Dawnthief

by James Barclay

  But the loss of the voice and the pulse, that was what hurt more than the pain he still felt at its death. The voice had given him calm and comfort but the pulse he had taken as a right, something that was of him. Now that pulse was gone, part of him had died.

  “Your faculties will soon return. You merely need rest. As for the grief you feel, that will remain, I am afraid.” Styliann's face softened. “I am sorry it happened but I fail to understand why it attacked Nyer's party. That isn't to say I'm displeased to hear of the traitor's death.”

  “He felt he had to distract Nyer. He thought they were too close.” Denser shrugged. “They might have taken The Raven before they reached here.” He shook his head. “Might. I didn't think he had to. I think he felt he had to prove his worth.”

  “Worth?” Styliann frowned. “It was a Familiar. It had no concept of worth.”

  “Did you ever take a Familiar?” asked Denser. Styliann shook his head. “Then you can have no idea what concepts they hold. I have felt. I know.”

  Styliann chewed his lip reflectively. He looked up at the early morning sky, taking in the light cloud cover. “Show me the catalysts,” he said at length.

  “I don't have them.”

  “Then where—”

  “The Raven hold them. I couldn't take them into Xetesk.”

  Styliann exhaled through his nose. “No. No indeed.”

  A brief commotion in another part of the camp interrupted further conversation. The sound of hoofs approaching was followed by the sight of The Raven and Evanson rounding a stand of bushes. They pulled up close to the Marquee and dismounted. Hirad strode over to Denser, expectation on his face. But the question he was about to ask was lost as he read Denser's eyes. Instead, he inclined his head in respect and grasped the Dark Mage's right arm just below the shoulder.

  “I understand your pain,” he said.

  “And I your anger,” said Denser. He paused, managing a weak smile. “He's inside.”

  The Unknown was sitting on a bench behind a trestle table, talking to Ilkar and Erienne as Hirad moved the curtain aside and walked in. A lump rose in his throat as he watched the big man for a short while until he was sure his voice was steady enough for speech.

  The animation in the face, the definite movements when he used his hands, and the way he stroked the top of his head and on down the back of his skull to his neck, as if smoothing out a crease. It was all there. Where Sol had been now sat The Unknown. No mask, no emotionless eyes, no double-bladed axe.

  “By all the Gods, it is you.” His voice cracked and a tear was in his eye. He wiped it away as he strode forward. The Unknown walked around the table and the two men met and hugged, Hirad clapping the big man's back. “How do you feel?”

  The Unknown stepped back. “I don't know,” he said. “I know it's me.” He shrugged. “I knew it before…you recognised me. When I was Sol. But I couldn't speak to you. Something inside me forbade me recognise you in return, though my eyes gave me away. Hirad, I should be dead.”

  “But you're not and I don't care how. It's you. Gods, it's you!”

  “Would you say the same if you returned to Septern's barn?”

  “I—” Hirad paused, confused. “Yes, why not?”

  “Because I'm still beneath the soil too. Where's Denser?” The Unknown looked past him.

  “Outside,” said Hirad vaguely. “What do you mean?”

  “I should see to him.” He walked away from Hirad, who made to follow.

  “Leave him,” said Ilkar. “Come and have a drink and something to eat. You must be starving.”

  Hirad watched The Unknown until he'd left the Marquee. “And knackered,” he said. “What's going on?” He walked to the table. Ilkar poured him a goblet of wine and pushed platters of meat and bread in his direction.

  “Sit down,” said Ilkar. “You've got to understand how difficult this is for him to accept.”

  Hirad stared at him, plainly not understanding at all.

  “Look, Hirad, to us it's just the same Unknown. The way he looks, acts, talks, everything. The scars on his back and thigh are there, that lump on his knee, and his little toe is missing. It is him, in every way—his soul is there, his mind is there, his memories, all of it. But he has a knowledge none of us can conceive of having. He knows he can go and physically dig up his own corpse. Think about it.”

  Hirad did so but briefly. “So what does it mean, and why is he so bothered about Denser?”

  “Right now, I think he's in a state of total confusion. Erienne will agree with me that not everything he says makes much sense.” Erienne nodded. “And so he's suppressing what he can't handle and that manifests itself in his desire to protect Denser. Don't forget what he was just yesterday, Hirad. He certainly hasn't. He may never be able to. The fact is, we just don't know.”

  “So is it him?” asked Hirad.

  “Yes. Gods, yes.” Ilkar leant forward. “But he's got some unique problems only he can sort out. You'll have to give him time.”

  “I knew it was too good to be true.”

  “Hirad, calm down. He thought he was dead, awoke as a Protector and then again as himself. Give him time.” Ilkar held Hirad's stare, seeing the disappointment reflected there. “All right?” Hirad twitched his head in what Ilkar decided was the closest to a nod he was likely to get. “Good. Now eat. We've much to discuss after you've rested.”

  Selyn awoke to the sound of shouts all around her. Startled alert, she lay flat, listening. Dawn had risen perhaps an hour before, not long enough for her reserves of mana stamina, but it gave her some ammunition.

  A search was in progress, and with the accents and language she could hear, Wesmen were trawling the streets of Parve. Presumably they had found the body of the Shaman. Selyn frowned and took the cover from her eyes, opening them gently as they watered in response to sudden light.

  She considered herself a little unlucky that the dead man had been found quite so soon. Judging by the organisation she could hear about her, the body had been located well before dawn.

  Staying prone, she inched her way to the parapet, ears pricking as each gave her more information about the scale of the search. Below her, she knew, there was no one. Behind and toward the square, the shouts were loud and regular, the thuds of doors, the splinter of wood, the clearing of buildings. Very methodical, very. Particularly for Wesmen. Only it wasn't just Wesmen, it was Wytch Lord acolytes, and one thing they were was efficient.

  She formed the mana shape for a CloakedWalk, spoke the command word, dropped to the ground and moved back toward the Torn Wastes. She walked quickly but carefully past the last building; there was no pursuit. Breasting a large pile of rubble, her heart missed a beat and she slowed to a crawl. The eastern periphery of Parve was ringed with Wesmen, shoulder to shoulder. She turned and ran back into the City.

  Just inside the borders of the buildings, she saw the line. Wesmen and Shamen on every street, covering the cobbles, walking, looking, searching. Inside and out of buildings, basements and roofs. She was in a net, the mesh was fine and the strings were drawing tight.

  She trotted left, toward the main street, keeping an eye to her right, watching the Wesmen advancing, just two blocks away and closing. As she neared, the main street was filled with a line of Wesmen, a Shaman in their midst. They knew she was here, they realised she'd likely be invisible and they could sense her mana emanations.

  Fear edged into her mind, the tendrils of doubt chipping at her confidence. And Styliann had been so proud of her the night before, talking of her triumphal return to Xetesk, the part she would play in the victory to come, and the place at his side for ever. Her heart surged. She about-turned, never coming to a standstill, and walked quickly back. She was in an area three blocks by two and shrinking, and it seemed the Wesmen had all the ways out covered.

  All except one. She looked into the sky. A thousand feet up she would be swallowed by the cloud and lost to sight. Not ideal, but the only option would always be the best on
e. Moving quickly now, Selyn scanned the rooftops for a launch point, finding it on a building close to the edge of the City.

  She climbed the wall of the flat building and ran to the chimney stack at the Parve end, the Wesmen less than one hundred yards from her. Across the street, half a dozen Wesmen clambered on to a roof and spread themselves, arms outstretched. For a moment, she wondered whether she might try to dodge through the thin barrier when they reached her roof. But then she saw the Shaman climb up behind them. It had to be now.

  Pressing herself against the lee of the chimneys, she dropped the CloakedWalk and began to prepare the mana shape for ShadowWings. Almost at once, a shout went up. She opened her eyes. She had been seen from the boundary, and men were running and pointing. She gathered her concentration and re-formed the mana shape. In seconds, it was done.

  “Deploy,” she said. At her back, wings formed, shifting in the daylight and barely visible to the naked eye. She took a pace forward and lifted off, moving quickly out and upward toward the Wastes. Below her, commands were barked and projectiles whistled into the air. Nothing came close. She smiled. Not the way she wanted to get out, but good enough. She could almost smell the fire in Styliann's tower.

  Something slammed into her back, driving the wind from her and sending her tumbling downward. She barely kept hold of the wings as she fought to right herself and regain lost height, but she felt weighted with lead. She glanced over her shoulder. A thin beam of white light connected her body to a Shaman. Below her, Wesmen were jeering and shouting, faces upturned, teeth bared.

  She drove the wings harder, inching away, but a second blow, this time at the base of her neck, sent her crashing side first into a building. She hit the ground, dazed, the ShadowWings gone.

  “Damn.” She shook her head, hearing delighted whoops and running feet. She struggled to rise, pushing her back up the wall, head throbbing but vision clearing. From the left and right they came, it seemed like hundreds of them. She drew the sword from her back-mounted scabbard and stood ready. One of them laughed, unhitching an axe. On a signal, the others dropped back a pace to give him room to fight alone.

  He was a large man, heavy set, with an untidy black beard and close eyes. He ran in, swinging his axe through chest high. Selyn simply ducked the blow and came up fast, taking him clean through the stomach. He grunted and fell sideways and backward, clutching at his wound, blood pouring through his fingers.

  A moment's shocked quiet was shattered by a roar as the mass ran forward. She snatched a dagger from her boot. They were on her quickly, a mêlée of furs, steel and fists.

  The first Wesmen died with the dagger through his heart. Another took a cut to his thigh, but then they had her hands. The sword was knocked from her grasp as she struggled to free herself. She was pushed back against the wall; swords and daggers were drawn. One of them dragged the hood from her head and face.

  Another pause in surprise at what they had uncovered. The sounds of approval chilled her to the bone, but when the grips on her arms loosened instinctively, she reacted on the instant, turning her wrists and releasing the bolts. One man was taken under the chin, the other bolt glanced off a head and away. Both men fell back, but there were so many others.

  They dragged her to the ground, yells of animal pleasure filling the air as the clothes were cut and torn from her body. Hands pawed her, scratched and clawed her, blood oozed from a dozen cuts. She squirmed and fought, keeping a determined silence as they pinned her down, spread-eagled, naked, and terrified.

  A single voice shouted a command and the mob quietened and parted, admitting a Shaman. He was middle-aged, clad in heavy cloth and with his greying hair tied in a ponytail at his neck. Selyn's terror stilled, replaced by the calm of certainty, and she gathered herself to stare him square in the eye.

  “Well, well, well, my pretty,” said the Shaman, loosening his belt and kneeling between her legs. “Perhaps death won't come quickly enough for you.”

  The rape was brutal. He thrust hard inside her, his hands gouging at her sides and breasts. She winced as he pushed up, a cheer rising from the watching crowd. She closed her mind to the humiliation and the pain and picked her head up to catch his gaze a second time.

  “They will have to cut me in half to release you,” she said. She bit down hard on her back tooth and convulsed. “Goodbye, my love,” she whispered. The nerve toxin from the broken tooth cap acted instantly, every muscle in her body contracting with extraordinary violence. The last sounds she heard as the mana pulse fled eastward were the screams of the Shaman.

  Styliann's cry of pain and fury could be heard clear across Triverne Lake. Selyn's dying mana pulse struck him like a stake through the eye. It took six men to restrain him and two spells to sedate him, and even as he slept, the tears rolled down his face and the fire burned in his cheeks. When he awoke, the light had gone from his eyes and he strode to the Marquee, time suddenly precious.

  The chairs were back, arranged in a shallow crescent on one side of the trestle, which was now clothed, candled and decked with food and wine. Styliann took his place next to Barras in the centre chairs. Vuldaroq to Barras's left, Heryst next to Styliann. And on the other side of the trestle, The Raven. On a bench drawn up to the table sat Denser, Ilkar and Hirad, with The Unknown standing in close attendance of the Dark Mage. Behind them, sitting on cushions and chairs, and invited principally as observers, were Will, Thraun, Jandyr and Erienne.

  There was no set agenda. A day ago, this meeting would have been unthinkable. But it was a measure of the deterioration of the situation to the east of the Blackthorne Mountains and Understone Pass that The Raven had agreed to submit to a discussion about their next move.

  Hirad sat forward, leaning on his elbows, hands supporting his chin. Denser had adopted a more relaxed posture, while Ilkar sat stiffly upright, in awe of the seniority of the mages opposite him.

  Styliann, his eyes dark, his hands constantly wringing, spoke in a monotone as he informed them of the decision to help them through Understone Pass, though he wouldn't be drawn in their company as to the magic that would be employed to retake the pass. Denser looked closely at him, tried to probe the periphery of his emotions with his mind. The Lord of the Mount sensed him, shot him a glance full of anguish.

  “They have taken Selyn from me,” he said. “They will suffer.”

  “I am sorry, my Lord.”

  Styliann nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Now, tell me of your plans when you reach the other side of the pass.”

  “No,” said Hirad.

  “I beg your pardon?” Vuldaroq spluttered. All the delegates had tensed.

  “Some tact, please, Hirad.” Ilkar sounded suddenly strained. “What he is trying to say is that—”

  “We aren't telling you anything because for one, you don't need to know and that makes us all safer, and for another, we don't know ourselves until we get close enough to see what we're up against. Once we get through the pass, we'll head for the Wrethsires, as you know. After that, we'll be on our way to the Torn Wastes.” Hirad poured himself a goblet of wine. “What can I say? We'll be in touch.”

  There was silence around the table. The delegation's was down to sheer disbelief, The Raven's due to trepidation. Only Hirad seemed unaffected.

  “What?” He spread his hands and looked at his friends. “What's the problem?”

  “The problem, Hirad Coldheart,” spat Styliann, “is that you have no conception of what you are dealing with. You blithely speak of taking the most powerful spell ever created into the heart of Balaia's most potent enemy as though it were a stroll through the woods. We can't afford for this to fail.” His final words were accompanied by raps on the table.

  “Well, it strikes me you've been doing your level best to screw it up ever since you recruited us.” Hirad leaned right into Styliann, half rising from his seat. “We know how to deal with this and we'll succeed if you leave us alone. It's been your interference that has caused us most of our trouble.” He sat bac
k down, but pointed a finger at Styliann's eyes. “And never, ever tell me I don't understand what is going on. The fact that I am still sitting by Denser while so many of my friends are either dead or in hiding should tell you I understand only too well how important this is.”

  “Calm down, Hirad,” said Ilkar. “This isn't helping.”

  “I don't care. Look, it's quite simple. You let us do things our way and we'll succeed. Interfere and we'll more than likely fail.”

  Styliann looked at Hirad with a mixture of rage and respect. His cheeks were slightly coloured and he refused to take in the expressions of the others in the delegation. “I am unused to having my authority challenged in this way,” he said quietly.

  “I'm not challenging your authority,” said Hirad. “I'm just telling you how to give yourself the best chance.”

  “I think it is about time we moved on,” said Heryst. “I am sure we all agree that The Raven can best deal with the Wrethsires on their own. But I do think it would be wise if we—that is, the four-College delegation—held the two catalysts found so far until the third is recovered.”

  “I'm sure you do.”

  “Why are you smiling?”

  “Because you must think I'm an idiot, and that's what idiots do all the time.”

  “Hirad,” said Ilkar, “tell me you haven't done what I think you've done.

  Denser clapped Hirad on the back and started laughing, though he surely could scarcely feel like doing so. “Oh, very well done, Hirad, very well done,” he said.

  The delegation looked on, Styliann at Denser, Barras at Ilkar.

  “Explain,” said Vuldaroq, his face reddening by the second. “I hate to feel I am being laughed at.”

  “Let me assure you I am laughing at nothing but Hirad's capacity to surprise. Tell us all where the catalysts are, Hirad, please.”

  Hirad shrugged. “Somewhere between here and the farm we stayed at. I don't think I'll be any more specific. And before you bluster and shout, let me explain that I am sick and tired of people trying to run my life and so I have given The Raven a little bargaining counter against further betrayal.”