Dawnthief

by James Barclay

  “But surely you know that was a rogue Master from Xetesk!” Vuldaroq thumped the palms of his hands on his chair. “And now the most valuable pieces in Balaia are unguarded.”

  “And untraceable,” said Hirad. “And I don't care who it was that was coming to kill us. The fact is that there are only three mages in the entire world that I trust and they are all sitting with The Raven. Now we need to get through the pass without wasting any more time. If your intelligence is right, the Wesmen will be at our borders in four days or less and I don't want to meet them in the middle of the Blackthorne Mountains.”

  Hirad took in everyone. Denser was smiling, The Unknown was gazing studiously at the back of Denser's neck, Ilkar was staring at him with jaw slack and eyes wide, and the delegation sat in mute fury. All except one. Heryst. He was nodding and was the first to rise.

  “Congratulations, Hirad Coldheart. You have outthought us all. For now. It's a shame you mistrust us, because we really are on your side, and the side of Balaia,” he said. “I only hope for your sake that your mind is as alert in the days to come. The game for our land is about to be played out and Dawnthief is the only card we have. It would be criminal to lose it.” He led the delegation from the Marquee.

  “Are you absolutely out of your mind?” Ilkar waited until only The Raven remained in the Marquee.

  “We got the result we wanted,” said Hirad. “Why?”

  “Why?” Ilkar spluttered. “Have you any idea how powerful Styliann is? All the delegation for that matter. Yet you have to go rubbing him up the wrong way, and as if that wasn't enough, you've planted Dawnthief in a bloody field somewhere. What, are you thinking it'll grow and bear fruit or something?”

  Hirad smiled again. He glanced at Denser, who had returned to his shell and was staring into nowhere.

  “Ease up, Ilkar. Listen—” He broke off. “Will they be listening?” He jerked a thumb.

  “I'd expect nothing less,” said Ilkar. Hirad raised his eyebrows. Ilkar sighed, spoke a few words and made an enveloping motion with his arms. The sounds from outside the Marquee faded to nothing. “Go on,” he said. “Where exactly between here and the farmhouse have you put the catalysts?”

  Hirad held his right thumb and forefinger and inch apart. “About this far.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Ilkar blinked slowly.

  Hirad pulled a chain from under his shirt. From it hung the Understone Pass Commander's Badge and the Dordovan Ring of Authority.

  “Grow and bear fruit! What do you take me for?”

  A transformation had taken place in Understone since the arrival of Darrick. Drainage had been restored and the main street was merely sole deep in mud, aided in its drying by a stiff wind and a hold off of rain. Around the town itself, a city of tents and corralling had sprung, housing the four-College cavalry, its horses and, latterly, the five thousand foot soldiers who were the advance force detailed to defend the eastern end of Understone Pass from Wesmen incursion.

  Defensive positions had been raised out of bowshot of the mouth of the pass, from where there was nothing but silence. The mages he had sent in under CloakedWalks had not returned. The quiet was disconcerting. It was as if they were waiting for something more than just reinforcement before attacking. It made Darrick uneasy, and when Darrick was uneasy, there was usually magic in the air.

  The Raven arrived in the company of thirty Xeteskian mages two days after leaving Triverne Lake. Darrick was waiting for them, and in the evening before the attempt was to be made to take the pass, he heard the details of Xetesk's new offensive spell. He and Hirad sparred in the main street later as he tried to shake off the images the mages drew. He had taken an instant like to the Raven man and was envious of his role and the sheer determination he saw in his eyes.

  The next morning would see the Wesmen a little over a day from the pass. He found himself irritated that they couldn't wait for the maximum number to be inside when the spell was cast. And it wasn't just to do with the fact that The Raven had to gain quick passage to the other side either. It was to do with the correct alignment of dimensions. He hoped someone would be good enough to explain it to him sometime.

  The wind blew from the south, along the Bay of Gyernath. The afternoon skies were clear but cloud was gathering, thick, dark and ominous. Rain was already falling far out in the southern ocean, dark grey reaching from sea to sky. It would hit land by nightfall.

  The Barons Blackthorne and Gresse stood on the eastern shore of the bay where the shingle gave way to sand and sloped steeply into the lapping waters of low tide. To their right, the Blackthorne Mountains towered sheer from the water, beginning their six-hundred-mile journey to the Triverne Inlet and Balaia's northern coast. At their backs, and perhaps two hours’ ride northeast, was the walled town of Blackthorne and its castle.

  The seat of Balaia's most powerful Baron was the principal hurdle in the way of any Wesmen move to Understone to the north and, to a lesser extent, Gyernath to the southeast. Its seven thousand inhabitants were principally from mining or farming backgrounds, giving Blackthorne considerable muscle in addition to his standing militia.

  With Gresse's four hundred men and mercenaries, the defence of southern Balaia numbered around one thousand regular and two thousand reserve soldiers, and they would need every one. Word from Understone suggested that as many as six thousand Wesmen would attempt the bay crossing. The battle would be hard and bloody.

  Gresse and Blackthorne stood flanked by mages and aides, the former providing EagleSight-augmented information to add to what could be made out in miniature on the other side of the bay. The sand was black with boats and Wesmen.

  “There are more than six thousand there, surely,” said Gresse.

  One of the mages turned to him. “It's impossible to say. They are stretched over three miles but that's a function of the number of boats they have assembled. More are arriving from the southwest all the time.”

  Gresse squinted and peered across the bay. The shore seemed to be crawling, shifting, moving. Individuals were impossible to make out, but the mass was there for all to see. Beside him, Blackthorne cleared his throat.

  In his mid-forties, Baron Blackthorne was tall and slim with an angular face, heavy brows, black hair and beard. He rarely smiled, suffered no fools and carried his worries in his walk, which was head down, shoulders hunched and very fast. Like Gresse, over his breeches, shirt and leather tunic, he wore a heavy cloak, at which the wind picked.

  “Is equipment being loaded?” he asked, the weariness in his tone suggesting this wasn't a problem with which he should really be concerned.

  “Yes, my Lord,” replied his senior mage.

  “Then we can expect them to put to sea quite soon. Under cover of darkness, one suspects.”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “Hmm.” He licked his lips and smoothed the beard along his jawline. “I want as many of those boats sunk as is humanly possible without overstretching our resources. HotRain, FlameOrbs, BowWave, IceWind, whatever. Take half of our mages and keep one hundred guards. I need wards in the sand, I need the first boats to land set aflame and turned around to obstruct the beach.

  “Do not be overrun. Retreat to the castle as soon as the Wesmen come ashore in large numbers. They won't have horses, so you should be able to outrun them. Is that all clear?” The man nodded. “Then Gresse and I will return to town. We will form our principal defence there. Baron Gresse?”

  He turned on his heel and walked back up the gentle grassy slope to his horse, his footman coming to attention and handing him the reins. Behind him, the mage was already issuing orders. Gresse smiled as he walked beside the younger man, hurrying to keep up. The Wesmen would not reach Gyernath or Understone easily.

  “And what of the rest of the KTA now?” asked Blackthorne as they rode together toward the castle, bodyguards behind them.

  “Too busy squabbling over my lands to help us or too pigheaded to believe the threat is real. Distrust of the Colleges is hab
itual,” said Gresse.

  “And historically wise.” Blackthorne turned to him. “What have you done with your people?”

  “At Taranspike?”

  Blackthorne nodded.

  “They're still at the castle but under instruction not to resist any attack. I've told them it isn't worth it. My sons are there to see them safe, they have my seal of authority and they can stay in Korina at my expense if necessary. He won't hurt them if they surrender.”

  “Pontois?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm.” Blackthorne frowned. “I won't forget this, Gresse.”

  “It is for Balaia, not just for you,” Gresse reminded him.

  “But you are the only man with the balls to stand beside me,” said Blackthorne. “It will give me great pleasure to reciprocate when you reclaim Taranspike. It was scum of the calibre of Pontois who killed the KTA and left us with no real defence against what we now face. His greed has shut his mind and he will be called to account. I, personally, will see to it.” He paused, his face softening, much to Gresse's surprise. “Assuming we survive the coming storm, that is. But for you and me, my friend, it is time to put our feet up in front of a large fire, take the best wine my cellars have to offer and await the sound of the horns.”

  The Barons spurred their horses toward Blackthorne Town.

  Understone's fateful morning broke dry, but heavy cloud was blowing over the Blackthorne Mountains toward them. At first light, Darrick's cavalry mounted up and began the move to the pass. In front of the slowly advancing column walked thirty Xeteskian mages, young and old, all wearing the insignia of the Lord of the Mount on red tunic and shoulder—a tower atop a crown, edged in gold, embroidered on black.

  The sound of voices had stopped as the cavalry formed up behind the mages, The Raven at its rear. All that could be heard were the sounds of hoofbeats, the nervous whinnies of horses and the flap of five hundred cloaks in the breeze.

  Darrick sat tall in his saddle, proud and determined. To be appointed the first general of a four-College force for over three hundred years was an honour he could never have conceived even two months before.

  But now, in front of him, thirty Xeteskians awaited his command, and behind him, five hundred horses would charge into the pass at the drop of his sword. The cavalry were split on College lines, each centile having its own defensive mages to cast hard and spell shields and provide the light to see them through the pass. The livery was mixed: green for Lystern, shades of deep blue for Dordover and Xetesk and yellow for Julatsa. Not ordered enough for the trained military mind but imposing for all that.

  At the rear of the column lounged The Raven and their horses. Hirad, Ilkar, Erienne and The Unknown stood in loose formation around a still pale but more talkative Denser. Jandyr, Thraun and Will, whose grey hair now covered much of his head, spoke amongst themselves. Hirad allowed a half smile across his face, seeing parallels with the early days of Richmond, Ras and Talan. They would take more part, of that he was sure, so long as they lived. And of that, he wasn't.

  “What are they going to do, exactly?” asked Hirad. “I mean, whatever it is, it's going to be impressive, right? There's thirty of them after all.”

  Denser shrugged. “It'll be something to watch.”

  “Oh come on, Denser, you can do better than that,” said Ilkar. “They've been researching for twenty years, you must know something.”

  “Ah, Ilkar,” said Denser, moving closer to Erienne, “there you go assuming our research teams are as forthcoming as yours. Don't forget, in Xetesk, new spell construction and mastery leads to Master status.”

  “But if you haven't heard any rumours, you can take your arm from my waist.” Erienne smiled. Denser's arm stayed where it was.

  “I just don't want to spoil your surprise, and if I've heard right, it's going to be something like you've never seen.”

  “Elucidate,” said The Unknown, who still said little and never strayed far from Denser's side.

  Denser pushed out his bottom lip. “Right. Well, all I'll say is that it's dimensional, it's incredibly difficult to control and, if my hunch is right, it'll be wet.”

  “Wet,” said Hirad.

  There was a contemplative quiet.

  “Wet,” said Hirad again.

  Denser smiled. “Just watch.”

  Darrick gave the instruction to cast. Twenty-one mages stepped forward, forming three sides of a square. The lead mage gave the command to mana-form and at once, all their heads dropped but their hands reached out as if gripping something too heavy to hold. Closed eyed, they leaned back against the invisible grip. There was a moment's calm. Denser grunted as the mana shape developed.

  “This is powerful,” he said.

  The mages started walking toward the pass. There was no movement from within.

  “HardShield up.” A trio of Julatsan mages raised their defence around the vulnerable Xeteskians.

  Twenty yards from the black maw of the pass, the arrows began to fly, bouncing harmlessly from the core-strength Julatsan hard shield. The mages stopped walking, still concentrating, still developing the mana shape.

  Denser, who had attuned his eyes to the mana spectrum, marvelled at the shape of the spell. It mapped a pattern at once random but with a perverse sense of rhythm and symmetry. And it was huge, covering a space in the air which totally obscured the pass, the path in front of the casting mages and the hills rising either side.

  “I have never…” he breathed.

  “It's incredible,” agreed Ilkar.

  “Unstable,” said Erienne. “I only hope they can hold it.”

  “What does it look like?” asked Will.

  It was a deep, pulsating blue, edges shifting and changing, mimicking the outline of the Blackthorne mountain peaks high above, then swarming to depict oceanic power. It was shot through with streaks of orange, which flowed ceaselessly through the whole, joining, spiralling, splitting. To a mage, it was beauty incarnate; to everyone else, an inconceivable mystery.

  A rank of archers moved up quickly as the first Wesman appeared at the pass entrance, sword in hand. He disappeared just as quickly. Bows strung, arrows nocked, the archers waited for the inevitable charge.

  Perhaps twenty Wesmen ran from the darkness, heavy furs bouncing on their bodies, braided hair flowing backward, their shouts echoing along the path and their eyes wild beneath steep brows.

  The archers fired. The shouting stopped. The survivors turned and fled.

  “Deploy,” said the lead Xeteskian immediately afterward.

  It began with a horizontal line of red light suspended above, and ten yards in front of, the entrance to the pass. A heartbeat later, it was joined by three more, forming a perfect square some fifty feet each side, hanging in the air. The lines fizzed and crackled but held rock steady. Behind the square, the mages swayed backward, arms outstretched, hands gripping midair. The angle was crazy; they should all have fallen but the mana shape held them.

  “Connect and open,” ordered the lead mage. There was a buzzing in the air and the lines of the square revolved through a dazzling spectrum of colour. Two mages were hurled from the square to lie motionless in the dirt and mud, smoke rising from clothes, skin and hair. Next, a moment's silence so deep it hurt the ears. And finally, the awesome sound of water obliterated the peace.

  And a beat after the sound came the sight. With the power of the deep, froth flying, came a force of water the size of the square. It howled out of dimensional space, striking the ground well inside the pass. Out and out it came, ocean from a clouded sky, screaming into the darkness and surely dashing to fragments everything in its path.

  Behind, the mages fought to maintain the square as it bucked and twisted in the air, buckling and strengthening as the deluge hammered out into Balaian space. The water lashed against rock, tore vegetation from its roots and smashed the very earth from its bed of ages, spray flying backward, streams running in every direction from the mouth of the pass. Echoing from the walls of
rock inside, a pounding sound rose to join that of the rush from the mouth in the sky. The tumbling of loose stone, the crack of timbers snapped like twigs, and faint, so faint it may have been a trick on the ears, the screams of men could all be heard. The power was extraordinary.

  Ilkar swore softly. “They've tapped an ocean,” he said quietly. “They've tapped a bloody ocean.” Had he shouted, no one would have heard him as the roar battered at the ears and the sight simply blotted out the capacity for anything else.

  The mages held it for what seemed an age, the exertion visible, the effort tangible. The gate was kept open for over two minutes until, as suddenly as it had begun, the stream was shut off.

  Another silence that tore at the ears was followed by the rising hubbub of excited voices. The exhausted mages didn't even have the energy to congratulate each other before collapsing to the floor, every mote of mana stamina gone.

  Applause rippled the air but was silenced by a shout from Darrick.

  “Clear the path!”

  There was a ripple through the cavalry line as reins were drawn tighter. The metallic sounds of bits and bridles tautening added to the stamp of hoofs and the running of feet as Julatsan and Xetestaan mages came to the aid of their exhausted colleagues, hurrying them off the path and up a gentle slope. The bodies of the two for whom the spell had simply been too much were carried away.

  Darrick raised his sword. The Raven mounted up. Five hundred blades swept from scabbards, ringing the air.

  “Shield and light!” The teams of mages cast quickly and without error, and “shield up” confirmations travelled the column, followed by two dozen LightGlobes.

  “Advance!”

  Darrick dropped his sword, kicked his heels into the flanks of his horse. Hoofs threw up mud, thrumming on the poor surface of the trail. The shouts of the centile commanders mixed with the clamour of horse, metal and hoof, and the cavalry column moved on, gathering pace.