Dawnthief

by James Barclay

  “Thanks, Ilkar,” said Denser, sighing. “More wine, anybody?” He refilled their glasses.

  “Quantify the risks for me,” said Erienne.

  “Quantify, no. Postulate, yes,” replied Laryon. “Firstly, it is only technically possible to repatriate a soul, and then only by channelling it through the DemonChain. We do not know what damage it might incur. We also have no idea whether the soul will volunteer to return or what harm prolonged suppression of total consciousness will have done. We are merely guessing at the system shock when the DemonChain is broken and the body is once more under its own control. Don't forget, he was dead.”

  Ilkar looked across at The Unknown. He was watching them. Or perhaps the DemonChain was listening and watching through him. As always, his eyes, hooded by the mask, gave nothing away.

  “A return to death would be preferable to what he has now,” said Ilkar.

  “I tend to agree,” said Laryon. “Denser? We must prepare. But first we must assess the situation with our friend Nyer. Denser, if you would contact your Familiar?”

  Denser nodded and closed his eyes.

  The cat shifted suddenly in Hirad's lap, waking him from his doze. He sat up in his chair and looked out of the window. It was late afternoon and the sun was losing some of its strength, allowing a breeze to cool the fields. Hirad could see one of the farm hands working a plough away in the distance, and closer to home, the sounds of work echoed to him from the barns and outbuildings.

  He glanced back at the cat, starting as he met the eyes of the demon.

  “Don't do that!” snapped Hirad. The Familiar smiled and chuckled, a hollow rattling that had nothing to do with humour. “What is it?”

  “They are coming. We must be ready to leave here.”

  “Denser?”

  The Familiar shook its head. “Those who would have Dawnthief. We must be ready.”

  Styliann gathered his thoughts as he looked around the hostile table. With the Wesmen already close to the Bay of Gyernath and nearing Understone Pass, he couldn't afford to lose the support of the Colleges. And while he was furious with the actions of Nyer's mage, Denser, he was equally livid with the actions of the Dordovan mage who had begun the trouble.

  “The unfortunate events—” Vuldaroq snorted. Styliann stared him down before continuing, already biting back the reply his heart demanded—“in Dordover a few days ago have forced us to reveal to you something we wanted to remain secret for a while longer.”

  “You didn't trust us?” asked Heryst, no malice in his tone.

  “I felt that certain likely reactions at too early a stage would have jeopardised Balaia,” said Styliann.

  “And you expect me to accept that your rape of my crypt was therefore justified?” The voice was quiet but brimming with poison. Styliann kneaded his brow for a moment before replying, choosing to look the Dordovan in the eye when he did so.

  “The answer to your question has to be yes, but permit me to qualify that answer. Under any circumstances other than these, there is no doubt our action would have been different.

  “It is also true that before we authorised the action we took, lengthy consideration was made of the potential ramifications as we saw them. The manner of your discovery of our actions is deeply regretted.

  “It is also true that we believed that informing you of the impact of our actions would have been unwise and divisive.”

  Vuldaroq nodded slowly, his face red, his jaw set. He leaned back in his chair, one of its wings hiding his face.

  “Lengthy consideration,” he said. “Deep regret.” He brought his face back into the light. “One of my mages died.” He let the word hang in the air above the table.

  “Hmm.” Styliann settled into his chair. He took a sip of water and read the notes written by his aides. They agreed with his line of argument. “Tell me, Vuldaroq. Why did he die?”

  “Because he tried to stop the rape of our crypts.”

  “Is that what he was doing? My understanding is a little different. Perhaps you would like to explain to the meeting how kidnapping and imprisoning a Familiar as bait for its master's trap was supposed to help him achieve this?”

  “I am not some child caught doing wrong,” snapped Vuldaroq. “Do not treat me as such. Our mage was murdered by your bastard Familiar, let us not forget that.”

  “Very well. I am prepared to concede that this was the end result. But I think we owe Barras and Heryst a complete view of the events leading to the unfortunate circumstance. I would hate them to feel they could not continue to lend their support to the alliance because of a misunderstanding.”

  “What is there to misunderstand?” Vuldaroq was dismissive. “It is hard to misunderstand murder.”

  Styliann's eyes flashed and he made to rise. An aide pressed a hand on his arm and he relaxed.

  “What I fear,” said Styliann carefully, “is that our colleagues might not realise that the Familiar was taken outside the walls of your College—”

  “It was still in the City,” growled Vuldaroq.

  “Is that a crime?” countered Styliann.

  “It was part of a—”

  “Is that a crime?” repeated Styliann, his voice rising.

  Vuldaroq's scowl deepened. “No. It is not.”

  “Thank you for that clarification. I would also be unhappy unless I told our colleagues that the Familiar was merely an observer, that Denser was placed in woodland some distance from Dordover and that he would never have entered the city but for the kidnap of his Familiar.

  “Now I do not expect anyone to condone our theft, but I do expect everyone to understand its necessity and respect that we planned to take the ring quietly, peacefully and without using mages from any College but Dordover. Violence only occurred because of the actions of a maverick mage who suffered the inevitable consequence of caging a Familiar that was subsequently set free.”

  There was a furious scribbling of notes all around the table. The delegates huddled and whispered while Styliann looked on.

  “Do you disagree with Styliann's description of the events?” asked Barras following his consultation.

  “The Familiar was removed from outside the College walls,” conceded Vuldaroq. “But don't forget that at this time, our grounds had been penetrated by two unauthorised individuals.”

  “I'm afraid your timings might be slightly awry.” Styliann's smile was laced with contempt. “The two members of The Raven you are talking about witnessed the kidnap from their position outside the walls.”

  “While they plotted an illegal entrance.”

  “Their actions are not disputed,” said Heryst, his gentle voice cutting across the tension. “The actions of your College are.”

  “We are the victims here!” Vuldaroq stood and slammed his fists on the table.

  “In that the ring was taken, yes, you are.” Heryst shrugged. “But you are basing your objection to Xetesk's actions on the death of a mage. A mage who kidnapped a Familiar from outside the College walls.” He leaned into the light, a half smile playing about his lips. “The first crime of the evening was committed by Dordover.”

  “Your point being?” Red-faced, Vuldaroq wiped sweat from his forehead, his shoulders sagging slightly.

  “His point being that we have two separate incidents that you have intertwined. One Styliann has confessed to and given reasons for. The other, regrettable though it was, appears to have been instigated by a Dordovan, brought a Xeteskian and his Familiar to the College where they would otherwise not have been, and resulted in inevitable consequences.”

  “Inevitable? When can murder ever be inevitable?”

  “Enough!” Styliann rose again. “You are well aware of the bond between a Xeteskian mage and his Familiar, and so was your foolish student. Another time he might have been successful in trapping both, though why he should wish to is beyond me. His great misfortune was that he chose to steal that belonging to a particularly talented man. Denser was bound to release his Familiar and
then your man's life was over. I have little sympathy.

  “Now. Two incidents, as Barras correctly deduced. We are talking about the theft. I have explained why it was carried out and why we were secretive. Vuldaroq has since demonstrated to me that our secrecy was entirely justified. We are facing catastrophe if we don't work together. I must have your support and you must believe, as I do, that Dawnthief is our only realistic chance of success.”

  “I agree with you,” said Barras. “But I, personally, am insulted that you kept such information from me.”

  “I see.” Styliann scratched his ear. “All right, let me put it this way. Let's assume for a moment that I opened up about Dawnthief at the last meeting, and we, as the four-College delegation, went to the Dordovan Council and asked for the Ring of Arteche. What would have been the result? Vuldaroq?”

  “You know full well what the result would have been,” muttered Vuldaroq.

  “Yes, I do, they would have initially refused.” Styliann threw his arms wide. “Then, following pressure, they might have agreed to release the ring, but they would have demanded a senior mage in attendance at any use of Dawnthief, and to advise on the search as it continued. How long would all this have taken to agree? A month, two months? Gentlemen, I believed that we didn't have that sort of time, and the movement of the Wesmen invasion forces proves me correct.

  “I apologise for misleading you all about our ideas for the destruction of the Wytch Lords, but we are now in an advanced enough state to stand a realistic chance of success. Now you all know that your councils would have delayed the recovery of the spell, perhaps critically. And you also know that The Raven as it stands contains members of three Colleges, and that, with Heryst's blessing, is a quorum.” Heryst inclined his head. “Good. All that we need now is to facilitate The Raven's entry into the west.”

  “And how might we do that?” asked Heryst.

  “We'll have to take Understone Pass,” said Styliann.

  Vuldaroq scoffed. “Styliann, there are eight thousand Wesmen in that pass. Just how do you suggest we achieve this miracle?”

  Styliann smiled.

  Denser turned to Ilkar and Erienne, his message finished. “I've done all I can. He will see them away from the farm and on their way to Triverne Lake, then return to me.”

  “Will they make it?” asked Ilkar, uneasy at leaving The Raven to travel with no magical escort.

  Denser nodded. “And so will you if you leave now. One of Laryon's Protectors will take you to the City boundaries. If you ride through the night you'll be there by dawn. I'll join you as soon as I can.”

  “And where exactly is Nyer?” Ilkar's eyes shifted up and down the corridor. He half expected the Master to loom out of nowhere and attack them.

  “On his way to the farmhouse,” said Denser. He chewed his bottom lip. “I can't believe he is betraying me.”

  “Denser!” Laryon called from inside the spell chamber.

  “I must go.” He kissed Erienne, holding on to the embrace. “Be careful.”

  “I'll bear it in mind.” She smiled and stroked his face.

  “Get this right, Denser,” said Ilkar.

  “If it is possible, I'll beat you to Triverne Lake and The Unknown will be with me.”

  “Now that would be impressive.”

  “Then I'll see it is done.” Denser held out his hand. Ilkar hesitated a moment before shaking it.

  “Denser!” Urgently.

  Denser raised his eyebrows, stepped into the spell chamber and closed the door. Ilkar and Erienne heard solid bolts slide home. No one else was getting in.

  “Let's go,” said Ilkar. Erienne paused to stare at the door a moment before leading the way back from the catacombs and the suffocating press of Xeteskian mana.

  Inside the armoured spell chamber, deep beneath the Mount, The Unknown, Sol, blinked into the candlelight. Denser and Laryon talked at the foot of the slab on which he lay pillowed, clothed in traditional dark tunic and breeches.

  “What I require from you is a mana channel to keep the DemonChain under control until the soul is returned.” Laryon flexed his fingers. “They will resist you, and once the soul moves, they will try to break free. Do you understand?”

  Denser nodded.

  “Then let's begin. I am anxious for the safety of The Raven.”

  Laryon moved to Sol's head, placed his hands over the Protector's eyes and muttered a short prayer. Sol's body relaxed, his eyes closed and his head fell to one side. He wasn't breathing.

  “Time is short. Denser, prepare the mana channel. Hold it in readiness until the Chain is visible. You'll know what to do instinctively. Trust me.”

  Denser breathed deeply and began to construct the shape of the channel. He tuned his consciousness to the mana spectrum, seeing Sol shrouded in a deep blue radiance—the static mana channelled by the DemonChain.

  In essence, the shape was simple. It was tubular, with a spiral movement heading away from him. The difficulty was keeping both ends open and firm to accept and contain the DemonChain.

  To Denser's left, the mana shifted, sharpened and deepened in colour. Laryon was casting.

  Almost immediately, the radiance encasing Sol rippled, pulling toward the shape Laryon was creating. It shimmered and sparkled, coalescing into something Denser couldn't make out at first. But steadily, the form became clearer. The mana formed a conical shape, left Sol's body and settled, one end in the centre of his torso, the other splashed through the floor of the chamber beneath the slab. Energy lines ran up and down its length, and suddenly the DemonChain was there. Faces, limbs, bodies, mouths, fingers, hair. All distilled from the cone. Voices hissed and individuals writhed, but the whole locked together in chaotic form.

  One had hands lost in another's chest. Another's head melded to a third's foot. Any combination, but all of them were alive, identical in every physical aspect and very, very angry.

  From the centre of the chain, one locked its eyes on Denser and screamed its hate. Denser looked on unfazed.

  He took in the beast with a body the size of a newborn child's, arms long and wiry, legs stubby and malformed and a face full of evil. Blue drool ran from its lipless mouth, tongue licking at its cheeks, fangs tearing rents in its own being. The eyes, huge and slitted, were orbs of dark malevolence and its ears ran high above the crawling skull to meet in a spire over its head.

  “Time, Denser,” said Laryon, his voice distant with effort.

  “Envelop,” commanded Denser in response, and his mana channel flashed toward the DemonChain, muffling howls of fury as it opened for the merest moment all along its length and snapped shut around the whole.

  “Excellent,” said Laryon.

  Denser felt him release control of the DemonChain. They turned their attention to the channel holding them and battered at it with feet, fists, fangs and minds.

  “They cannot break through. Keep your concentration steady. They aren't strong enough,” said Laryon. “Attend to my voice. Now it gets difficult. Only remove the channel on my word.”

  Laryon breathed deep and prepared the path for The Unknown's soul.

  The Familiar alighted on Hirad's right shoulder. He winced involuntarily and pressed his lips together in irritation.

  “How did they find us?” he asked.

  “Someone has betrayed us. Someone powerful.” Anger and surprise edged its tone. “You must leave for Triverne Lake. Evanson will guide you.”

  “I'm not running,” said Hirad stiffly.

  The Familiar ignored him. “I will distract them while you get away.”

  “Why don't we just stay and take them out?”

  The Familiar regarded him blankly. “You do not understand. They are too powerful for you. And for me. They will kill me.”

  Hirad started, and frowned.

  “Good luck, Raven man. Look after my master.” The Familiar flew from the open window, high into the night sky.

  The Unknown juddered violently and his soul scorched along the Demo
n Chain into his body. Laryon smiled but was totally unprepared for the backlash. He hadn't seen the possibility at all. The returning soul negated the DemonChain's fastening to The Unknown's being and the result was violent severance.

  With howls of triumph, the Chain whipped away from The Unknown's body, slashing in a wide arc at the two mages. Laryon was caught on the side of the head and slammed against a wall, groaning as he slumped, a trickle of blood running from his mouth.

  Younger and quicker, Denser ducked the Chain, feeling the mana slice above his head and the unmistakable sensation of a draught through his hair as the demons began to gain corporeal form.

  Dragging his concentration to himself, he fought to close the end of the mana channel but knew, as he watched the head of the Chain tearing at the very fabric of the mana, that it was futile.

  And, with the Chain coiling like a snake for its next strike, Denser felt something he had never truly felt before. Fear. Fear because he hadn't the power to stop the DemonChain forming a corporeal state, and fear because he couldn't stop it killing him. But mainly fear because he didn't know how, and the gap in his knowledge was going to be fatal.

  The Chain writhed, Denser's mana channel was torn apart and the sound of their hate assaulted his ears. They promised him death. They promised him torment for eternity and they laughed at his weakness.

  The Chain lunged at him, missing him by a whisker as he hurled himself to one side, landing heavily near the still form of Laryon. The mage was still alive. Denser shook him hard.

  “Help me,” he said. Laryon groaned. “Help me!” shouted Denser. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Chain whipping into a frenzy of speed and sound by The Unknown's head. The warrior lay, breathing slowly, oblivious to the horror above him.

  Laryon said something. It was a mumble Denser didn't catch.

  “What?”

  “Lymimra,” said Laryon.

  “I don't understand.”

  Laryon's eyes opened and he looked past Denser before grabbing the mage's head in both hands and pulling his ear close. “LightMirror,” he whispered before clutching Denser's head hard to his chest. Above Denser, the DemonChain ploughed into Laryon's face, his cry of pain cut off abruptly, his grip dropping.