“Hirad?” The Unknown was smiling.
“You trying to be funny?” Hirad said more irritably than he intended. The Unknown walked over to him.
“I apologise. Something's wrong, isn't it?”
“Oh, not so's you'd notice,” said Hirad. “I mean, all that's happened today is we've beaten what we thought was the biggest threat to Balaia, only to find there was worse lurking around the corner. What on earth should be wrong?”
The Unknown put a hand on Hirad's shoulder and turned him away from the onlooking Will and Thraun.
“That's one thing. What else?” Hirad stared at the big warrior. “Come on, Hirad. I've known you ten years. Don't pretend that's it. Not to me.”
Hirad turned his head, looking over at the three Raven mages and Styliann as they talked by the fire.
“We're going to have to go there,” he said, frowning. “Sha-Kaan said the rip had to be closed back to front, or something. Erienne understood. But…”
“I know,” said The Unknown.
“Unknown, I don't know if I can.”
“I'll be standing beside you. We all will. We're The Raven.”
Hirad chuckled. “At least I'll be dying in good company, then.”
“No one's dying, Hirad. Least of all you. You've got more lives than a cat.”
“It's my destiny.” Hirad shrugged. The Unknown looked at him bleakly.
“You know nothing about destiny,” he said, voice low and cool. Hirad bit his lip, cursing himself for his flapping tongue. The Unknown was a man for whom that word had a truly bitter meaning.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Empty and alone,” said The Unknown. “Like I've lost something precious.” He watched a group of Styliann's Protectors who were examining the dead dragon. “You can have no idea what it's like. I can feel them but I can't be close to them, not really. They know me as one of them but can't relate to me. I'm outside of their conception yet evidently real. It's as if I'm neither Protector nor free man.” The Unknown pulled off a glove and scratched his forehead with his thumb. “You don't know what your soul really is until you lose it.”
“But you wouldn't still want to be one of them, would you?” Hirad too was staring at the Protectors. Xeteskian warriors, all taken before their time to the service of the College and enthralled, their souls removed from their bodies but kept alive. And kept alive to be held together in the Soul Tank, deep in the catacombs of Xetesk where the demons could reach them and punish them should they step out of line.
The Unknown had said it was both the tragedy and the glory of existence as a Protector. Never had he felt so close to his fellow men, their souls mingling in the tank, enabling them to operate as one in the flesh—the understanding of the human at the most basic level making them the awesome power they were.
But all the time, the DemonChain linking each body to the essence of the soul could be the source of unending pain. No Protector could return to his former life though he would remember every detail. The ebony mask each wore was both reminder and warning. Protectors belonged to Xetesk. They had no identity; the Dark College's deal with the demons saw to that.
Hirad shuddered. And The Unknown had been one until Laryon, the Xeteskian Master who believed in an end to the Calling, had sacrificed his life in freeing the Raven warrior.
But the legacy remained. The Unknown's time in the Soul Tank had left him permanently bonded to the remaining Protectors, some five hundred in all. And though his soul rested in his body once more and he could live maskless, without fear of retribution from demons, Hirad knew the big man would never really be free. He could see it in The Unknown's eyes. And though he smiled, laughed and cared as much as ever he did, something was missing. He was wounded, his brotherhood cut from him. It was a wound Hirad doubted would ever close and if it did not, The Unknown would always carry with him that sense of loss.
“Hmmm?” The Unknown hadn't heard his question.
“I said, you wouldn't still want to be a Protector, would you?” repeated the barbarian.
“I can never properly describe to you what I lost when my soul reentered my body but what I gained was my former life and it was the life I loved and had chosen to live. No, I would never want to be a Protector again but neither will I demand the release of those still within the Calling either. For some of them, the shock would kill them. They've been in the tank too long and their past has become meaningless. They have to want to be free.”
Hirad nodded. He thought he understood. He gazed up at the rip, boiling in the sky, its white-flecked brown surface like the eye of a malevolent God surveying Balaia.
“I guess that's a task for later,” he said. “C'mon, let's see what the mages have dreamed up.”
Tessaya slept little on a night he should have slumbered deep and untroubled, cocooned in the comfort of victory and the promise of conquest. But he was restless, the fat soldier's words eating at his dreams and breaking his rest.
Darrick. The thorn in the Wesmen's hide nine years before, when the original capture of Understone Pass was first a dream, then a desire and finally a key. And still he rode, clearly instrumental in the battle which saw the devastation of Wesmen in the water magic which had scoured Understone Pass only a few days before.
Darrick. Through the pass and deep into Wesmen territory. To Parve, where the Wytch Lords were strongest and were beaten. There was no doubt he was pleased that the Wytch Lord influence had been removed. Though it had galvanised and united the tribes, it was a wholly unequal partnership which demanded the subjugation of the Tribal Lords beneath the Wytch Lord standard. But with the ancients gone and the power of the Shamen—which had most certainly aided the invasion—reduced once again to that of soothsayers, spirit guides and medicine men, the Tribal Lords could assume their rightful positions.
Yet anyone capable of orchestrating the downfall of the Wytch Lords was a threat only a fool would ignore. Tessaya wondered whether he hadn't exchanged a tyrannical master for an even greater danger to his life and leadership.
Still, as he sat up in his bed in the early hours of the morning, with the silence of Understone ringing in his ears, a mug of water in his hand to ease his throbbing head, he couldn't help but feel respect.
Respect for Darrick, his cavalry and The Raven. The latter, men surely not a great many years younger than himself but who defied death through skill and courage. He smiled. They represented an enemy he could understand and so defeat. It was his ace but a card he would have to play just right.
He knew where they must be and Parve was more than ten days’ ride from Understone. Not only that, their passage to the East would be difficult in the extreme, if not impossible. Tessaya smiled again, relaxing at last. While Darrick was a man to be watched, for now at least he could be watched from a distance.
The Lord of the Paleon Tribes fought back the urge to sleep now his mind was calm. Dawn was approaching and there was a great deal to organise. Tessaya wanted all of Balaia and for that, he needed lines of communication between his armies.
With the Wytch Lords gone, messages could no longer be sent via the Shamen. Tessaya found himself smiling once more because, again, they would have to rely on the old methods. On smoke, on flags and on birds.
Tessaya had known it was likely. Despite the best efforts of the Shamen to dissuade him, he'd brought all of his messaging birds with him and had insisted his Generals do the same. His foresight meant that communication would be swift and effective but first, men would have to take his birds to each Wesmen stronghold in Eastern Balaia. There lay the risk.
If he was right, however, and the forces of the East were shattered all along the Blackthorne Mountains, his riders would comfortably reach their targets and the links could be made. Tessaya called for a guard to summon his riders, dressed quickly in shirt and leather and met them on the baked earth outside Understone's inn.
The morning was clear and bright. A cool and gentle breeze ran off the Blackthorne Mountains, whi
ch rose stark and black in front of Tessaya, stretching away north and south, stopping only to dive into the sea. He had always hated the mountains. Without the freak feature, the Wesmen would have plundered the East generations before and magic would never have been born.
The Spirits had been unkind, leaving the mighty range as a constant challenge to the Wesmen desire for conquest. Tessaya turned his tanned and weather-worn face from the unending miles of black rock at the sound of footsteps behind him. His riders approached, accompanied by Arnoan, the Shaman. Tessaya quashed a scowl. Much as he respected Arnoan, he would have to move him firmly aside from the decision-making process. Conquest was the province of warriors, not witch doctors.
“My Lord,” said Arnoan, inclining his old head. Tessaya acknowledged him vaguely, focusing on his riders. Six men, lean, fit and expert horsemen in a race for whom riding was traditionally the right of nobles only.
“Three north to meet with Lord Senedai, three south to meet with Lord Taomi,” said Tessaya without preamble. “You will split the birds evenly between you. To the north, you must travel to Julatsa. To the south, toward Blackthorne. I can spare you four days only to find our armies. You must not fail. Much of the glory of battles to come rests with you.”
“My Lord, we will not fail you,” said one.
“Ready yourselves. I shall prepare messages for you. Be back here in half an hour.”
“My Lord.” The riders trotted away to the stable blocks which were housed at the east end of the town.
“Arnoan, a word if I may.”
“Certainly, my Lord.” Tessaya gestured for the old Shaman to precede him into the inn. The two men sat at the table they had shared the day before.
“Messages, my Lord?”
“Yes, but I feel well able to phrase them myself.”
Arnoan reacted as if slapped.
“Tessaya, it is the way of the Wesmen that the Shamen advise the Warrior Lords, as befits their senior positions in the affairs of the tribes.” The old Shaman frowned deeply, his wispy grey hair flying in the breeze that eddied through the open inn door.
“Absolutely,” said Tessaya. “But this is not a tribal affair. This is war and the Warrior Lords shall have complete control over all command decisions, choosing who they will to advise them, and when.”
“But since the new rise of the Wytch Lords, the Shamen have gained respect throughout the tribes,” protested Arnoan, his hands gripping the edge of the table.
“But the Wytch Lords are gone, and the respect that you saw was sown in fear of your masters. You no longer have magic, you cannot wield a sword, you have no concept of the pressure of war from the front line or the command post.” Tessaya remained impassive.
“You are dismissing me, my Lord?”
Tessaya allowed his face to soften. “No, Arnoan. You are an old and trusted friend and as such, I am giving you the opportunity to take your rightful place without the eyes of the tribesmen upon you. I will ask for your advice when I require it. Until then, please do not offer it, but take some from me. The time of Shaman domination of the tribes died with the Wytch Lords. Assumption that your hold over the Wesmen still remains could prove a costly, not to say dangerous mistake.”
“You are so sure that the Wytch Lords are gone. I am not so,” said Arnoan.
“The evidence was there for all to see. As was the fear in your eyes when the magic was taken from you. Do not try to convince me it is any different.”
Arnoan shoved his chair back, eyes suddenly ablaze.
“We helped you. Without the Shamen, you would still be west of Understone Pass, dreaming of conquest and glory. Now you have it and you cast us aside. That too could prove a costly mistake.”
“Are you threatening me, Arnoan?” asked Tessaya sharply.
“No, my Lord. But ordinary men and women respect us and believe in us. Put us aside and perhaps you will lose their support.”
Tessaya chuckled. “No one is putting Shamen aside and I believe in you as much as the next man,” he said. “But you have a very short memory. I do not. I thank you and your Calling for the job you have done. It is now over. You are merely returning to your rightful position as spiritual leaders of the tribes. Power is not the province of the Shamen but of the Lords born to it.”
“Pray that the Spirit will still support you, Lord Tessaya.”
“I need no spirits. I need skill, tactics and courage in battle. Things I already possess. Tend to those who need you now, Arnoan, I will call you when I do. You may go.”
“There are times when we all need the Spirit, my Lord. Do not turn your back or risk losing favour.”
“You may go,” repeated Tessaya, his eyes cold. He watched Arnoan walk from the inn, stance erect and proud, his head shaking in disbelief. Regretting the harshness of his words for a brief moment, Tessaya wondered whether he had made an enemy of the old man and whether it mattered if he had. He decided that, barring assassination, it did not. A short while later, he was delivering final words to his now mounted riders.
“It is critical that I receive details of ours and enemy strengths, field positions, ability to move and supply other battles, consistency of supply lines and magical resistance. It is all in the briefing notes which I expect you all to learn in case of separation or loss. There is another thing. Make the point forcefully, with my authority, that any news of The Raven, General Darrick or this dread force must be communicated to me immediately, outside of normal messaging times.
“I expect you to travel back here separately, carrying the same messages dispatched with my first birds. You will also bring back birds from Lords Senedai and Taomi. I cannot risk a hold up at this stage. Do you understand everything I've told you?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Excellent.” Tessaya nodded at each man. It was a mark of respect for courage and these men would almost certainly need that. He had toyed with the idea of sending them back through the pass and then north and south to the water crossings at the Bay of Gyernath and Triverne Inlet. But that would increase travel time by two days at least. It was time he did not have.
“Ride with courage, ride with passion, ride for the Wesmen tribes. May the Spirit aid you.” The last rang hollow in Tessaya's mouth and he could imagine Arnoan's expression had he heard those words.
“My Lord.” The riders turned their mounts and spurred them to the north—south trail where they split, three heading north for the College Cities, three south toward Blackthorne.
Tessaya turned and set about organising the fortification of Understone.
“I have an idea,” said Baron Blackthorne. Dawn had lit up the hillside on which his men had slept. Now its light probed the cave and overhang that had served as his command post. And with the light came a slow warming of the cold rock and a fresh, crisp scent that pervaded the old dampness of the cave. It would be a day clear of rain, something for which Blackthorne was very grateful.
Gresse turned to him. The older baron was still seated, the bruising of his concussion reaching down his forehead and temples, blackening one eye as if he wore a half mask. He looked pale beneath the discoloration, his eyes bloodshot and tired.
“Will it stop this thudding in my head?” he asked, his weakened voice, just slightly slurred, further evidence of his condition.
Blackthorne smiled. “No, I'm afraid not. But it could get us back into my town sooner.”
“I could do with a proper bed,” said Gresse. “I'm getting a little old for lying on rock floors.”
Baron Blackthorne scratched at his thick black beard and looked down at Gresse, feeling a surge of admiration for the older Baron he had quickly come to think of as his friend. Among the members of the Korina Trade Alliance, that shambolic body that did nothing but fuel the Baronial disputes it was supposed to mediate, he had been the only man who had seen the danger posed by the Wesmen. More than that, he had been the only man with the guts to speak out and the only man to believe in himself enough to ride to Balaia's defence.
He had fought long and hard alongside his own and Blackthorne's men, knowing that his lands were being plundered by short-sighted, greedy men like Baron Pontois. He had come within an ace of death as the Shamen's black fire tore flesh from the bones of man and animal alike. His own horse had died beneath him, pitching him headlong into the rock that had been the cause of his injuries. But he was still alive and by the Gods, Blackthorne would see that he not only stayed that way but reclaimed his lands. All in the fullness of time.
“We're going to Gyernath, I take it?” said Gresse.
“Yes. The Wesmen will reach Blackthorne well ahead of us and we aren't enough to lay siege or retake the town on our own. At Gyernath, we can brief the command and sail back to the Bay with reinforcements enough to cut their supply lines. And, with further detachments coming by foot and hoof, we could be back inside the walls of Blackthorne a week after arriving in Gyernath.”
“Assuming the army at Gyernath agrees,” said Gresse. Blackthorne looked at him askance.
“My dear Gresse, I haven't annexed the city for nothing,” he said. “That army will do anything I say.”
“I wish I could say I was surprised,” said Gresse. “Gyernath has always given the appearance of being a free city.”
“Oh it is,” assured Blackthorne. “I have no authority within its borders.”
“But…” led Gresse, a smile creeping across his dark lips.
“But travel isn't necessarily secure…Gods, Gresse, don't make me state the obvious.”
“So, there are deals to be done.”
“Of course. Like I said, I don't run the council but I do have considerable sway in the trading community.”
“I bloody knew it,” said Gresse, respect overshadowing the irritation in his voice. “The KTA has consistently refused to censure your actions with Lord Arlen. It now becomes clear.”
“My coffers are plentiful, if that's what you mean. Or rather, they were. It depends a little on what the Wesmen have discovered.” Blackthorne squatted down next to Gresse who shook his head, a smile playing about his lips.
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