Dawnthief

by James Barclay

  “We live,” breathed Arumun.

  “Dawnthief.”

  The word shattered the moment's pause.

  “Down! Down!” yelled Ilkar. Hirad reflexively attempted to rise but The Unknown took his legs from under him and he fell back.

  “NO!” yelled Arumun, the roar joined by his brothers.

  A column of pure dark coursed above his head, wide enough to encapsulate the Wytch Lords crowded in the space outside their burial chamber. It seared into them, punching them from their feet and blasting them into walls, tearing limbs from bodies and ripping flesh from bones which cracked under the extraordinary force. With high-pitched screams and squeals, Belphamun, Arumun and Giriamun were flung back into Pamun, Ystormun and Weyamun, the sextet hammered against the far wall of the burial chamber to hang like huge rag dolls, limbs flailing, heads rolling, eyes ablaze.

  A howl like wind driven through a gully grew in volume, hurting ears and setting teeth on edge. Above Hirad, the column of Dawnthief, black, sleek and pure night, whipped his hair across his face. With an effort, he rolled aside, taking a glance at Denser.

  The Dark Mage was on his knees, straight-backed, arms outstretched, Dawnthief emanating from the space between his hands. His whole body juddered violently, his arms vibrating, face taut and quivering, mouth wide, hair flying. His eyes were wide open but saw only the dark in front of him. And he was enclosed in a darkening mist which obscured him more with every passing moment. The mist roiled and swirled, feeding into the Dawnthief tract, adding to its energy. Erienne stood at his shoulder, not daring to touch him, the terror on her face matched by the awe in her eyes.

  “Move!” shouted The Unknown. “The black is widening.”

  Hirad could barely hear him but caught the import of his gesture and yielded to the tug on his sleeve. The two men scrambled clear and turned to watch the destruction of the Wytch Lords, and it was then that Hirad saw the prone forms of Thraun and Will. Both men were stirring.

  “Stay down!” roared Hirad, flapping his arms in front of him. “Down!” But they couldn't hear him above the howl of the spell and the screams of the Wytch Lords who beat at their torment with splintered fists. Thraun picked his head from the floor and shook it, groggily unaware of the death scant inches away.

  “Oh, hell,” muttered Hirad. He ran forward and dived under the widening diameter of Dawnthief.

  Denser's body was consumed with beautiful power. He could feel it driving through his veins, swelling his muscles and sparking his sinews and tendons, forcing the breath from his lungs. But he had no need of breath. Dawnthief sustained him.

  In front of him, the Wytch Lords suffered under the tumult of his casting and he laughed at their pitiful attempts to break its bonds. Trapped like rodents under a monstrous thumb, they struggled, but Dawnthief held them as it always would, driving through their tattered bodies and beating the life out of their new flesh and bones.

  And Denser hadn't played the endgame yet. Hadn't chosen where he would send the enemy. Hadn't decided whether or not to let Dawnthief end the world. It would be so easy. In front of him, his arms barely contained the forces of Septern's spell as it fought to free itself from his control. All he had to do was let his arms open and circle and the blackness would encompass them all.

  Dawnthief battled him to do just that, but deep inside the recesses of his mind, something stood firm. The knowledge that at last he had found a true place to exist beyond the grasp of Xetesk. A place where he had true respect, was loved and looked after. One where he was free to choose his own destiny. The Raven.

  It was time to open the gate to oblivion. To tear the dimensions aside and deposit the diminishing remnants of the Wytch Lords to be consumed in the vortex beyond. But he wanted it to be spectacular, to leave no one in any doubt that the Wytch Lords had been destroyed. He needed to make their last journey through Balaian space as public as it could be in this forsaken city. He smiled and canted his head upward. He knew just the place.

  The roaring of Dawnthief and the wind of living mana howled in Hirad's ears. He lay half on and half off Thraun, pushing the shapechanger's head to the ground. Still dazed by the fist of a Wytch Lord, Thraun struggled against survival, threatening to buck Hirad into the black until Will, seeing the danger as he came to, placed a hand on Thraun's face and calmed him with a long, probing look.

  Hirad stared back at Denser, who was wincing as Dawnthief dragged at his body, ripples of tension flowing across his face, the mist building and deepening around him. Abruptly, Denser's expression changed, relaxed and cleared. The Dark Mage smiled, mouthed a further incantation and began moving his arms slowly inward and upward.

  The Dawnthief column retracted, dragging the Wytch Lords with it. Their struggles were weak now, their bodies tangled in an awful parody of humanoid form, heads twisted on necks, legs and arms at impossible angles to bodies, backs broken. Only the light in their eyes remained to remind Hirad of the souls within.

  A mist like that enveloping Denser swam from the end of the column, causing fitful resistance as it netted the Wytch Lords, reducing their spasmodic jerkings to a syrup-like slowness. It hemmed them in, trussing their bodies in a globe of flowing night. In a few moments, they were lost to sight but for a feeble probing at the opaque mesh that imprisoned them. Their howls, now of anguish and fear, were louder than Dawnthief itself.

  Denser drew the column and its cargo toward him, angling it upward until he stood directly beneath it and under the apex of the pyramid. The net shivered, and then, with a sharp jab upward, Denser released the column, which screamed toward the apex, driving the opaque orb directly at the stone above.

  “Gods in the ground,” breathed Hirad. “Run! Run!” He began to sprint from beneath the apex, The Unknown right behind him, Thraun and Will close by. But neither Ilkar nor Erienne moved. Before Hirad could open his mouth to shift them, Dawnthief obliterated the cap of the Wytch Lords’ tomb.

  Great slabs of stone blasted skyward carrying with them the dust of ages, material accompaniment to the howl of Dawnthief tearing through the sky. Light shone through the gaping rent in the tomb, pooling around Denser, his arms pointing to the heavens, his eyes wide, a maniacal smile on his face.

  But while Dawnthief and its cargo tore through the fabric of the Balaian dimension and into the interdimensional space beyond, the stone did not. Spiralling back to the ground, huge chunks thumped into the pyramid. The ragged edges of the hole Denser had created, already weak, collapsed inward, showering down on The Raven.

  Hirad could see the end and knew he could do nothing. The Dawnthief column shut off, and Denser, still gazing into the light, pirouetted slowly and collapsed. Hirad turned away, unable to watch the rock hit home.

  “HardShield up,” said Ilkar and Erienne together. “Nobody move.”

  For Denser, it was the completion of a life's dream. The casting of Dawnthief and all its multi-layered complexities had been every bit as thrilling as he'd dared hope. At one with mana, truly a part of its random life, he had struggled with temptation, overcome energies the power of which he could not have conceived, and triumphed. But more, he'd opened a gate to oblivion and deposited the broken bodies of the Wytch Lords there, souls destroyed by the hunger of Septern's spell as he'd withdrawn from its influence. And now he had nothing left to give. The residue of Dawnthief clung to his mind and encased his body, caressing him, offering him peace, promising him rest. What more could Balaia's saviour desire? Was it not what he truly craved? Denser closed his eyes and gave himself up to its glories.

  Mosaic splintered and crumbled under the weight of stone crashing down from above. Shards of rock flew and ricocheted. Hirad flung himself to the ground, covering his head, only to roll over and sit up immediately. The HardShields covering them all repulsed chip and boulder alike. He looked on as a slat fully five feet long and two thick tumbled end over end through the air, impacting the shield directly above the unmoving body of Denser. It slid over the invisible surface to the mosaic w
ith a heavy thud. Elsewhere, stones the size of fists and skulls rained down, the noise of multiple collisions drumming hard on the ears and rattling the floor underfoot. And all was washed by a dust-filled light, shining through the blasted pyramid apex.

  The tumbling of rock and the cracking of tile and slab subsided. Hirad climbed wearily to his feet, frowning as he caught sight of Erienne's face. The Dordovan had tears streaming down her face, her body quivering, clearly struggling to maintain control of her spell as she stood a few paces from Denser, her eyes fixed on the Dark Mage. The fall stopped, a quiet ringing replacing the boom and thump.

  “It's over,” said Hirad.

  Across the battle, the mood changed. From a hundred fingers, the black fire shut off abruptly, magical shields dropped and the Shamen's faces of victory turned to uncertainty and then fear.

  Blackthorne saw it happen. Knew the change in the air meant The Raven had won, and yelled his delight. His men surged, the Baron himself galloping through leaderless Wesmen lines to his fallen friend. He slid from his horse, slashed his blade across the neck of an attacker and knelt down. Gresse, blood covering his head, was still breathing. Blackthorne called a man over and the two of them carried the unconscious Baron from the battlefield, the cries of the east ringing loud in their ears.

  Behind them, the Wesmen were broken. Without the Wytch Lord magic, the Shamen were helpless, and without the Shamen, the warriors had no focus. Individually ferocious they might be, but the tide had turned and Blackthorne's men were alive once more.

  Blackthorne opened his mouth and roared in jubilation. Today was going to be wonderful.

  “Shield down,” whispered Ilkar into the silence.

  “Shield down.” Erienne's voice broke and she ran to Denser, dropping to her knees and picking up his head to cradle it, burying her face in his shoulder, rocking back and forth, crying and murmuring soft words.

  “What is it?” Hirad started forward.

  Erienne's tear-stained face turned to him. “He's dead,” she wailed. “He's not breathing.”

  “No.” Hirad slid down beside her. “Ilkar, come on, do something.”

  “There's not a spell for everything, Hirad,” said Ilkar, racing to join them. “He has no wounds. There's nothing to heal.”

  Hirad gazed up and down Denser's body. There was not a mark on him, though his lips were blue.

  “Right. Lay him down, Erienne. Unknown, get over here and angle his head. Clear his throat.”

  “Got it.”

  Hirad focused on Denser's face. “Don't even think about it, Denser,” he said, and started thumping the mage's chest above his heart with the base of his fists. “Don't you dare die. Come on.”

  Erienne stroked Denser's hair. “Please, Denser,” she sobbed. “I have your child within me. Don't leave me alone.”

  Hirad paused. “You've got what? Gods in the sky.” He pushed harder. “Did you hear that, Denser? You've got responsibility now, damn you. Breathe! Breathe!” Hirad slapped his face to either side, hard. The Unknown massaged his neck and worked his jaw.

  “Breathe!”

  Denser's mouth opened, his lungs seized air, his body heaved and he sat bolt upright, knocking Hirad aside. His hands clutched his chest and his throat gulped air. Erienne burst into fresh tears. Denser turned to her but fell back, and she cushioned his head from the fall. She ruffled his hair.

  “I thought you'd died, you bastard. I thought you'd died,” she said, a tear falling on to his cheek.

  Denser smiled and shook his head. “I tried my best, though,” he said. “My chest hurts.”

  “Well, we had to do something,” said Hirad.

  “It feels like you shook hands with my heart.”

  “No, no. Just persuaded it to beat.”

  “Thank you.”

  Hirad shrugged. “You're Raven. I can't let you die when you've just destroyed the Wytch Lords. No glory in that.” He followed Denser's gaze up through the dust-clouded air into Balaia's mainly blue sky. A rolling grey-flecked brown patch hung there.

  “Oh dear,” said Denser. “I'm not sure that was supposed to happen.”

  Hirad looked a little longer at the new rip before settling his gaze on Denser.

  “We'll live with it,” he said. He stood up and brushed dust off his tunic and leggings. The rip ate at the sky. “How're you feeling?”

  “Tired. And sore.”

  “Well, this is a place of rest,” said Ilkar, not able to take his eyes from the rip for too long.

  “It'll do for now.” Denser closed his eyes. “Wake me in a few days.”

  “Could you give us a little space?” asked Erienne, her hand again idly stroking Denser's hair.

  “Of course,” replied The Unknown. “Gentlemen…” He sheathed his sword, slung it across his back and made a shovelling motion with his hands.

  “What's up, Ilkar?” asked Hirad, coming to the elf's shoulder.

  “That,” said Ilkar, pointing at the rip. “I wonder where it leads. Somewhere harmless, I hope.” He clacked his tongue and sighed. “What have we done, eh?”

  Hirad put an arm round his shoulder and squeezed him.

  “We won. Come on, you'll be able to see it better from outside,” he said. He turned Ilkar from the rip to face The Unknown, Will and Thraun. “We won.”

  “At least we can collect on the contract,” said Ilkar.

  “I thought you wouldn't touch Xetesk's filthy money,” said Denser from his prone position.

  Ilkar laughed. “It doesn't do to be too proud where money's concerned,” he replied.

  “Spoken like a true mercenary,” said Hirad. Erienne cleared her throat noisily. “Sorry, Erienne.” He indicated the way to the sunlight.

  “Raven,” he said quietly, crooking his finger. “Raven with me.”

  No book is constructed in complete isolation and the path to this one contains many milestones, some way back in my youth. Here goes.

  To my parents, who never once complained at the incessant tap of the typewriter throughout my school days and, well, for just being you. To Stuart Widd, an English teacher who encouraged imagination and expression. To Paul H., Carl B., Hazel G., Chris G., Robert N., and Ray C. who unwittingly gave birth to The Raven many years ago, did any of us but know it at the time. To readers like Tara Falk and Dave Mutton who criticised and improved me at every turn. But most to Peter Robinson, John “George” Cross, and Simon Spanton (more Ravenites) for cajoling, bullying, ideas, and encouragement all the way. It's a cliché, I know, but without you, this wouldn't just be only half the book, it wouldn't be a book at all.

  I thank you all for your love, help, and support.

  JAMES BARCLAY is in his forties and lives in Teddington in the UK with his wife and son. He is a full-time writer. Visit him online at www.jamesbarclay.com.