Nightchild

by James Barclay

  Dystran shook his head. “Let's not pretend, Vuldaroq. Lyanna represents a threat to the magical order that Dordover wishes to maintain. But she is the future for us all. The way forward, not back as you seem to believe. And we will not stand by and watch her destroyed by you while you hide behind your pretty words.” Dystran set his body and pushed his mug away from him. “We will stop you taking her. Recall your forces. Let The Raven see her safe.”

  “The Raven?” Vuldaroq couldn't help but scoff. “Pawns in a greater game and in too deep. They are a help to us all but no solution. Surely you can see that.”

  “Yet you let them run because part of you believes them to have the best chance of finding the child.”

  Vuldaroq inclined his head. “Their skill is unquestioned. Their strength as the years pass is more open to debate.”

  “And assuming you should recover the child by whatever means, when will you be handing her to Xetesk for further training?”

  The Dordovan Tower Lord was taken by surprise by the question and blew out his cheeks while giving an involuntary half shrug. “Dystran, that is a decision for our lore masters and not one that can be given now.”

  Dystran leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of him on the table. “On the contrary, Dordovan, it can. The girl is to be left with the Al-Drechar, if it is they who hold her. And that is because we believe they have the best chance of halting the mana storms in a timely fashion. Or she is to travel to Xetesk before enjoying training in both Lystern and ultimately Julatsa. She will not be returning to Dordover.”

  Vuldaroq felt his jaw drop a mote before he caught it. “You dare to threaten this in the halls of my College?” he managed.

  “Oh, please, Vuldaroq, this is no threat and my Protectors are not marching for pure effect. I tried to ask you politely but now I demand that you withdraw your forces and those of Lystern and allow this matter to be settled in the natural way.”

  “Meaning?” snarled Vuldaroq.

  “Meaning Lyanna be allowed to develop unhindered in the place that her mother and father deem the most appropriate. That place clearly not being here.”

  Vuldaroq turned to Berian and raised his eyebrows. Berian responded with a slight shake of the head.

  “I'm afraid that we cannot agree to such conditions. We have a vested interest and will see it through.”

  Dystran stood abruptly, followed a heartbeat later by Ranyl. The door to the chambers opened and a Protector stood in the frame, his sheer presence imposing and frightening even to the mages.

  “Then I am afraid that relations between our two Colleges, and presumably Lystern, are not, for the time being, on a cordial footing. You are so notified and warned. Good day.”

  The Xeteskians swept from the room. Vuldaroq leaned back in his chair and poked his tongue into his cheek.

  “Stupid young pup,” he said and turned to Berian. “Oh dear, old friend. It does look rather as if we have a little trouble on our hands. Heryst and Darrick must be informed immediately. See to it, would you? I have others to contact and we both have journeys to make.”

  Erienne found herself more than a little hurt that Lyanna hadn't cried when told her mother was leaving. In fact, she displayed precious little emotion bar a smile when Erienne explained the reason for her abrupt departure.

  “They are tired,” Lyanna had said. “And I think they look older. Daddy can help.”

  And much as she had tried to dismiss her feelings as a purely selfish reaction, Erienne couldn't help but think that Lyanna's response was simply too calculated. Not right for a five-year-old girl.

  Erienne waved again and Lyanna waved back as the long boat pulled out of the tiny bay to dock with the Ocean Elm. Ephemere stood to one side and, as the long boat reached the less sheltered water, ushered Lyanna away back up the path to the house.

  Inside the failing illusion, the trees flanking the path waved in a light breeze and the rocks that flanked the small beach and the path closed in quickly as they moved further from the shore, taking from Erienne her last view of Lyanna's hair and back.

  Erienne let her head drop, her heart already heavy. This was going to be her first break of more than a couple of days from Lyanna and she wasn't at all sure how well she'd cope with the separation. She felt a lump in her throat, tears behind her eyes. It would have been easier if she thought Lyanna felt the same.

  Ren'erei didn't approach her until the ship was underway, joining her leaning on the port rails, watching the deep blue waves passing by.

  “She'll be fine. The Al-Drechar will care for her,” she said.

  Erienne smiled to herself. She couldn't help but like the young elf despite her deeply ingrained serious nature but sometimes she missed the real issue completely.

  “Oh I have no doubt she'll be fine. It's me I'm worrying about.” She didn't lift her head, letting the white-flecked water fill her eyes.

  “You'll miss her terribly.”

  “Yes, I will. Let's just find Denser fast.” She looked across. Ren'erei wasn't looking at her but she was nodding as she gazed down at the sea.

  “It will be a pleasure to meet him,” said Ren'erei. “The father of Lyanna and the keeper of your heart.”

  Erienne blushed and was glad for the elf's studying of the Ocean Elm's load line.

  “Don't get too excited. He's Xeteskian first and my husband second, I think.”

  “Then his priorities are askew.”

  “Not really. I am a mother first and a wife second. We both have tasks to fulfil before our lives together can really start. I think it's best we're honest in the interim.”

  Ren'erei contemplated Erienne's words. She could see the elf raise her eyebrows as she thought, and suck in her lips. Erienne felt very safe in her company. She was solid and dependable and her thoughts ran deep. And her naïveté was endearing. Ren wasn't streetwise like anyone with a normal education in the ways of Balaia but she harboured great strength of feeling and inside the elf there was the confidence to kill. The Raven could have done with her a few years ago.

  “How will you find him?”

  “Communion. When we arrive in Arlen, I think I have the range to reach Xetesk. I'm sure he'll still be there. Or possibly Dordover. Either way I can contact him. Then we wait.”

  “And The Raven?”

  “He'll bring them. If I know Denser, he's already contacted them.”

  “You sound very sure.”

  Erienne shrugged. “They're all such different people but when one is troubled, they all do the same thing.” She smiled, a little surprised by another surge of longing. Not for Lyanna but for them. The Raven. To stand among them once again. Should that happen, she knew they'd be all right. After all, The Raven never lost. Erienne suppressed a laugh at her own ludicrous arrogance and looked back to the beautiful blue sea.

  Hirad's meeting with Denser was never going to be warm but the devastation he saw at Thornewood and then Greythorne took much of the venom from the barbarian's mood. Ilkar had watched him brood ever since they'd left the Balan Mountains, unwilling even to entertain the thought of cordial relations with the Xeteskian. He had grumbled about leaving the Kaan who were all but shovelling him from the Choul and his temper had remained frail for the entirety of the three-day ride.

  But Thornewood had changed him. The three original members of The Raven's first ride, almost fifteen years before, had seen signs of wind damage while they were over a day from the forest. Flattened grassland, bushes uprooted and drifts of broken twigs, leaves and dirt, all told of a powerful gale.

  But nothing could prepare them for Thornewood itself. It was gone. Just a tangled mass of twisted and shattered trunks, scattered debris and piles of foliage covered in dirt. It was as if some giant claw had gouged across the forest, scooped it up, crushed it and then let it fall once again. Where once a stunning landscape had been, there was now just a smear on the face of Balaia.

  “I can't even see where the farms might have stood,” whispered Ilkar. “There
are no borders to the wood. Nothing at all.”

  The Unknown pointed north and east. “There's the trail though it's mostly hidden now. We should see if there's anything we can do.”

  But close to, it was clear that what little could be done, had been done. A few foundation poles from one of the farmsteads that had lived off the forest could be seen snapped off low to the ground and, here and there, a piece of treated hide was wedged in a shallow crack in the earth. All other signs of life had been swept away.

  Hirad stared into the havoc that had been visited on Thornewood and voiced the fear they all felt.

  “Thraun?”

  “We just have to pray he escaped,” said The Unknown quietly. “But even he would have been hard pressed to survive a falling tree.”

  “And as for the pack…” Ilkar left his words hanging. Though he was a wolf, Thraun would always retain vestiges of humanity in his mind. It was the way of all shapechangers, even those lost to their human form, and Thraun had already experienced more sadness than most of his fragile kind could bear. The Gods only knew what he would do if he lost the pack.

  “What caused this?” The Unknown shook his head.

  “I'm scared to even think about it,” said Ilkar.

  “What do you mean?” asked Hirad.

  “Let's get to Greythorne,” said Ilkar by way of reply. “Find Denser.”

  They rode on, expectations of finding the town undamaged dismissed. But as they travelled the decimated lowlands surrounding the wrecked forest, it became clear that their worst fears were liable to be realised.

  It was like a journey through a foreign landscape though they all knew the land well. So many landmarks and waypoints had gone. Trail posts, cairns, copses and spinneys, all had been scratched from the face of Balaia. Any remote homestead had been destroyed, timbers scattered wide and even the topsoil had been ripped away on the exposed slopes, bringing rock to the surface for the first time in centuries.

  The wind, if such it was, had been utterly indiscriminate and totally ruinous.

  They were under a day's ride from Greythorne with the morning all but over when The Unknown turned in his saddle for the third time in as many miles. He dropped back slowly before shifting in his seat and pulling up.

  “Hey!” he called, dismounting and scrutinising the girth buckle and strap. “Wait up.”

  Hirad and Ilkar wheeled their horses and trotted toward him, slipping off as they approached.

  “Girth slipping?” asked Hirad.

  The Unknown nodded. “No,” he said. “Don't look up. We're being followed. Tell you what, get out your waterskin and let's have a break, all right?”

  Hirad shrugged. “Sure.”

  The Unknown unbuckled the strap and tugged it back to the same position before joining his friends sitting at the side of the trail. The horses grazed a few feet away.

  “How many?” asked Hirad, handing him the waterskin.

  “Impossible to say.” He took a swig and rinsed his dry mouth, handing the skin back. “I've seen metal glint and shapes moving against the background.”

  “Distance?” Ilkar pushed a hand through his hair and lay out on his back.

  “Three miles, maybe a little more. Certainly horse-borne. I think they've been trailing us since the Balan Mountains.”

  “But you didn't want to worry us, eh?” Hirad's tone was only half joking. The Unknown's lips thinned.

  “No, Hirad, I just wasn't sure. You know how it is,” he said. “It's of no importance anyway. They haven't attacked us so we have to assume they're just trailing us for information. That also means they'll probably have a mage to communicate with whoever.”

  “Dordover,” said Ilkar.

  “Most likely,” agreed The Unknown. “And suffice to say, we can't let them find out any more than they can already guess.”

  “So where do we take them? The forest?” Hirad nodded at the wrecked woodland. They had been skirting it to the south having ignored the northeast trail through the farmsteads as they headed for Greythorne.

  “Yes. At the rock.”

  Whatever the state of the forest, the crag at its centre would still be intact until the earth opened up to swallow it.

  “Assuming we can persuade them to follow us in there.”

  Thornewood was a mess, just a shamble of dying vegetation and twisted wood. The birds had returned and their song could be heard above the wind that was gusting stronger again, cloud bubbling across the fast greying sky.

  “I don't think they have any choice,” said The Unknown. “They can't simply watch the hunter trails because there are none, not any more. We can pick our way in and out anywhere. And they can't go on to Greythorne and risk us not stopping there.”

  “But they'll assume our decision to go in means we've seen them, won't they?” queried Ilkar.

  The Unknown shrugged. “Possibly. But it hardly matters. It'll make them wary perhaps but it doesn't change what they're doing. And if we lose them, then so much the better.”

  “So, Unknown, any ideas about how to get in?” Hirad smiled. The Unknown blew out his cheeks. The force of the hurricane had snapped off almost every tree at a height varying between eight and a dozen or so feet. Tangled foliage was knotted across the forest floor and banked up in huge drifts against close-packed stands of trunks and, further in, no doubt against the rock itself. It had left no obvious entry point and the Raven trio would have to pick or hack their way through the least dense obstructions.

  “We'll find a way. C'mon, break over, no time like now.”

  They mounted up and trotted gently to the borders of the forest, indistinct now with debris scattered so widely. Making their way inside, the destruction was brought into stark focus. In places, the forest floor had been swept clean, the mulch and dust of years, the loose topsoil and every plant, flower and shrub scoured away. No tree was undamaged and everywhere arches of fallen boughs crisscrossed just above their heads or were impenetrable, forcing a change of direction, as if they wished no living thing to see the death of Thornewood.

  For three hours, The Unknown ensured they left a traceable trail as he bullied his horse through the debris. Where it thickened too much to be trampled, he dismounted and used his sword one-handed, sweeping through leaf and branch alike. Behind him, Ilkar and Hirad followed, saying nothing until they reached the crag.

  “Make sure you clean your sword. Sap's a real killer for rust,” said Hirad, sliding from his horse. The Unknown looked at him, his expression carefully blank.

  “Really? Thanks, Hirad. I'd have hated to have lost my sword through ignorance of sap's rust-inducing qualities.”

  Ilkar chuckled.

  “Just saying,” muttered Hirad.

  “I have been at this a couple of years myself,” said The Unknown. “And don't get comfortable. You've twenty yards of path to make thataway—” he waved his sword across the clearing around the crag “—while Ilkar goes and listens for them and I work out our best point of contact. All right?”

  Hirad nodded. “What about the horses?”

  “Take them down the path to tether when you're done. I'd help you but I can see little brown spots on my blade. What do you think they mean?”

  Hirad pulled his sword from its scabbard. “Funny, Unknown, but leave the jokes to me next time, eh?”

  “To prove you're even less amusing, presumably,” said Ilkar.

  “All right, come on,” said The Unknown. “They won't be far behind.”

  Hirad was convinced it wouldn't work. Dordovan spies or assassins weren't the type to blunder into a hastily laid ambush. But he had to concede they couldn't lead anyone straight to Denser or Erienne at this stage; and if all it served was to throw them off the scent, then he'd take that as a positive result. And there was no desire to kill those that followed them, after all, they might have some very useful information. They were merely under orders. What they needed was some clear guidance on why following The Raven was an occupation with no future.

/>   It was with some surprise then, that he heard Ilkar whisper that they were coming, just as the wind picked up suddenly, gusting through the remains of the forest and sifting at what it had so brutally created.

  The Raven had taken up position a few yards from the crag itself, hidden from the path they'd made by a tangle of pine branches and thick, sharp gorse.

  There were four of them, leading their horses, treading carefully and not uttering a sound, as if aware that all was not right in Thornewood. All were men, clad in varying shades of dark leather armour, long swords in free hands, helms framing faces older than those watching them. Hirad raised an eyebrow at the oddity. They were clearly an experienced team but the carelessness with which they'd revealed themselves to The Unknown made him wonder why Dordover had chosen them to follow The Raven. At least with no elves or willowy athletes in the party he could be fairly sure they weren't mage assassins. Just trackers.

  They entered the crag clearing and were edging around it cautiously, two by two, when The Unknown stepped out directly in front of them, the point of his sword down, tapping on the earth before him, its sound dull but music to Hirad's ears as he moved next to his old friend.

  “Lost or looking?” asked The Unknown, not unpleasantly. The quartet had stopped abruptly and Hirad saw the front pair share a glance, sudden fear in one's eyes, confusion and surprise in the other.

  “I don't like being followed,” said The Unknown.

  “We're not—” began the left of the pair, a heavyset man with greying temples and long brown hair beneath his helm. He had a few days’ growth of stubble, thick eyebrows and a stooped forehead.

  “I don't like being lied to either,” said The Unknown, interrupting smoothly. Hirad felt Ilkar step up behind them, a spell shape no doubt already formed.

  “Now,” continued The Unknown. “We aren't looking for any trouble. We're just helping a friend. I understand this is all of great interest to your masters but they'll find nothing by sending people to follow us. Just bodies. Do I make myself clear?”

  The men shifted a little, one dropped his gaze from The Unknown but the other held firm, brow creasing.