had huge hands and powerful shoulders that bulged inside his loose shirt. His eyes sparkled from beneath his brow and his mouth was set in a smile. There was plenty about him to remind Hirad of Tomas back at The Rookery.

  So they had agreed to stay in the house, and it was certainly a cosy option. Two storeys high, the building had beds enough for all of them to enjoy a little privacy. The range in the kitchen maintained a pot of hot water and food on demand, and with enough rest to let the adrenalin levels sink, all of them discovered a deep tiredness. Consequently, there had been little action save for some gentle snoring and a round or two of cards.

  “I think several things,” said Jandyr. “It's easy to defend. We have clear vision, plenty of warning and these beds are sent straight from paradise.”

  Hirad smiled and lay back, arms supporting his head. “My thoughts too. Where are the others?”

  “Will's asleep and Thraun is reading one of Evanson's books. He's assembled quite a library.”

  “Tell me about Thraun,” said Hirad. To him, shapechangers had been figures of myth. Until now. Now he had seen with his own eyes, and he didn't know whether to be scared, disgusted or amazed.

  Jandyr nodded. “It is something he tries so hard to hide.”

  “How did it happen?” asked Hirad.

  “It's a hangover from old Dordovan spell research. Thraun is descended from mages who tried to enhance their strength, agility, eyesight, hearing, whatever, by blending themselves with the essence of animals. For Thraun's forebears, it was strength and speed, hence the wolf shape.”

  “But…”

  “I know what you're going to say,” said Jandyr. “The problem was that they didn't understand what they were doing. So rather than enhance what they already had, they replaced it. Some lived out their lives as the animals they used. Others found they could control it and the knowledge was passed down through the generations.”

  “Why won't he talk about it?” Hirad had seen the benefits, the power and the speed.

  “Because of how people view him,” replied Jandyr. “There are enough who think all shapechangers are abominations whose lines should be stopped by death to make him scared to admit what he is.” Jandyr rose. “Look, you have to understand that Thraun is a man like any of us. But he has another side he would rather not have. He is not to be feared, more to be pitied. Just treat him like a man. It is all he wants.”

  “I understand,” said Hirad.

  “None of us can ever truly do that,” said Jandyr.

  Denser opened his door in response to the soft knocking. He didn't consider a threat—with Sol guarding the corridor for all of their rooms, he didn't need to. Anyway, he knew who it was.

  So there she stood, and the first thought that rose in his mind was that, cleaned of all the grime of the trail and wearing soft, loose fabric, she was, as he had thought since he had first laid eyes on her, very attractive.

  His groin stirred, unbidden, and he suppressed a smile. He wondered if she could read his face. He would enjoy this. He pushed the door wide.

  Erienne swept into his room, smiling. “Tonight I will conceive.” Her face was turned away from him, her voice emotionless.

  He chuckled. “Is that really all it is to you?”

  “We made a deal. This is the payoff of that deal. What else could there be?” But her smile betrayed her words.

  Denser closed the door and moved toward her, his eyes tracing the shadow of her body beneath her white robe as it flickered in the candlelight.

  “It may be that the payoff of the deal could be pleasurable to you,” he said, eyes sparkling, pupils dilated.

  “That isn't why I struck the deal,” she said quickly. “But things do, um, develop.” Denser saw her face colour.

  He stood close to her now. She didn't move away.

  “I did it because I respect your skill as a mage.”

  “And my power,” added Denser.

  At last she turned to him. “That's the main reason I chose you instead of Ilkar.”

  “Ilkar, he…”

  “He is certainly more handsome than you.” She was smiling again.

  Denser stood squarely in front of her. “But Ilkar's an elf!”

  “Yes, and a Julatsan. Two more reasons I favour your seed.” The smile broadened and softened her face to beauty.

  “Well, I'm flattered my College is so much more attractive to you,” said Denser.

  “Lucky, more like, or I could be standing in front of Ilkar now.”

  “Not short on self-confidence, are you?” He placed a hand on her cheek, cupping her face as she leaned into it.

  “It covers the emptiness,” she whispered. She pushed a hand through his hair, smoothing it down his neck.

  “Do you still hurt inside?” asked Denser.

  “Like a knife is twisting through my heart.”

  “Tonight, I want to stop that.” His voice was barely audible as he moved his lips to her ear. “Together, we can make you whole again.”

  She grabbed his face in both hands and looked deep into his eyes, searching for lies. She found none and felt tears well up.

  “What's wrong?” Denser asked.

  “Nothing.” She kissed him gently and he let his tongue whisper across her lips. Her hands moved to the back of his head and his arms caught her about her waist, crushing them together.

  The kiss gained intensity, their tongues meeting, exploring mouths, heads moving, breath drawn in hard. Hands searched. He felt hers trail to his neck, where they kneaded and pressed before moving down to his chest to pick at the buttons of his shirt.

  She was wearing a simple white shift, clasped at the shoulder. He found the fastening, fumbled briefly, and snapped it open, hearing her gasp involuntarily as the shift dropped soundlessly to the floor. Beneath it she was naked. Denser's arousal was complete. He walked her to the bed and laid her down, straddling her body on hands and knees and looking down at her face and at her breasts, which were moving in rapid response to her breathing.

  He cupped one in his hand, feeling the nipple harden.

  “You didn't want to waste any time,” he remarked.

  “No. And I still don't.” She grabbed at his belt and the button of his fly, and while she hauled his trousers down over his hips, Denser pulled his shirt over his head. Together, they added his trousers to the pile of discarded clothing.

  She took his penis in one hand and guided it toward her, Denser looking down at the hair between her legs, which was as dark as her skin was pale. She moved her legs apart and he responded, moving his inside hers and leaning down to her. His mouth was on her breast as he ente
red her, and as he began to move inside her, the clamour of the mana swept him away.

  Shafts of blue light shattered before his eyes as he pushed himself fully inside her. The trails they left spread away, flickering and dying, absorbed by the warm orange pulsing all around Erienne.

  She felt smooth but he barely noticed as, with each gentle thrust, the mana poured around him in ever darker tendrils, catching and mixing with the Dordovan strain. The sight was so beautiful it took his breath away, and as Erienne began to move with him, it took his rhythm too.

  “Don't stop,” she whispered, and he picked it up once more.

  To Erienne, it was a mana-meld miracle. She could feel his hand on her breast, his lips on her neck and his movement inside her, confident and sensual. She held herself in check, denying herself orgasm as she watched their manas weave while the colours became indistinct, ultimately forming a cocoon of softly pulsating deep mauve.

  Now the conditions were ideal. Denser's thrusts were more urgent, his tempo increasing, and she felt him deeply, her legs and back tingling and numbing with pleasure.

  She reached a hand down to cup his testicles, his breath hissing out suddenly against her shoulder. She moved her pelvis with him, swift but controlled, bringing herself to the point of orgasm.

  Above her, Denser moaned as he approached climax. His penis hardened further, delighting her with its touch, and they came together in an explosion of mana light. The cocoon disintegrated, sending rainbow teardrops splashing around them. Erienne cried out in pleasure and triumph. Denser pushed hard once more then stopped moving, still deep inside her.

  She placed a hand low on her stomach and probed down with her mana to warm the semen, to keep them alive and to imbue them with the beginnings of the power her child would possess.

  Denser lifted his head and looked down at her. Erienne smiled, put her hands either side of his face and kissed him.

  “Now we should sleep,” she said. “And then next time we can concentrate on pure enjoyment.”

  During her run into Parve, Selyn thanked the Gods for the unusual order of the Wesmen encampments. Although it had seemed from a distance that they were pitched anywhere, the stands of tents were all grouped in half circles around large fires, giving her the opportunity to skirt the light, people and dogs.

  A CloakedWalk spell, although rendering its caster completely invisible, did nothing to deaden noise or scent, and Selyn's principal concern was the Destrana pure-bred war dogs favoured by the Wesmen tribes. Men's eyes deceived the other senses; not so those of the Destrana.

  Unable to stop except in deep shadow, Selyn ran, walked, crawled and trotted as circumstances dictated, always with one eye on the ground for a stray twig or loose rock. A thrill was in her heart. This was what she had trained for so long to do. Deep infiltration, awesome odds, a deadly enemy, and Selyn passing through it all like a breeze through the undergrowth.

  Where the firelight cast good illumination on the ground, Selyn slowed to examine the encampments more closely. All had the same characteristics. A tribal standard stood proud in front of a blazing wood fire, over which cookpots hung and steamed.

  Between six and ten squad tents were pitched in formal order around the fire, and here and there, knots of smaller tents denoted beds for senior ranks and, presumably, Shamen. To these, Selyn gave the widest berth.

  Everywhere, there were Wesmen, most lounging in the heat of the fire as the night cooled off. Lanterns lit most tents, and here and there the screams and moans of women punctuated the noises of the night—some in pleasure, others not.

  There were no guards, no patrols and no lookouts. Arrogant in their confidence, the Wesmen looked to the renewed might of Parve and wallowed in their safety. And safe they were, though for a mage spy, the shadow, the noise and the eyes forever turned inward were more than enough to make a secure if cautious passage.

  The City itself was quiet on its outer reaches, where the hand of the Wytch Lords and their acolytes had not yet been laid. Here, the legacy of the past, broken stone and splintered wood, served as a reminder of the battle scars of history.

  For Selyn, though, it provided a stark and terrifying contrast to what lay beyond—a City rebuilt. She moved through the rubble and into an area of low storage buildings. Long, flat-roofed constructions of slate and stone, topped by chimneys, none of which was smoking. Away toward the central square, higher buildings rose into the night, testament to the effort of the Wesmen and the acolytes of the Wytch Lords who in scant months had turned a blasted region of stone and dust into a City with a heart that beat once more.

  Selyn walked in a couple of blocks before swarming up the side of one of the store buildings and lying down in its centre to rest, the CloakedWalk slipping from her. Her pulse, which had raced through her journey to Parve, hardly slowed. Her next step was to reach the pyramid itself, and with her mana stamina gone, the dark would now be her only disguise.

  Dusk was settling, throwing the Mount into shadow. Puddles of wan light cast from windows grew slowly in intensity, and the sounds of the day began to ebb. Denser, Erienne and Ilkar sat around a table with Laryon, a close associate of Styliann. He had intercepted them at the door to the rooms of Nyer, Denser's mentor, and hurried them back to his chambers, where he spoke of Nyer's recent troubles with the Lord of the Mount. Nyer had subsequently been seen closeted with a splinter group of mages and it had fallen to Laryon alone to assess the chances of releasing The Unknown from thrall.

  Sol himself stood silent guard by the door of the study, and Denser pushed his concerns about Nyer's intentions to one side to concentrate on rescuing the search for Dawnthief. At a nod from Laryon, Denser refilled their glasses with wine.

  “The risk is great,” said the Xeteskian Master, leaning back in his chair, the lamplight catching his close-cropped grey hair and emphasising his bulbous nose and small mouth.

  “But it is possible,” said Ilkar.

  “Technically,” Laryon said carefully. “You must understand the process by which a Protector is created.”

  “I think I understand only too well,” said Ilkar shortly.

  “No,” said Denser. “You do not. And please can we leave aside the morals of the situation. What you are about to hear isn't pleasant, but keep in mind that we are all of us trying to help Sol.”

  “Really?” Ilkar chuckled mirthlessly. “I'd like to believe that, but I think we all know that this is purely to stop Hirad running off with Dawnthief.”

  “He wouldn't get far,” said Laryon dismissively.

  “Want to bet?” Ilkar bridled.

  “Can we leave this?” Denser's patience wore a notch thinner. “Ilkar, this is not productive, and, Master Laryon, I wouldn't take the bet. You have no idea what they are capable of.”

  Laryon opened his mouth to reply but chose instead to exhale audibly through his nose.

  “A Protector,” he said, “is a self-supporting resurrection with a body reincarnated from soul memories. The critical point about soul memories is that they are far more accurate than brain memories. As long as the soul is taken within about twelve hours of death, re-creation of mind skills and body will be complete.”

  “There's a but in here somewhere.” Ilkar was looking at The Unknown, shaking his head.

  “Correct. The soul does not reenter the body.”

  “What?” Erienne jerked upright in her chair.

  “Then how—” began Ilkar.

  “What started as the only way to forge a bond became the ultimate mode of control,” said Laryon. “When the spell was in its infancy, the only way to ensure life was to link the body and soul using a DemonChain—this is a spell which enthrals the mass consciousness of a multi-demonic conjuration. It works supremely well. Because the demons are under our command, we can instruct them exactly as we wish. Usually, this involves them in keeping a clear channel between body and soul.”

  “Usually,” muttered Ilkar, seeing the bigger picture in all its horror.

  “Y
es,” said Denser. “And the Masters can also instruct the demons to do anything to the body or soul. They can even give free rein, and that is where hell for eternity begins. Now you can see why I couldn't take it on myself.”

  “It's barbaric,” said Ilkar.

  “Worse,” agreed Laryon.

  “So where are the souls?” asked Erienne.

  “In stasis, here in the Mount. They are all together, and that's what gives the Protectors their true power. Communication and action are instant. An army of them would be unstoppable.” Laryon raised his eyebrows.

  “And what's the procedure for releasing The Unknown?” Ilkar indicated the statuesque figure of Sol.

  “Ilkar,” said Laryon gravely, “I told you about the forming of a Protector so you would understand the risks involved—or at least the ones we can guess at. You must be aware that what Denser and I will attempt has never been tried before. I will do everything in my power to keep Sol alive, but I can't guarantee it.”

  “It'd be convenient if he died, wouldn't it?”

  “Not really. What would I gain?”

  “The continuation of the Protectors,” said Ilkar. “You could prove to the Colleges that you'd tried and failed and could sit back on your ‘some life is better than none’ argument. I personally would question whether being a Protector qualifies as ‘some life,’ knowing what I now know.”

  “I understand your cynicism,” said Laryon. “And although you won't believe it, I agree with you. There's a growing faction in the Mount demanding acceleration of reforms to certain antiquated and unpalatable practices. Denser is one such, and I am perhaps the most senior supporter. I want this to succeed, both as a reformer and as a research mage, which is why Denser will assist me. Surely you trust him.”

  “As far as I trust any Xeteskian.”

  Laryon smiled. “It is all I can offer.”

  “Then it will have to do. But a word of warning. If The Unknown dies and you can't explain why to Hirad in terms he'll understand, you'll find the result the same as if you hadn't helped in the first place.”