Nightchild

by James Barclay

  But it was a long time until daylight.

  All was not right. Thraun had left the remnants of the pack in safety, hidden deep within Thornewood, in a shallow den dug under a stand of trees the wind hadn't managed to destroy. He had chosen to scout Greythorne where the humans lived. To forage for food and look for any sign of the ones with the mist he recognised from a dim and confused past.

  But when he'd arrived, with night full and blustery under a sky hidden by cloud, all he'd found was more sorrow and more destruction. He'd sat on a rise above the town, gazing down, his lupine heart beating strangely as if sympathetic to a race he considered a threat. There would be no food. No fowl to take, no dog or cat to chase down, no scraps from the tables of the humans discarded in alleyways.

  Because though it was night, the town still moved as if it was day. Men carried stone from fallen buildings. Lifeless bodies, once exposed, were moved to an open space in the centre of the town and everywhere, lanterns and torches dazzled his eyes. He could not risk venturing in—he didn't want to bring the hunters back to Thornewood.

  And so he had returned to the pack but decided on a different route to the new den, hoping for a kill. It was there that he had found them. Four humans, two killed by metal and two by something else, their faces telling of sudden terror and brief agony.

  But there was something more. A scent in the air and on the leaves that he recognised, a cleanliness in the kills and a residual knowledge within him that sparked into life. He knew who had done this. He could taste them in the air. It had to be linked with the two he had seen in Thornewood before the wind had come. They and their tree-shadow people.

  Thraun stopped, his mind clearing slowly. Thornewood felt bad. Not because of the breaking of so much, but because of how it had happened. The suddenness, the wind out of all keeping with all that was natural and its links to the mist he could sense but never touch or feel around him.

  And that sense of wrong was still everywhere. With every gust his heart lurched, and with each drop of rain he feared flood from a clear sky. It had to be stopped. The threat to the pack had to be removed. And somehow, those humans he recognised so faintly were involved. Perhaps they sought what he now sought. Perhaps they didn't. But one thing was clear, he couldn't stay in Thornewood and live on hope alone.

  Thraun had always known he was different from the rest of the pack. He understood things. He didn't get damaged. He felt a curious kinship with humans that led him to forbid the pack to hunt them. Now, though, he needed the wolves.

  His mind set, he trotted back to the pack, left the cubs with the female least able to fight and took the rest back toward Greythorne.

  Somewhere out there were the answers.

  Hirad was poking at the fire, sending new flame spiralling into the air and embers scattering. Beyond the fire, the night was anything but quiet. Although it wasn't raining, the wind was blowing more cloud across the sky and, closer to the ground, savage gusts were whipping up dust, mourning around the broken ruins of Greythorne's once proud homes.

  Down in the centre and south of the town, the lanterns still burned as the work to uncover the dead continued. Hirad had enormous admiration and pity for the townspeople who clung to each other for what support they could get, while their inner strength drove them to sift the ruins for their dead so that those who survived could begin to live again.

  Hirad added another dried-out branch to the fire and looked away from the town centre to those he guarded. The Raven. It felt undeniably good. He hadn't imagined ever watching over Denser, Ilkar and The Unknown again, yet here he was, and their sleeping postures said everything about their confidence in him.

  There were so many memories to recall, he didn't know where to begin. He hooked the hot pot off the fire and refilled his mug, the soaking herbs Ilkar had gathered good enough for one last infusion.

  A gust of wind played across the campsite, sifting through the cloaks and furs of his friends as they slept, the whispering pickpocket that stole nothing. He smiled, recalling the countless times he'd seen it before.

  But the smile died as his eyes rested on Denser's form. Because the gust had gone, yet the riffling went on, his cloak moving under the order of some unseen hand. Unseen.

  He'd witnessed more magic than most nonmages would see in a lifetime and he knew a CloakedWalk attack when he saw it. Mindful that the mage, who would be moving very slowly around Denser to avoid becoming visible, would not be alone, Hirad stood leisurely, his gaze never slipping entirely from Denser, his mind framing the likely position of the mage thief.

  Denser was the other side of the fire from him, with The Unknown to his left and Ilkar his right. Hirad stretched, his heart rate increasing. Another gust blew across the ruins. Hirad half turned as if to look down in to Greythorne, swung back, took a single pace and launched himself across the fire.

  Fists clenched and arms outstretched, he dived to land beyond Denser's body but connected with the Cloaked mage's shoulder and upper back as he bent to steal. Hirad heard the mage grunt in surprise and suddenly he was there; a long figure, dressed in close-fitting black clothes, his arms flailing as the barbarian slammed him to the ground.

  “Raven! Mage attack!” called Hirad as he landed, hands grappling for a hold. The mage was fast, sinewy and supple, scrabbling furiously and jamming an arm between himself and Hirad, pushing the barbarian away.

  Hirad rolled again, letting go his grip and coming to a half crouch, seeing the mage still disorientated and, behind him, The Raven surging to wakefulness. The mage made to run but Hirad was quicker, lashing out a leg to trip him, the mage tumbling head over heels, sprawling in the dust.

  The Raven man jumped after him, the mage quickly on to his feet and facing the barbarian. He swung a fist which Hirad ducked, stepping inside the man's long reach to slam a punch into his midriff and follow up with a left hand which caught him square on the nose. Hirad felt it crack under his fist and felt the blood wet and warm on his hand.

  The mage staggered back, gasping in pain. Hirad went after him, double jabbing to the mouth with his left and swinging with his right in a hook that the mage swayed away to avoid. Hirad squared up but never landed his next punch, taken off his feet by a body slamming into his side.

  He tumbled to the ground, aware of shouting and seeing another figure all over his vision as he rolled. He heard The Raven shouting.

  “Three! There are three!” Denser shouted.

  A sword was drawn. Hirad saw the glint of metal and blocked instinctively left to right, connecting with a forearm. He scrambled back, trying to gauge his surroundings, seeing people everywhere.

  Denser shouted something unintelligible and rage filled the space. In front of Hirad, his attacker jumped to his feet but doubled over as soon as he straightened. Hirad felt the spray of blood over his face and the man collapsed.

  “Gods!” he shouted, getting to his feet and looking for the mage with the broken nose but Denser had seen him first.

  “Bastards!” shouted Denser. The Xeteskian swept by Hirad, bloodied sword raised to bring it down, again and again.

  “Stop! Stop!” The Unknown was shouting.

  By Hirad, the other mage lay writhing, clutching his side, screaming his agony. Hirad lashed a foot into his face to quiet him while behind, the dull thud of metal on dead meat sounded in his ears.

  “It's over. Denser, it's over!” The Unknown again.

  “No!” shouted Denser.

  “It is over!” The Unknown's voice had finality about it and quiet reigned.

  Hirad dusted himself down. He flexed his fists, feeling the knuckles and rubbing at the soreness he found.

  On the ground near him, the body of one mage lay twisted in the rubble. His kick to the face had snapped the man's neck but given the gaping wound in his back, it was probably a blessing. A few paces away, a second body. There was blood everywhere. In the garish light of the fire, it glistened on seemingly every stone, trailed over the churned mud and slicked in poo
ls by the bodies. The third was nowhere to be seen and Hirad drew his sword, staring around into the night.

  “The third one's still out there somewhere,” he warned.

  “He won't be back,” whispered Denser. “He knows we'll be waiting.”

  Denser still stood over his second victim, blood dripping from the blade he clutched, dragging in huge breaths, his head down, face blank. The Unknown and Ilkar stood near each other and to Denser's left. Neither had drawn a weapon and both looked on in almost comical shock at the carnage Denser had so quickly wrought.

  “Denser, it's time to clean and sheath,” said The Unknown quietly.

  The Xeteskian nodded and knelt to wipe his sword on the dead mage. They watched him make his very deliberate movements and walk back to the fire to retrieve his scabbard, refusing to catch their eyes. He sat on his bedroll and stared into the fire.

  “Who were they?” asked Hirad.

  “Dordovans,” said Ilkar.

  “Assassins,” grated Denser.

  “I don't think so,” said Hirad. “Or it'd be your blood on the ground, not theirs. What the hell happened to you?” He gestured at the bodies and walked back into the warmth of the fire, Ilkar and The Unknown joining him. “I can't believe you did this.”

  Denser shrugged. “They attacked, we defended.”

  “Interesting angle,” said Ilkar. “Someone else might say you ran after an unarmed man and hacked him half to pieces.”

  “They didn't attack,” said Hirad. “They wanted something from you.”

  Denser looked at Hirad, his fury still burning. “And they didn't get it.”

  “Didn't get what?” asked The Unknown.

  “It doesn't matter,” said Denser, hand reflexively touching his stomach.

  “No?” Hirad saw the wildness in Denser's eyes and chose to keep himself calm. “It mattered to the Dordovans. And it mattered enough for you to kill them.”

  “That's not why I killed them.”

  “Then tell us,” said The Unknown. “You're keeping secrets from us again and, again, we couldn't be prepared. You're putting us at risk and that's not The Raven's way.”

  “Gods, you sound like Hirad,” said Denser.

  “That's because, on this, he's dead right,” said Ilkar, adding his weight. “We need to know, Denser. And we'll sleep easier if we know now.”

  The Xeteskian raised his eyebrows and nodded, somehow making it a grudging gesture.

  “The Prophecy wasn't all translated. And I was curious. So I took the pages that weren't translated to Xetesk and found out Dordover's intentions, all right?”

  Hirad breathed out sharply and looked down into the town. Lights were weaving through the streets, heading their way. Not surprising. The screams of the dying mage were bound to have been heard despite the wind. At least it would keep the third mage away. He sheathed his sword and sat down.

  “And you thought this little snippet not important enough to mention?” said Ilkar, voice quiet but angry. “You've put us at risk ever since we left Dordover and didn't bother to mention it. Thanks very much.”

  “I didn't think they'd find out,” said Denser.

  “That isn't the point,” said Hirad. “I hope it was worth it.” He looked over at Denser and could see that, to him, it was.

  “If they get hold of my daughter now, they'll conduct a ritual spell sacrifice. They'll murder her but they won't do it quickly. She'll die in agony. And I won't let that happen. Enough for you?” Denser stared back into the fire.

  “For now,” said The Unknown.

  Hirad looked at the big man. He suspected there was more. Time would tell but he was seldom wrong. Right now, though, with the lanterns bobbing nearer, there was some explaining to do.

  Erienne knew they had made good speed but to her their passage still felt so slow. She knew it was her anxiety but the nagging feeling wouldn't go away. She'd have blown into the sails herself but the stiff wind whipping white horses across the surface of the water, and without doubt a product of Lyanna's mind, was obviously power enough. Indeed at times, the captain of the Ocean Elm could be seen frowning out from the wheel deck, confused as to the direction of the wind which didn't necessarily accompany cloud or follow its direction.

  But he was a skilful sailor, used to the vagaries of the Southern Ocean and the tides around Calaius; and though clearly irritated by the conflicting information he could see and feel, had enough faith in his judgement and kept the sails full.

  Erienne had risen with the first signs of dawn, as she had each morning, marvelling at the sight of light breaking across the eastern horizon as she stood at the bow, dressed in thick woollen breeches, shirt and cloak. This morning, she could see Balaia on the horizon. It was a clear, bright day without a hint of haze and the sight boosted her spirits, quelling the impatience that Ren'erei had found both funny and frustrating.

  “Be calm,” she had said. “There's nothing you can do. The wind and the ship are beyond your control. If you relax your mind, the days will pass more quickly.”

  Erienne smiled and half turned to see the pretty young elf standing on the wheel deck next to the captain. She had tried to teach Erienne mind-calming exercises which were surprisingly similar to those taught at the Colleges to mages suffering severe mana drain. Ren'erei asked her to think of her tensed mind as a muscle, cramped by fatigue, before imagining it slowly unwinding and stretching, then feeling the cool wash of blood begin to flow again.

  She knew she could do it, she just didn't want to, and her smiling admission had caused Ren to throw up her arms and stalk away.

  Now, of course, Erienne wished she'd tried harder. She was tired, having not had a solid night's sleep since leaving Herendeneth. Lyanna's cries of pain and fear still echoed around her skull in the dead of night and her own anxiety surfaced to wake her a dozen times from her rest.

  She'd survive. The coastline was looming large and the trip up the river to Arlen quick, if the captain timed the tide well. Erienne had no doubt that he would.

  Her emotions were so mixed. She was desperate to see Denser but feared his reaction after so long out of contact. She needed his strength and thought but disliked the admission of failure it had come to represent within her. And she still thrilled at the prospect of standing with The Raven once again despite knowing the confidence it would give her was entirely unfounded. After all, how could they possibly help? She had to smile at that. They had achieved enough against the odds to make the question ridiculous. The fact was, they'd find a way.

  There would be problems, though. She knew Ilkar would be ethically opposed to a return to the One and she could well understand the conflicting thoughts that would be running through his mind. Perhaps he wouldn't even be with them. But somehow, she thought he wouldn't miss it—if only to ensure right was done by his College. As for Denser, well, Denser's College had a vested interest and they'd no doubt be irritated he wasn't working directly with them. But he was a father before he was a Xeteskian and he'd fight his own College if he thought they threatened Lyanna. And in that, as in so much, Erienne and he were one.

  But through all her feelings at what she would find back in Balaia, her strongest tie was to the child she had been forced to leave behind. Poor Lyanna. The innocent in a game with no rules, no defined sides and no obvious way to win. Erienne yearned to see her little face, her delightful smile and her beautiful eyes. And she feared that if this mission went astray, and the Dordovans found Herendeneth, she would not.

  The strengthening wind drove the bow of the Ocean Elm into the next wave, sending spray flying into the air and across the foredeck. Erienne wiped a film of water from her face, turned and walked to the wheel deck, her balance true and confident after six days at sea.

  Trotting up the eight-runged ladder she came to stand by Ren'erei, the elf smiling at her, green eyes sparkling.

  “Getting a little rough down there, was it?” she asked.

  “No. It's just that I've already washed this morning, that
's all,” she returned. “How close are we?”

  The Captain turned to her, reddened face pinched, his strong hands rocks on the wheel. “A day and a half, no more. Less if we go upriver through the night and I have a mind to.” His voice was melodic and gentle, so different from when he bellowed orders to his crew.

  Erienne nodded. “Then it's time I tried to contact Denser. I'll be in my cabin and I need to not be disturbed.”

  “Then I'll be standing outside the door.” Ren'erei’s face was solemn.

  “You don't have to.” Erienne smiled.

  “Nevertheless.”

  Erienne led the way below decks, turning to Ren'erei as she reached the door to her cabin.

  “You should hear nothing,” she said. “But even if you do, don't worry. Occasionally, dispersal of Communion is a little painful.”

  “Good luck,” said Ren'erei.

  “Thank you.” She closed the door, lay down on her bed and closed her eyes. As she settled into the mana spectrum, searching for the spike that she would recognise as Denser, she prayed he was within her compass and, more importantly, that he would answer her at all.

  She was not to be disappointed.

  Darrick faced down the angry Dordovan mage master in front of him. The young General hadn't slept, though his cavalry and mage charges had grabbed a few hours after arriving in the ruins of Greythorne in the middle of the night. Having overseen the picketing and feeding of the horses, he'd toured the ruins, resolving immediately to leave half of his four hundred cavalry to help the salvage effort, taking the balance on after a day's rest and assessment.

  What he didn't need, with the stubble itching his chin, his eyes red and smarting and still wearing his riding garb, was the mage, Tendjorn, to disagree.

  “These people need our help,” said Darrick. “While you were resting, I was walking these streets. My decision stands.”