Nightchild

by James Barclay

  “HellFire.”

  Blasting away the mist, steam trailing and gushing, a dozen columns of fire hammered down from the sky, each seeking a living soul. To the left, the Dordovan shield held, sending the flame lashing and spinning into the ground where it scorched the wet earth to ignition, panicking horses and riders alike. But to the right it cracked, and beneath it, the cavalry never stood a chance.

  Men blew apart under the sudden tumult, with no time to scream before their bodies were splashed to the winds, the fire driving on, breaking horses in two, finally spending itself against the ground.

  The right flank disintegrated in terror, surviving horses bucking and twisting, taking their hapless riders back into the teeth of the charge that smashed into them, unable to pull up in time. Horses tried desperately to jump others in their path, catapulting riders out of saddles and the slap of horse on horse as well as the agonised cries of riders with legs crushed between two beasts filled the air.

  To the left, the splashing fire caused similar chaos, though less pain and only in the centre did the charge come on. Skittish but well trained, the wild-eyed mounts drove steadily on, slower now, picking their way over the bodies of the fallen.

  In front of them squatted Aeb, axe cocked and ready in both hands, his sword discarded, lying in the mud at his feet. He fixed his eyes on their strides, establishing the pattern and calculating the fast diminishing distance. At the last, he rolled left and forward, returning to the crouch and swinging up and out with his axe. He felt it slice flesh and he hardened his grip, letting the blade bite deep and his body be dragged forward by the momentum of the horse, keeping his body tucked.

  The animal shuddered. Aeb looked up and saw the axe deep in its thigh. He clung on, dragging it down, its rider unable to strike out effectively as he fought his wounded mount. The horse stuttered and pitched on to its nose, other cavalry milling behind it, disconcerted by the belligerence of the Protectors. But two broke through, bowling over the men in their path, horses clattering over bodies, riders exhorting them on.

  Taken by surprise for an instant, one of the second rank was taken by a wheeling sword that whistled through his chest, lifting him from his feet. But the rest were so fast. Forming up seamlessly, Protectors crouched and swung to slow the horses while more brothers dived at the riders, bearing them from their saddles to the ground and with sharp twists, ending their lives in a snapping of necks.

  Aeb wrenched his axe clear of the fallen but struggling horse.

  Aeb, three brothers down. Sword underfoot. Right lower rear quarter strike.

  He struck without looking. A cavalryman died.

  Stooping, he swept up his sword, straightened and saw the endgame. Protectors forged in on both sides of the crumbling charge. Wide spaced and with weapons free, they struck without error, bringing down horse before taking rider, a relentless advance. Aeb moved up. In front of him, a cavalryman wrestled his blade from a tangle of reins and forced his horse around. He blanched as he saw the Protector advance but was already too late. Ignoring the animal, Aeb lashed round-armed with his axe, lifting the rider clean out of his saddle, the blow catching him high in the chest, his last breath exhaled as a fountain of blood.

  They are broken. We are victorious. We are one.

  We are one.

  Aeb surveyed the enemy. They were wheeling and galloping away down the trail, shouts of recrimination echoing through the swirling mist that smelled so much of death. Satisfied, he turned, counted all the mages safe and knelt to take the mask from Elx.

  The brother had taken a hoof clear in the face, splitting the mask and snapping his neck. His face, bloodied and bruising, stared sightless to the sky. He was released. In the Soul Tank, they would grieve. His body, they would burn. His weapons, they would take.

  Aeb walked back down the path to where Sytkan sat on his horse, his young face angry, his body tired from the HellFire casting.

  “Will they attack again?” he asked.

  “No, but we will track them, master. Now they are running south.”

  “Good. Then tend to your wounded and dead. We need to be away from here. It's still ten days to Arlen.”

  “Has the water clogged your ears, Ilkar? I said no.” Hirad slammed his tin cup down on the stone table and stalked to the door of his hut, leaning against its frame and looking out at the dreary night.

  The rain hadn't stopped and by the time they'd found the horses, all three men were drenched and miserable. Hirad had banked a good fire in his hut and now their clothes were steaming on a rail hanging in front of it while they each wore a blanket. But despite the ridiculous picture they made and the meal they shared, Hirad's mood had not lightened enough to hear what Ilkar and The Unknown wanted of him with any real reason.

  “You shouted it, actually,” said Ilkar evenly, picking at some lamb stuck in his teeth. “And I heard you the first time. I just hoped I'd heard wrong.”

  “Well you didn't,” growled Hirad, turning half face. “Why the hell should I help that prat? Everything he promised, he failed to deliver. The Kaan are still here.”

  “It was never something that was going to be solved quickly,” reasoned The Unknown.

  “I know. I didn't expect quickly. But it's been almost five years. And nothing has happened. Nothing.” Hirad's voice was cool and angry. “They're dying, you know.”

  “I understand your feelings,” said The Unknown. “But Denser's not been idle, he's—”

  “Oh yeah, I gathered that. Close to the Circle Seven, has the ear of the Lord of the Mount, good chambers. Not idle at all.” Hirad cleared his throat and spat out of the door. “Tell you what, when he comes here with clear evidence Xetesk is working on getting my dragons home, I'll help him find his family.”

  “He doesn't have that sort of time,” said The Unknown.

  “He's had five years!” Hirad stormed back across the room. “Five bastard years! My dragons are dying and the only people capable of helping them are sitting on their fat arses congratulating each other about how they beat the Wesmen. The real heroes are being left to rot.” Hirad stared at The Unknown and Ilkar in turn, taking in their faces in the firelight.

  “I'm not getting through, am I?” he said quietly. “Get your boots on and come with me. The Choul's right next door. Saying hello is the least you can do.”

  The three men scurried across the short space to the cave, blankets held tightly around them. Hirad's lantern lit the way in the chill, damp gloom.

  “Gods, Hirad, it's cold,” said Ilkar.

  “Yes, isn't it,” said Hirad. They rounded the corner into the Choul proper, the stench of dragon nauseatingly strong. Hirad grinned fiercely at his friends’ gasps.

  “Great Kaan, visitors for you.”

  Sha-Kaan raised his head and opened a shining blue eye.

  “Well met, Ilkar. Well met, Unknown Warrior.” His voice was low and tired, that of a dragon close to sleep.

  “And you, Sha-Kaan,” said Ilkar. “I won't ask about your health. Hirad has already been forthright. I am sorry.”

  “Sorry will not take us home.” The lack of lustre was plain. The immensity of the Kaan's size and presence was undiminished but the verve was gone from his voice and his languid movement was a sign of his growing inertia.

  “Hirad mentioned your desire,” said The Unknown.

  “It has always been a desire. Now it is a necessity.” Sha-Kaan gazed at the pair unblinking. “You have picked a curious time for your visit. Rain and dark, I understand, are not to human liking.”

  The Unknown shrugged. “We need Hirad. The weather is inconsequential.”

  “And I told them I wouldn't be helping,” interrupted Hirad.

  “With what?” asked Sha-Kaan.

  “Finding Denser's daughter.”

  “Ah.” Sha-Kaan opened his mouth wide, his jaws stretching impossibly wide, fangs glinting in the lantern light. “I might have guessed the thief was at the heart of your anger, Hirad Coldheart. Presumably he isn't
yet offering a way back to Beshara.”

  “No,” said Hirad curtly. “He hasn't quite finished worming his way to the top of the Xeteskian mage society.”

  Ilkar sighed.

  “You have something to add?” asked Sha-Kaan.

  “Hirad knows I believe he's being harsh on Denser, though I understand his and your frustration at the length of your wait. But we're talking about the safety of Erienne and her child, Lyanna. They are in considerable danger though they probably don't know it. Right now, Dordover is searching for them both and Denser thinks they don't necessarily want to catch Lyanna alive.”

  “And I said he's creating shit,” said Hirad. “Dordover has been training her. Why would they want to kill her?”

  “I tried to explain but you weren't listening. It's because of what she represents and where they think she's gone,” Ilkar said.

  Sha-Kaan breathed out, a low rumbling sound that sent echoes through the air.

  “This child is a mage?” he asked.

  “‘Mage’ hardly covers it,” said Ilkar. “She is almost certainly a four-College adept and probably capable of encompassing the One Way.”

  Nos-and Hyn-Kaan's heads snapped up and all three dragons stared at Ilkar, who took an involuntary pace backward. The Kaans’ necks moved, giving the impression of a three-headed beast with a single monstrous body.

  “Where has she gone?” demanded Sha-Kaan.

  “Denser suspects she's with practitioners of the One Way but we don't know if they even still exist, let alone where they might be.”

  “Al-Drechar,” breathed Sha-Kaan. “If they live, they must be found. Hirad, you must help.”

  “Who are these Al whatever?”

  “Keepers of the One,” said Sha-Kaan. “Septern will surely have shared his knowledge with them. He was one of them. They can send us home.”

  Dordover had ignored Xetesk's call for a Triverne Lake meeting. That in itself would have been an act of aggression had they not invoked a dusty but very useful clause in the four-College treaty which in this case covered Julatsa. The College was inquorate, temporarily at least, and unable to fulfil its duties. More, its acting High Mage, Ilkar of The Raven, was absent.

  Vuldaroq fully expected the deputation he received a few days later, particularly as it came in the aftermath of his mobilisation of a one-hundred-and-fifty-strong Dordovan mage force, enhanced by three hundred mounted swordsmen. That, added to Darrick's Lysternan and Dordovan cavalry, however reluctant their commander, amounted to a significant troop movement. Xetesk were bound to be unhappy but, as in all things, it was the way in which they were told that was important.

  This was not a stroke Vuldaroq would have pulled with Styliann still incumbent on The Mount. Whatever his personal feelings, Vuldaroq had respected Styliann's intelligence and political acumen. But the pup, Dystran, had no respected network, no quality advisers and no sure thoughts of his own. Even Denser wasn't on hand to help. Everything seemed to be working rather well and Dystran's entirely predictable responses merely added to Vuldaroq's feeling of control.

  He chose to meet Dystran and his unimpressive entourage in the austere surroundings of a student's study chambers, the small living area of which contained a round table and four straight wooden chairs, a basic iron-grated fireplace and plain brown drapes which hid ill-fitting shuttered windows. Candles cast a wan illumination amid gaunt shadows, and the air was heavy with old damp.

  The only concession to the seniority of his guests was the ubiquitous bowl of fruits and an insulated jug of Dordover's much vaunted herbal tea. It was cold, wet and very windy outside and the enlivening infusion would banish thoughts of that particular unpleasantness and stop tired minds from wandering.

  Vuldaroq and High Secretary Berian were ensconced early in the chambers, situated in an outbuilding off the central courtyard behind the Tower. As the door opened to admit a scowling Dystran, Vuldaroq had positioned himself to greet him with a perfectly modelled expression of apology on his face. Behind Dystran, came Ranyl, an average mage in Vuldaroq's opinion, and a pair of Protectors.

  “Gentlemen, I must apologise for the sparseness of our surroundings but your arrival finds us at rather a loss for quality accommodation.” He held out his hands in a gesture of supplication. Dystran regarded him coldly before moving to sit opposite Berian.

  “We have come here to talk, not debate the fine points of your College's architecture and wall hangings,” he said.

  “Indeed not,” said Vuldaroq, smiling thinly. “Berian, tea for our guests. My Lord Dystran, your Protectors?” Vuldaroq found it difficult to contain his distaste at the abominations that insulted his College by their presence. They should all have been put to the sword years ago.

  “They need nothing. If they make you feel uncomfortable, they can remain outside.”

  “Most kind.” Vuldaroq took his seat and waited while the tea was poured. Ranyl selected an apple but he was the only one who ate. The Dordovan Tower Lord watched while the Xeteskians drank, noting with satisfaction their obvious pleasure.

  “Very good,” admitted Dystran.

  “Perhaps our best kept secret,” said Berian, inclining his head.

  “Hmm, and you keep very few of those these days, it seems,” said Dystran, turning to face Vuldaroq.

  “You have issues you wish to discuss,” said Vuldaroq smoothly.

  “I have not ridden here to idly pass the days,” said Dystran shortly. “And I will not keep you from my point. Your mobilisation of forces is a clear act of aggression and an insult to the peace not only between the Colleges but that presiding across Balaia. And, I will add that your Arch Mage's decision to send, with all due respect to yourself, a lesser lord, to attend me is a personal slur that I find both mystifying and unnecessary.”

  Vuldaroq lifted his hands in a placatory gesture while he seethed behind his carefully neutral expression.

  “As I'm sure you are aware, my Lord Dystran, Arch Mage Herolus is in very poor health and his death is close. I and Berian act as his voice and his ears in his stead, as it has always been during times of Arch Mage sickness. There is no slur.” He sipped his tea before continuing. “Furthermore, I find your use of the term aggression a little surprising. I fail to see who it is that we threaten. My meagre forces are acting on reputable intelligence suggesting a threat to our child, Lyanna, and her mother. We are naturally concerned and have dispatched a protective force to travel south, where we believe we have most chance of finding our people before our enemies do.

  “I fear the same cannot be said for your considerable number of, and I use the term advisedly, ‘Protectors’ now marauding along the borders of the mage lands blatantly intimidating any Dordovans they and their masters encounter.”

  Dystran frowned. “Against what are you protecting the child? You haven't even found her yet and indeed probably never will. The Raven may bring her back but I fear even they will be left searching for spirits in the wind.

  “As for my Protectors, they are there as a reminder to Dordover that shows of strength and force will not go unchallenged or unmatched. They also provide a security net for those within and without the mage community who do not share Dordover's parochial views.”

  Vuldaroq chuckled and leant back in his chair, taking a mouthful of tea that he sloshed over his tongue, letting the flavours enrich his mouth. At least the pup had spirit.

  “My dear Dystran, Dordover's views can hardly be considered parochial, shared as they are by Lystern and Julatsa. It is Xetesk that is out of step with College thinking and College desire.”

  “But surely your desire to control Lyanna will lead to her losing her life,” said Dystran.

  “I have mentioned no one losing their life,” replied Vuldaroq. “Our intention is to return the girl here to continue her training.”

  “Which, as I think we are both aware, will result in her quick and painful demise.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Don't play me for a fool, Vul
daroq. We both understand what is happening here and we both know that Erienne left Dordover because she believed your training was harming her daughter. We both think we know to whom she has gone and we have both read the Tinjata Prophecy. But instead of being excited about the possibility that the Al-Drechar still live, your sole concern is grasping at something that is not even yours to take back.”

  Dystran's eyes burned while beside him, Ranyl drank tea as if he hadn't a care. In contrast, Vuldaroq could sense Berian's discomfort without the need to look. He let the tension settle, choosing to refill their mugs, the new burst of revitalising herbal scent a perfect tonic.

  “I have never thought you a fool,” he said at length, the lie slipping easily from his tongue. “But the chaos and destruction visited on Balaia is the principal reason Lyanna must be returned to us quickly. It's clear to the Masters here that whoever holds her, and I'm not at all convinced it is these Keepers of the One you seem to think it is, haven't the skill to prevent her from unleashing these mana storms. There was no such problem while she was here, was there?”

  Dystran gave a slight nod. “Stories of freak weather were around well before Lyanna left Dordover. Still, a predictable response. However, Xetesk considers Lyanna a Dordovan by fluke of birthplace only. We believe her to be a child of the One and that while Tinjata was mainly accurate, his conclusion was flawed and based in fear of a return to the One Way, not in real belief of ultimate disaster.”

  “And you don't consider earthquakes, hurricanes and tidal waves the prelude to ultimate disaster?” Vuldaroq was surprised by the basic flaws in the Xeteskian take on events. “If we're right, and by we, I mean you and us, then just one small child is causing all this. She must be properly controlled until she is able to harness her undoubted powers effectively.”