Nightchild

by James Barclay

  “We should wake Myra,” said Ephemere. “She can take the rest of the night.”

  “No,” said Aviana firmly. “I can do it. Just pray she keeps quiet through the day too.”

  Cleress knew what she meant. They couldn't cope with another outburst like this without rest. Ideally, Myriell shouldn't be woken until noon and Aviana would have to sleep the whole of the next day and night. She and Ephy were in little better shape but had the rest of this night before having to once again take their stints guarding Lyanna from her own mind. Her Night was far from over.

  Cleress and Ephemere made their way slowly and painfully back to their own rooms, spurning the Lemiir for the totality of rest. In truth, neither had the energy to sit and smoke.

  Closing her door, Cleress mouthed a silent prayer that Erienne would return soon.

  The Raven walked purposefully back toward the centre of Greythorne, their direction clear at last. All their clues, thoughts and suspicions had been proved right. Erienne had travelled south, she had received help and she had met with the Al-Drechar. But not on Balaia.

  Denser had woken thoughtful, quiet but determined from his Communion, his fury of the night gone and giving them only a brief summary of his conversation. He was very anxious to be on his way but The Unknown was determined to make proper assessment of Greythorne, both in terms of support for its beleaguered survivors and the potential threat of the cavalry force.

  They would leave town after midday all being well which, with Erienne probably arriving in Arlen the following morning, depending on wind and tide at the river's mouth, was all Denser would stand. It would still leave Erienne alone for two days but Denser had advised her to stay aboard the Ocean Elm, advice she had been given by the Guild elves already.

  “Like I said earlier, keep your eyes open. We've heard all sorts of rumours about College mobilisation and we don't know where allegiances have finally fallen, if anywhere. Don't necessarily trust anyone. And remember, even within a College, not everyone thinks the same way.”

  “Meaning what?” asked Hirad.

  “Meaning Dordover don't want us to find Lyanna first,” said The Unknown. “They want us to lead them to her and then they want her back inside the College and probably dead. All right?”

  Hirad nodded. “I'll be careful.”

  “Good.”

  It was a short walk through the ruins to the centre of the shattered town, coming again to full, painful life, such as it was. The smell of porridge and the steam from water vats drifted across the main square. Squads of men and women moved with dread purpose to their next tasks and inside the marquee a babble of voices signified the day's activities being organised.

  The Unknown Warrior stopped one of a group of men heading past them with shovels. “I heard some cavalry come in last night. Do you know where from?”

  The man shrugged. “West. One of the Colleges.”

  “Which one? Dordover?”

  A shake of the head. “I'm not sure. Lystern, I think.”

  The Unknown nodded and walked on, heading for the marquee.

  “Good news,” said Ilkar.

  “If it's true,” said The Unknown.

  “Will you ever stop being sceptical?”

  “Will you ever stop being an elf?” The Unknown smiled.

  “I think you've said that before, sometime.”

  “I know I have.”

  “But he was right about Lystern, that man. Look,” said Hirad, pointing toward the marquee. Standing just under its awning and talking to Gannan was a tall young man in plated cavalry leather. A cloak was about his shoulders, deep green with gold braiding at the neck, and his curly brown hair waved in the breeze that blew without pause through Greythorne's streets. He was obviously tired, his shoulders having the minutest droop, but he was still unmistakable.

  “Darrick,” said The Unknown.

  The Raven walked faster across the square to their old friend who didn't look up as they approached, his face half turned from them.

  “Well, well, well,” said Hirad. “There's a face it's good to see in bad times.”

  Darrick's head snapped round and he took in the four of them, a rare smile crossing his face.

  “But why is it always the bad times, Hirad, eh?” The smile faded as he gripped hands with them all in turn, his habitual serious expression replacing it. “I didn't expect to see The Raven together again. The situation must be worse than I thought.”

  “We're just helping a friend,” said Ilkar. “Old habits die hard, you know.”

  “I do know.”

  “So what brings Lysternan cavalry to Greythorne?” asked The Unknown.

  “Orders,” said Darrick. “Some of my, um, superiors deemed it necessary to increase the weight of our already significant forces in Arlen.”

  “Already significant?” Denser's face displayed his agitation.

  “Look,” said Darrick. “I know I'm not speaking to fools. There's been plenty of College mobilisation and the potential for trouble in Arlen is high.”

  “Someone else knows Erienne's landing there tomorrow, do they?”

  “Hirad!” snapped The Unknown, his voice an angry hiss.

  “No, they do not,” said Darrick, but he couldn't help a glance over his left shoulder where a cloaked man was standing hunched over some papers.

  “But they do now,” said Denser. “Nice work, Hirad.”

  “What's wrong with you? This is Darrick we're talking to,” said Hirad, though his tone betrayed the knowledge that he'd made a bad mistake.

  “And you think Lystern alone sent him and his cavalry, do you?” The Unknown scowled. “Gods, Hirad, sometimes I wonder whether you understand anything at all.”

  “Can we conduct this somewhere else?” suggested Ilkar.

  Denser nodded curtly and strode back into the square, heading for the makeshift stabling.

  “Sorry,” said Hirad, shrugging. “I didn't think—”

  “No, you didn't,” said The Unknown. “C'mon. Time for a slight change of plan.” He looked deep into Darrick's eyes, the General nodding almost imperceptibly. “Thanks.”

  He turned and followed Denser out into the wan sunlight, Ilkar and Hirad behind him.

  Tendjorn straightened and turned, watching The Raven hurry away. To his right, Darrick stood impassive, his eyes glinting, his body still. The Dordovan mage could feel his anger though and found it a comfort. He opened his mouth to speak.

  “Don't say it,” warned Darrick. “You will leave them to do what they have to do.”

  Tendjorn snorted. “Sentimentality is something you can ill afford,” he said. “They have done what we expected and located Erienne. We can handle it from here.”

  “Meaning what exactly? If you've used The Raven, you'll pay. Not by my hand, by theirs. You'll do well to remember that.”

  “Five years ago, when they rode the dragons to save us from the Wesmen, I would have believed them capable of anything. But now? Look at them, General. They're looking exactly what they are. Past it. You're supposed to be a friend of theirs; perhaps you should start acting like one.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I will be contacting Gorstan at Arlen presently,” said Tendjorn, ignoring Darrick's anger. “We'll have Erienne as soon as she docks. I expect you to be ready to ride with however many you consider necessary as soon as you have completed your assessment of Greythorne.”

  “And The Raven?”

  “Will be kept away from causing trouble. Now that can be by you, or by Dordovan forces already in Arlen. Either way, they are not to be allowed contact with Erienne.”

  Darrick looked at him, his jaw clenched, eyes betraying his feelings, but said nothing, choosing to walk away. Tendjorn enjoyed his discomfort.

  “Oh, General?” Darrick stopped, his back to the mage. “We don't want bloodshed in Arlen, do we? Like I said, The Raven are your friends. I do hope you decide to, how shall I put it, look after their well-being. Stop them doing anything foolhardy.�
��

  The General walked on.

  Thraun had tracked the scent of the ones for which he had dim but certain memory. Trotting with the pack toward Greythorne, other disturbing recollections fought to resurface, distracting him and worrying the pack, who kept a wary distance behind.

  Like dreams while he was awake, the flashes rocked him. Of standing on two legs; of a friend he knew as man-packbrother; of great winged beasts and of primal fear reaching down from the sky. At least they confirmed that those humans he followed were known to him sometime.

  And that they were strong and, he thought, good.

  The pack kept above the trail the humans and their animals used as it wound past the remains of Thornewood and arced across open ground, latterly turning full south to enter the town itself.

  It was a habit born of caution but he shouldn't have bothered. Nothing travelled the trail and, with the moon shining dully through a cloud-covered sky, there would be no one. Just the spirits of the wind to keep the fear alive within them.

  The pack had stopped to rest and watch on a shadowed rise above Greythorne. The scene was much as the previous night, with lights burning, voices calling and stone and wood rumbling, cracking or falling.

  Well before dawn, horses and riders had thundered into the western end of the town and Thraun had taken advantage of the disruption to scout the empty streets. He had picked up the scent of his humans very quickly and, satisfied he knew where they were, by smell and the embers of a fire he could see like a puddle in the dark, he had returned to the pack.

  But they hadn't stayed in Greythorne. With light across the sky once more, the humans had taken to their horses and ridden south and east. Thraun hadn't known what he expected but it wasn't this. Perhaps the wrong in the air covered more than he dared imagine. Perhaps the two female humans he had seen in Thornewood were not returning to Greythorne. Or perhaps those he knew were doing nothing to change the wrong to right.

  Whichever way it was, the pack had to follow him. He ignored their desire for food. That could come later. Choosing to track by scent rather than shadow by eye, Thraun took the pack on to a destiny none of them could guess at or hope to understand.

  The Unknown hadn't even paused to say goodbye to Gannan, such was the haste with which they left Greythorne. With their horses’ hooves kicking up mud and the surprised and disappointed faces of the town's survivors following them, they galloped through the wreckage and out into the countryside, heading east and south to Arlen. It was just under a three-day ride and though they were bound to have a good start on any pursuit, that wasn't Denser's principal concern.

  They rode hard for two hours before the horses needed a break. Ilkar took the horses to a stream while Hirad built a fire to make coffee.

  The barbarian didn't look up when Denser stalked up and ignited the damp timber with a brief but intense FlamePalm. The Unknown dumped a few more short branches by the growing flames.

  “Hirad, you are a bloody idiot,” he said, squatting down by his friend. “What did I say about being careful?”

  “It should be all right. We can trust Darrick,” said Hirad, though the pit in his stomach told him it wouldn't be.

  “Darrick isn't the problem,” said Denser. “The Dordovan behind him was.”

  “But even so—” began Hirad.

  “There isn't an ‘even so,’” snapped Denser. “Unless they've made a major tactical error, that mage will be able to commune as far as Arlen easily and will have already done so.”

  “Always assuming there's anyone there.”

  “Oh, assuming that, of course.” Denser cast his eyes skyward. Above him, the cloud was moving and rolling, pushed by a quickly strengthening wind. Already, Hirad had changed his position to shield the fire over which The Unknown hung his pot.

  “Hirad, it's become obvious to everyone that Erienne took Lyanna off Balaia. It was a just a question of where. Dordover will have been covering every port for weeks. After all, they've had a fifty-day advantage over the rest of us,” said The Unknown.

  “So what do we do?” Hirad at last picked his head up and looked at The Unknown. There was no anger in his expression, just frustration.

  “Well we have to assume any Dordovans in Arlen are already aware of Erienne's imminent arrival. And so we have to stop her walking into trouble for a start.”

  “Which means Denser communes, right?”

  “Yes, Hirad,” said Denser curtly. “Not exactly how I'd planned to deplete my stamina but still.”

  “I'm sorry, all right?” Hirad couldn't keep the irritation out of his voice. “We'll sort it out.”

  “Will we?” Denser's eyes flashed angrily. “There's four of us. What exactly do you suppose we'll do if the Dordovans get to her before we do?”

  “They're not going to hurt her, Denser.”

  “But they'll take her from me and time is so short,” he said, fidgeting again. “And capturing her is all they need to get to Lyanna. Only I can save her.”

  “So you keep saying. So get them to avoid Arlen and we'll meet them further down the coast. Don't panic.” Hirad stabbed another branch into the fire, sending a few sparks past the gently steaming pot. Ilkar scrambled over and sat the opposite side of the fire to the barbarian.

  “I'm not panicking, Hirad. I'm worried for my wife and daughter. I hope that's all right.”

  “And I'm worried for my dragons but I'm still here helping you.”

  “Oh, Gods,” muttered Ilkar under his breath. “Must you?”

  “Yes, such helpless creatures,” said Denser. “So vulnerable. I can't imagine how they'll survive without you.”

  “They're already dying, Denser,” snarled Hirad. “Not that you'd know, eating delicacies in your comfortable tower.”

  “That's not how it is,” said Denser, leaning back deliberately, attempting to calm the situation a little.

  “No, sure, I mean the fruits of your hard work are everywhere, aren't they?” Hirad waved his arms expansively. “Do you see Protectors freed? Are the Kaan dragons any closer to going home?”

  “Those are just two issues in—”

  “‘Just?’ In case it's escaped your attention, Denser, those two issues saved Balaia. One knowingly exiling themselves in the process, the other fought at great cost outside the Septern Manse. Unfortunately, it was some time ago, and perhaps your memory has dimmed over the years.” Hirad's caustic tone echoed around the fireplace. There was a contemplative silence.

  “Hirad, I know this is critical to you,” said Ilkar. “But temporarily, we have more pressing matters. And getting to Erienne and then the Al-Drechar could solve your problem anyway.”

  Hirad nodded. “I know I made a mistake and I'm sorry. I just want him to know what he's done. Or rather not done.” He jabbed a finger at Denser.

  “At the risk of seeming stupid, what does finding the Al-Drechar have to do with Hirad's dragons?” asked Denser.

  “The Kaan think they can solve the dimensional riddle,” said The Unknown. “They have Septern's knowledge after all. And one other thing. Hirad's right, the Kaan are dying and the Protectors aren't free—”

  “Hold on, I—”

  “Don't interrupt me, Denser,” warned The Unknown. “I know Mount politics are complex but you're a senior master now. We've seen no results. No progress. And we want answers. Just as soon as Lyanna is secure.”

  Denser regarded The Unknown with a slight frown on his face. A corner of his mouth turned up as he spoke, a little nervous reaction.

  “Let's face it, unless we can secure Lyanna, and the Al-Drechar for that matter, dragons and Protectors will be the least of our worries.”

  “All the worse that you've let it go this long, then,” said Hirad. He lined up a row of mugs and tipped the coffee into them.

  Denser shook his head. “You see, the trouble is, you haven't grasped the seriousness of all this yet, have you?”

  “Credit me with some notion,” said Hirad, thrusting a mug at Denser roughly enough
for coffee to spill over. “If we don't get to Lyanna first and keep her from Dordover, we'll have this bad weather for longer.”

  Denser gaped. “Haven't you told him anything?” he demanded of Ilkar.

  The elf shrugged. “We tried…”

  “I understand,” said Denser, nodding in resignation. “Let me try and put this in words you'll understand.”

  “Don't patronise me, Xetesk man.”

  “Sorry. I didn't mean that the way it came out.” He took a sip of his drink. “This isn't like a passing storm front. ‘Bad weather’ does not cover what might happen—this is only the start. We've already seen a raising of the earth, a hurricane, floods and tidal waves. Imagine that happening a hundred times worse and all across Balaia. Because if Lyanna is taken from the Al-Drechar and slips into unfathomable Night, as would be inevitable, that's what'll happen until she dies. And that's why the Dordovans will kill her.”

  “And can we, or rather you, control her?” asked Hirad, his voice quieter as the weight of Denser's words sank in.

  “Yes, I keep telling you,” Denser replied, anxiety back in his voice. “But we have to get to her quickly. The Al-Drechar can't contain her for long, even at this level of mess. At least the fact that Erienne has left her means she believes the Al-Drechar are capable for the time being.”

  “But then she won't know the extent of what's already happened,” reasoned Ilkar.

  “I think the Al-Drechar will have guessed,” replied Denser. “But the point is that letting Lyanna fall into Dordovan hands would be a disaster. They'll either try and fail to control her because they don't understand or they'll kill her because they're scared of her. I need my wife. We haven't got long.”

  Hirad opened his mouth to speak, saw the depths of worry in Denser's eyes and chose to drink some coffee instead. What he had been about to say was inflammatory anyway. Perhaps another time.

  “We have to deal with the here and now,” said The Unknown. “Denser, Communion. If you can get Erienne to persuade them to anchor in the bay we can ride down the estuary to find them. Hirad, go and check the horses. Ilkar, a word if I may.”