Nightchild

by James Barclay

  The little girl stopped and Erienne felt the air move about her. She turned a scowling face to her mother and walked toward her. Erienne had seen that scowl a hundred times before but this time she felt threatened, though the notion was absurd.

  “Oh Lyanna, what's happened? Don't look like that,” she said gently, crouching down. “Come and give me a hug.”

  “I don't feel well,” said Lyanna. “Ephy's very tired and Myra was sick. I hurt them, Mummy, and I hurt you.” She was close to tears.

  Erienne frowned. “You didn't hurt me, darling. I was just worried about you, that's all.”

  But Lyanna shook her head. “No, Mummy, I know what I did.” A tear rolled down her cheek. Erienne wiped it away then pulled Lyanna close.

  “You could never hurt me, Lyanna. I love you.” She stood, picking her daughter up and taking her to her room, setting her on the bed. “Tell you what, why don't you tell me what you did today? What made Ephy so tired?”

  “I draw pictures,” said Lyanna, her tone a little brighter. “Of what the magic inside me shows me. Then they tell me how to hold the wind it makes in my head.” Lyanna looked up and more tears were in her eyes. “But I can't make it work and they have to help me and it makes them ill and things happen. I know they do because they all look so frowny and then they have to stop and make my mind quiet again.”

  She started to grizzle and Erienne held her tightly, her heart lurching. She couldn't grasp exactly what Lyanna was trying to explain but one conclusion was clear enough. The Al-Drechar weren't coping.

  “Will you be all right here on your own for a little while?” she asked.

  “Yes. For a little. Maybe Ren will come.”

  “If I see her, I'll ask her to visit you.” Erienne smiled and leant to kiss Lyanna's cheek. It was wet with tears. “Don't worry, my sweet. Everything will be fine.”

  But as she hurried along to the dining room where she hoped to find the Al-Drechar, her words echoed in her mind like betrayal.

  They were there, as she had hoped, sitting around one end of the table as always. Myriell had the pipe in her hands though it was only late afternoon.

  “Sit, Erienne. Sit.” Cleress waved a hand wearily at the empty chairs. Erienne chose one where she could face them all.

  “I think it's time you told me what is really going on,” she said.

  “You sound as if you think something's wrong,” said Aviana.

  “And it's time you dropped that illusion too. It's as full of holes as the one I flew over just now.” There was no reaction. Erienne pointed at her eyes. “These work, you know.” Then her ears. “And so do these. So why don't you drop the high and mighty all-conquering Al-Drechar bit and tell me what's happening.” Erienne felt her anger stir. She saw a frown flash across Ephemere's face but it was Cleress who spoke.

  “Your daughter is an exceptionally talented individual but her abilities are unfocused. It is taking longer than we anticipated to calm her mind. Then we can begin to train her to use the Way.”

  “Gods, I get straighter answers from Lyanna,” Erienne said. “Look, I don't know whose benefit all your bluff is for but I'm not buying it. I may not be Al-Drechar but I know when I see a major illusion disintegrating and I know what that causes in the mana spectra. I also know when I see four exhausted old elves and I'm looking at them right now. I'm asking you, please, don't fail because you're too proud to call on me to help.”

  The Al-Drechar were silent, expressions neutral while they conversed with each other. Erienne waited and presently Ephemere focused on her.

  “Erienne, the depth of your daughter's potential power exceeds our hopes but brings such problems. Her youth makes her mind so vulnerable to surges and uncontrolled expression of mana and we have had to absorb and refocus so much as she learns to accept the feelings within her.

  “She is not currently at risk because we are able to accommodate her energies but, as you have made clear, it has depleted our own and leaves us somewhat exposed.”

  “Somewhat? Look at you Ephy, Myra—all of you—taking the pipe in the afternoon, sitting like it takes all of your remaining energy to stay upright. And that illusion above our heads is a liability. Why do you even sustain it?” Erienne felt a crawling in her chest. The Al-Drechar looked so frail. Such power and venerability reduced to sunken-eyed exhaustion.

  “It is our only defence,” said Aviana. “We are so few and our enemies are so near.” She sounded close to panic.

  “But how long can you go on, Ana? Gods, you're killing yourselves. Let me help, I implore you. Tell me what I can do.” She searched their faces through the wisps of smoke. “Clerry? Ephy?”

  “We have already taken steps,” said Cleress.

  “Ren'erei is leaving on the pre-dawn tide,” said Ephemere.

  “To do what?”

  “To seek mages who can sustain the illusion and allow us to focus all our energies on Lyanna,” replied Cleress.

  “Where's she going? I mean, do you have mages you can trust?”

  Cleress shook her head. “I'm afraid it's a little more urgent than that. We have no mages in the Guild and Ren'erei goes to Calaius to recruit those who believe in our myth.” She tried to smile. Erienne was horrified.

  “You're going to invite total strangers here? Think of the consequences!”

  “And think of them if we don't,” said Myriell harshly, her voice thick with pipe smoke.

  “No, no. Sorry, Myra but you misunderstand,” said Erienne. “I'm talking about trust and betrayal. You've spent so long keeping your location secret, you can't afford even the slightest risk that Ren'erei finds the wrong people.” She paused, her heart swelling in her chest, ashamed at the rush she was feeling. “I'm going with Ren'erei but not to Calaius because you need people, and not just mages, that you can trust utterly. We're going back to Balaia. You need The Raven.”

  The vanguard of the Protector army scouted half a day ahead of the rest, at the limits of contact with their brothers. Twenty men, masked and silent, accompanied by four mages directing their movement but no longer with the ultimate punishment for disobedience available to them.

  The Protectors represented a declining but still awesome Xeteskian calling. The last man had been taken more than six years before and subsequently freed in a ceremony that could not be repeated until it was further researched. He was The Unknown Warrior and they would never forget him.

  A frighteningly short time ago, a Protector transgressing the harsh rules of the calling would have suffered soul torment by demons for as long as his Given mage wanted. That was no longer sanctioned although the demons hadn't been told that. Souls to torment was their part of the bargain for maintaining the DemonChains that linked each Protector to his soul held outside his body in the Soul Tank, deep in the catacombs of Xetesk.

  In truth, the punishment wasn't needed now anyway. Aeb, at the head of the vanguard, could barely remember the years before he was taken. He would have been in his late teens, he thought. What he knew now was that the Soul Tank, where his soul linked with those of his hundreds of companions, meant brotherhood beyond all human meaning. It meant strength, comfort and understanding on the most basic level. It was what made them the power they were.

  He understood that one day, he might be asked to choose freedom. He wasn't sure what he would say.

  But some rules remained. A Protector could make no decisions except in a battle situation unless his Given was lost. And Protectors were never told to where they marched. They followed and fought or threatened as directed. Aeb accepted it had to be this way. And though the souls often swam in unhappiness in their Xeteskian containment, their abiding joy was their closeness and the power it gave them. There were no dissenters. It had ever been so and the concept was alien. It would undermine the whole and that was unacceptable. Abhorrent.

  Aeb was aware that research would break the brotherhood and it saddened him. But for now, people feared the Protectors and that was right. People like the Dordovan cavalry
they had encountered.

  They had been travelling south and east from Xetesk for four days, stopping late in the night and setting off at dawn each day, their pace fast, their rests dictated by the tiredness of mages and horses. An hour from the borders of the mage lands, in an area once rich for farming but now battered by incessant rain, they had paused for refreshment.

  All day, low cloud had released a shifting rain mist that eddied in the wind and made visibility poor. The damp penetrated armour and mask, the land was quiet as if every other living thing had sought shelter, and the mist played with the eyes, making shapes where there were none. For some time before the Dordovans had ridden up, they had heard hoof falls echoing dully, the rain and wind making their direction of approach difficult to determine. Eventually, the Dordovans had appeared, their lead warriors pulling up sharply as the Xeteskians loomed at them out of the mist.

  Aeb permitted himself the tiniest satisfaction at their manner. He could see the mask of Elx, dark and shining, and knew that they must have startled the horsemen. Aeb signalled the body of the army, using his nineteen brothers to augment him over the range. The mages stepped into the centre of the trail as a rider trotted up from the middle of the Dordovan column. He was another mage, but fat, the skin of his face unhealthy under the hood of his cloak. His horse had the girth to match.

  Their lead mage, Sytkan, spoke.

  “Vuldaroq. What an unpleasant, if predictable sight.”

  The fat mage smiled. “Likewise, Sytkan. We've heard reports of you and your abominations on the move for days. I suppose it's pointless to enquire after your destination.”

  “A waste of your breath, but more a waste of mine.” Sytkan looked about him. He was a young mage, a junior master but being schooled for greatness. He was tall, quick and heavy boned, his grey eyes glaring out from under his tight-fitting skull cap. “You know something, I do believe these lands to be under the care of Xetesk.”

  “Care? An interesting term. And I believe we have full rights of passage as laid down in the Triverne Agreement on Mage Land Propriety.”

  “An old and dusty legislature,” said Sytkan. “And rendered void in times of open conflict between Colleges, as I recall.”

  “Is that what you call this?” asked Vuldaroq.

  “Since your insults are directed at the Lord of the Mount, yes.”

  Tension flared. Aeb watched the ripple through the Dordovan cavalry. He could count more than a hundred but guessed that twice that many stood hidden by the chill swirling mist.

  Stand down ready. No weapons. Check left, aggressive intent, centre is fear, right neutral, Aeb pulsed to his brothers. None of them so much as moved a muscle.

  In the centre of the trail, the four Xeteskian mages stood calm but Aeb could feel one preparing a HardShield to defend against projectile attack. Beside her, another prepared spell defence. He assumed the Dordovans were doing the same.

  “It would be unwise to threaten us, Sytkan,” said Vuldaroq. “I have three hundred cavalry here. I'd hate to see them run you down.”

  “And you will not,” replied Sytkan, voice firm but cool. “A clear act of aggression in Xeteskian lands would be a great mistake with the bulk of the Protector army not far behind you.”

  Vuldaroq chuckled and dismounted, his horse twitching its gut and back as the considerable weight was removed. The mage walked forward.

  “There. Far more civilised. Now, I think this little spat should end here. Let's agree to differ on our agendas and move on.” He was a few paces from Sytkan and Aeb could see the fear in his eyes though he covered it with overconfident bluster.

  “Absolutely,” agreed Sytkan. “But for you that means journeying by the quickest route from Xeteskian lands. You understand you cannot be allowed to ride ahead of us. So, north, I think that means. Aeb, do you concur?”

  “The lands north are easier for horses, Master. It is a quicker route than south.”

  “Exactly. I am sorry, Vuldaroq, but I have instructions from Dystran himself. Due to the unfortunate reaction of Dordover and Lystern, our lands are temporarily closed to your traffic. I require you to respect that.”

  “You expect me to accede to the word of a Lord of the Mount who is nothing more than a puppet to his Circle Seven and the advice of a masked thug?” Vuldaroq spun on his heel and stalked back to his horse.

  “Retract your remarks concerning my Lord of the Mount,” demanded Sytkan.

  “I never retract the truth.”

  “Aeb, deploy,” muttered Sytkan, signalling his mages to cast their shields.

  Space across the path. Move to ready.

  Like ghosts in the mist, the Protectors reacted, their movements precise and efficient. In moments they had blocked the path in a slightly concave line. As they came to ready, axes and swords snapped from back mounts in a clatter of steel which echoed across the windswept space, its chill sound accentuated by the silence that followed. Aeb looked and saw fear. It was expected.

  Sytkan spoke into the void. “This is not a bluff. Your insults are crude, Vuldaroq, but our threat is not. Ride north. Leave our lands and take some advice. Go back to Dordover. You'll find nothing but death in Arlen.”

  Vuldaroq sniffed. “I will ride where I please.”

  “North.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Then we will attack you. Aeb has freedom to act. He needs no further command.”

  Vuldaroq considered and smiled. He shrugged.

  “Horses are quick. Your creatures are on foot. I can order the cavalry to ride north a mile if it will assuage your conscience. We will return to the path at a time that suits us and well ahead of you.”

  “How little you understand about the mind of a Protector. He is bred to snuff out threat and aggression against Xetesk. You can only ride so fast and we will track you down. Don't challenge us.”

  “I am getting very tired of this. We are three hundred horse and one hundred and fifty mages. You are twenty and four. Stand aside.”

  “You are a split force,” said Sytkan. “And no, we will not yield. All Xeteskians are pledged to defend their land, as you are yours. If you can't show civility, at least show respect.” He tempered his tone and added. “Come on, Vuldaroq, neither of us needs to fight here. You know I can't move. You aren't losing face. You're just doing the right thing.”

  “So be it.” Vuldaroq wheeled his horse and began to trot back down the centre of the four-abreast cavalry column. At once, FlameOrbs soared up from its middle, arcing across the space to splash against the shield covering the Xeteskians. It held, the fire lashing over its transparent surface, searing and cracking as it dissipated into the ground, sending steam clouding up.

  “Damn you, Vuldaroq,” muttered Sytkan.

  Aeb needed no invitation.

  Front rank, horses, second rank, flank support. Force width, pincer in.

  Standing at the centre point of their formation, Aeb, with Elx and Ryu at his sides, stepped up just as the Dordovan cavalry started moving. Dropping to his haunches, Aeb swung his axe right-handed into the lead horse's front legs, catching the left just above the knee and slicing clear. The animal screamed and reared, Aeb already moving forward and away from the flailing limbs. Its rider crashed off, seeing nothing but the Protector's sword thrash through his undefended neck.

  Left and right, Aeb's brothers struck low with axe, high with sword, horses and riders collapsing as the frightening onslaught gathered momentum. Blood fizzed into the air, painting the mist a hideous shade of pink and, all around, the terrified cries of horses mingled with the urgent shouts of riders attempting to force their mounts to forward action.

  Aeb was pressed on all sides. He lashed out with his axe, feeling it bite deep into an unguarded flank. The horse leapt sideways, rider hanging on, sweeping his sword down where it connected with Aeb's protective block. But the man was unbalanced and the next axe strike knocked him from his saddle, to die under the hooves of his stricken mount which, eyes rolling, searched
for a way out of the death, the scent high in its flaring nostrils.

  Aeb let it go, to add to the confusion, and turned for his next target. Ahead of him, the cavalry had stopped and left Elx decapitated a rider who had made the mistake of leaning down to strike at what he had been sure was an unguarded back.

  Regroup. Withdraw centre. Outer flanks hold. They are massing. Charge imminent.

  Aeb looked along the line. No Protectors were lost and a dozen cavalry lay slain. He backed off, each footstep sure, guided by a brother. Overhead, more FlameOrbs covered the sky, boiling the spray of rain as they travelled, detonating harmlessly on the Xeteskian shields. There was no return.

  The Dordovan cavalry had disappeared back into the mist but in the eerie half silence, shouted orders filtered out. Visibility was perhaps sixty yards. The Protectors stood in two ranks of ten, ten paces from the carnage they had created. Their weight was toward the flanks, eighteen each side, with only Aeb and three others holding dead centre. Long before they could see anything, the ground vibrated as the cavalry advanced at a trot. Clashing metal sounded from the mist, and the snorts of horses impatient for the charge.

  Aeb waited, his Protectors solid and immobile. Shadows moved in the mist ahead, ghosts in the rain. Slowly, they resolved and Aeb could see the outline of their formation. He felt his pulse quicken and his brothers joined him in the surge that came before battle. Behind him, the mages were mounted, spell shields doubled, HardShield dropped, ready to run but confident in their Protectors.

  Perhaps fifty yards away, at a barked order, the cavalry charged, the riders roaring as they came, weapons glistening in the rain, their horses sleek and powerful, bred for the run.

  Aeb had assessed the charge before it came. “Front ranks, Master Sytkan. Break the flanks.”

  They will attempt to flank, be ready. Low stance, quick strikes. Axes front. We are one.

  We are one, came the response.

  Xetesk had a weapon and Sytkan, having already suffered spell attack, was not shy of retaliating with it. He had been preparing since the skirmish began. As the first horses in the eight-wide column broke into the gallop toward the bodies of their fallen comrades, he and his spare mage crossed arms over their chests before pushing their hands out to cover the cavalry's flanks.