Noonshade

by James Barclay

  “You think so?” Senedai smiled. “There is a pitiful number of mages within your flimsy walls, even fewer men at arms and a handful of terrified women and children. All you have is this devil's barrier and I know enough that you cannot keep it standing forever. We will not even waste our arrows on you; there is no need.”

  “A wise choice. Our roofs are slate, our walls are stone. We left mud and grass behind us generations ago.”

  “Your insults are as old as your body, mage,” said Senedai. “And your posturing has got you nowhere. Now listen to me, Julatsan Council member, and listen carefully.

  “I have offered you, and all those within the walls of the College, life if you surrender now. That promise dies as you all will if another drop of Wesmen blood is spilt in removing you.”

  “What guarantee do I have that you will keep your word?” asked Barras as haughtily as he could muster.

  “I am Lord of the Heystron Tribes.”

  “That does not impress me. And what will become of us if we do surrender?”

  “You will be held as prisoners until suitable work is found for you building the new Wesmen empire. The alternative is death.”

  “You are giving us nothing.”

  “You are in a position to demand no more.” Senedai gestured around him.

  “But you are forgetting that you cannot break in here. The devil's barrier, as you call it, is unbreachable.”

  “Indeed, although our efforts are not over,” said Senedai. “But we have the option of waiting for you to die of hunger, or thirst, or for the barrier to drop as you weaken. And there is further pressure we can bring to bear but I don't wish to be forced to use it. I am not a savage but, one way or another, we will bring down your College.”

  “I will die before I see you set foot on this hallowed ground,” said Barras coolly. Senedai threw up his arms.

  “That is your choice mage, and everyone should be allowed to choose his own death. But perhaps your people are not so willing to follow you into death. It is up to you, all of you. You can either live as our prisoners and we will treat you well, or you can choose to die on our swords or from the slow death that follows an end to your food and drink. I give you until first light tomorrow to decide, when I will be forced to use other methods.” He turned on his heel and walked back into the heart of the fallen city of Julatsa.

  Barras waved for the gates to be closed and walked back to Kard and Kerela.

  “And that's what you call negotiation, is it?” asked Kerela, putting an arm around Barras’ shoulder. The three began to walk back to the Tower.

  “No. That's that I call winding up a Wesman Lord who had no intention of negotiating himself.”

  “I take it surrender isn't an option?” said Kard.

  “No,” said Kerela and Barras together.

  “Why did you have to ask?” asked Barras.

  “And what did Senedai mean by ‘further pressure’?” added Kerela.

  “I know and that's why I had to ask,” said Kard, his sadness so complete it brought a lump to Barras’ throat.

  “What is it?”

  “I think we'd better go inside,” said Kard. “We have a great deal of talking to do before morning.”

  Sha-Kaan chose to leave the companionship and quiet of the Choul, flying instead to his own structure above the ground, the great Wingspread his Vestare had created under his guidance and direction.

  Though the battle had been long and hard, the superior organisation of the Brood Kaan had limited the damage and losses and left them with enough strength to maintain sufficient guard on the gateway. But the enemy would be back. And they would keep on coming back until the Kaan were defeated or the gateway was closed. Already he could sense it widening, gnawing at the edges of the sky.

  The most damaged of his Brood he had sent to the Klene, havens in interdimensional space connected to Balaia. There, the Dragonene mages would serve and heal them for the next fight.

  For himself, he had no Dragonene. Since the theft of Septern's amulet and the death of his Dragonene, Seran, during his first encounter with Hirad Coldheart and The Raven, Sha-Kaan had not paused to make a selection.

  The Great Kaan flew with his Brood the short distance to the Choul where all but he dived into its cool, dark depths to rest, choosing the companionship of a press of bodies over the solitude of heat as was the way after victory in battle for all but the sorely wounded. For him, though, there was still work to do and he wheeled away, taking in the state of the Kaan's territory.

  From the edge of the blasted lands of Keol, past the dry wastelands and scarred mountains of Beshara and across the rolling hills and plains of Dormar and into the steam-hot forests of Teras, over which he now flew, that was the domain of the Kaan. A fitting tribute to their dominance and size, and one that would soon be lost if a way wasn't found to close the gateway to Balaia.

  Much of the lands the Kaan held without contest but it hadn't always been so. For most of his young adult life, three generations and more past, he had fought the Brood Skar for control of the once-fertile lands of the Keol.

  He still remembered the sheer cliffs protecting beautiful deep glades fed by spectacular waterfalls. The swaying long grass in the wetlands atop the old volcanoes and ice-cut plateaus. The burgeoning woodland where the Flamegrass grew from the rich soil beneath the canopy of leaves, harvested by the faithful to feed the Kaan's fire, its verdant blues and reds a beacon for the needy. And for those who would take it for themselves. The Skar.

  The Kaan had been weakening through the long rotations of the battle, their numbers dwindling without the mind support of a parallel dimension with which to meld the Brood psyche.

  The Skar and the Kaan had fought in the skies, across the ground and in the lakes and rivers, banishing life from every wad of earth and swallow of water. People were slaughtered, those who did not run for the wastelands and beyond, the courses of waterways were changed forever by barrages of dislodged rock, by slides of burned earth and by the collapse of tunnels beneath the surface as Choul after Choul was found and destroyed.

  On the surface, the vegetation was scorched to its roots and beyond, the richness and fertility driven from the soil and the ground baked and blackened by endless flame from the mouths of those who relied upon it for life.

  The land died and the Kaan would have followed it to oblivion but for the appearance of Septern, the one great human, on the edges of the cracked and devastated land that had once been Keol, most coveted of domains.

  It was Sha-Kaan who had found him. It could just as easily have been a Skar and then history would have been so very different. He had just been there beneath Sha-Kaan's low-level sweep, walking a little aimlessly, staring up at the sky full of warring dragons, staring at Sha-Kaan as he rushed toward him.

  Septern had shown no fear, just a quiet resignation, rather like Hirad Coldheart had done in Taranspike Castle. An acceptance of fate. And it was for that reason that Sha-Kaan did not kill the great human. He was curious because Septern was clearly not of the Vestare, who served the Kaan so faithfully, indeed he was also clearly not of any race that served dragons—the expression on his face told Sha-Kaan that much.

  Despite the battle raging in the sky above him, Sha-Kaan had landed, his curiosity overcoming the risk. For, while dragons were masters of the skies, their movement at ground level was ungainly and slow in comparison.

  His decision set in motion the events that saved the Kaan by winning them the battle against the Skar and gifting them the parallel dimension they needed to develop to the next plane of awareness.

  As he'd landed close to Septern, Sha-Kaan had looked beyond him and the reason for Septern's abrupt appearance became clear. Partly hidden by the hardy brush which still survived in Keol, he saw a swirling white-flecked brown rectangle that was practically invisible against the rock on which it appeared until viewed head-on. He'd known immediately what it was and as he had shepherded Septern away, his bark to alert the Kaan had change
d the course of the battle for Keol.

  Immediately, a flight of Kaan dragons flew to and through the gateway, sparking a desperate reaction in the Skar. The entire Brood broke off their attack, sweeping down toward the beacon that was the active gate through which their enemy had flown.

  More than a dozen had cleared the gate before the Kaan set up a defensive mesh around it that drove off the remaining Skar. It was a lesson they were never to forget. Neither was the first brief exchange between Sha-Kaan and Septern one the former would misplace in his old but razor-sharp mind.

  “What's happening?” Septern had asked of no one, plainly not expecting a reply from his unexpected guardian, his bewilderment plain in his tone, on his face and in the set of his body.

  “The Kaan fly to destroy the melde-dimension of the Skar. Then we will win the battle for Keol.” Again, much as with Hirad Coldheart, Septern's legs had given way in his surprise at the source of the answer to his question. He, too, had recovered quickly.

  “I don't understand,” he had said.

  “The gateway through which you travelled leads to the dimension that supports the Brood Skar; we can feel its signatures. We will destroy its critical fabrics and break that support. Then we will win the battle for Keol.”

  Rage had suffused Septern's face.

  “But they're harmless Avians. You can't…murderers!” And he'd run from the startled Sha-Kaan, heading back to the gateway.

  “You can't stop us. It is the way.” But he had not listened. And he hadn't stopped them. And he had returned. And Sha-Kaan had been waiting.

  Sha-Kaan cut short his memory, arcing high to signal to the gate guard by dive and call his intended destination. Turning a full somersault, he gave the brackish low growl that signalled Wingspread and commenced a steep dive toward a particularly dense area of rainforest canopy.

  Still, all these long rotations past, almost four hundred Balaian years, he enjoyed the thrill of the dive to the Kaan Broodland. There was no need to dive so fast but then there would be no excitement.

  Sha-Kaan pirouetted in the air, barrelling toward the impenetrable green. A single lazy flick of his wings set his position exactly right before he swept them right back to ease his passage and he burst through the canopy at the appointed place and the valley was open before him.

  Filled with mist that gently reflected the multiple spears of green-tinged pale light penetrating thin holes in the canopy above, the Kaan Broodland stretched as far as Vestare eyes could see in either direction. The rainforest canopy provided shelter and nurtured a wonderfully soft, warm atmosphere that soothed scales and softened the sounds of the lands and weather outside, leaving the Broodland serene. Sha-Kaan called, a gentle sound of peace and the Brood-at-spawn, four, perhaps five of them, called back, hidden beneath the mists.

  Peace. The sounds of falling water, gently waving branches and the echoes of Broodcall calmed his mind. He spread his wings, braking in the air; the trees which scaled the valley's sheer sides hundreds of feet and leaned to create the shield over his head were shadowy and black, the mists below pale and shifting in the spears of light.

  He rolled once, letting the humid warmth caress his tired body before heading down, the steady beat of his great wings creating vortices in the mist, his head, neck outstretched, seeking home. In a dozen beats, the mists cleared and the sight below him gladdened his heart and brought tranquillity to his hard-worked mind.

  Sha-Kaan's Broodland was dominated by the wide, slow-moving River Tere. The river cascaded down a mighty waterfall at the northern end of the valley, broadening to its sluggish width as it coursed the floor, fed by other falls along its length until it tumbled from the southern cleft into an underground course. The sides of the valley where the trees grew were also home to the birds which fed on and seeded the Flamegrass which grew on vast areas of the Broodland. Great stone slabs punctured the grass and, where the soil was thinnest, the Vestare of the Broodland made their homes from wood and thatch.

  Sha-Kaan flew the length of the valley, his calls echoed by the Brood-at-spawn, who didn't venture from their Birthing Chouls, plain, flat, low structures designed to create the exact climate in which young Kaan could be born and nurtured until fledged. Fires burned below great steaming vats of water within each of the Birthing Chouls, keeping them hot and the condensation running freely down the walls to feed the damp of the ground, beneath which more water was channelled and in which the nests were made.

  Sha-Kaan turned about, a lazy, graceful action, spread his wings, angled down to slow him for landing, and shuddered the rock under his feet as he touched ground, bringing his servants running to him.

  “I am uninjured,” he said. “Leave me, I would look at your labours.” And he looked and he saw that everything was exactly as he wanted. He sighed his happiness. Wingspread. Home.

  Wingspread was a magnificent structure, its polished white stone arc dominating the valley, pushing up more than one hundred and fifty feet toward the mists above. Its low entrance halls led to the main dome where he rested and held audience. The dome itself was a perfect hemisphere which had taken four attempts to achieve to his satisfaction. It sat atop octagonal walls, each side carved with his face such that it gazed in all directions, warding evil from the Broodland.

  Either side of the dome rose towers, shining columns that finished in smoking spires with balconies at three heights. Beneath each one, fires burned hot beneath water vats. Like the spawning Kaan, he desired moist heat when away from the Choul and his kin. It eased his scales, soothed his wings and calmed his eyes.

  But what gave Wingspread its name was the staggering carving that stretched behind and on either side of the dome, reaching high and touching the mists almost three hundred feet above. In every detail, every vein, bone, flaw, nick and scratch, Sha-Kaan's wings were depicted sweeping up together, their tips touching just out of sight. It was a monument appropriate to his rule of the Brood.

  The Great Kaan walked slowly forward, neck held in the formal “s,” wings balancing his glittering gold body in its ponderous upright movement.

  “Excellent,” he said. “Excellent.” He closed his eyes, aligned himself carefully and shifted inside the dome. The brief dimensional movement, only possible when the body was still, was a necessity in a building whose doors were not designed to admit the bulk of a dragon, but merely his servants and aides.

  Inside, the close heat worked instant relaxation. He rested his body, stretched his neck across the damp floor and chewed absently at the bales of Flamegrass stacked all around the walls before snatching a goat from its tether. He took a moment of quiet contemplation, eyes roving the inside of the dome, flickering over the murals painted there of a land long gone. A land before the dragons fought for mastery. Now there were precious few pockets of original beauty left. Keol had been one and, as he considered that more work was needed on the murals, his mind drifted back to Septern and the knowledge that their meeting that fateful day long ago was linked inexorably to the plight of Balaia today and the gateway in the sky above Teras.

  “Our options are seriously limited,” said Kard. “I know that's an obvious thing to say but you need to know exactly where we stand.”

  Kerela had summoned the entire Julatsan Council to listen to Kard. They were sat around the High Table in the Tower's Council Chambers, a series of rooms which ran around the outside of the Tower, ringing the Heart.

  Kard was seated between Kerela and Barras with, running left around the polished marquetry table, Endorr, Vilif, Stefane, Cordolan and Torvis. The outer wall of the room held three open windows which admitted the afternoon light and a mild breeze. Braziers on the opposite wall balanced the illumination and a tapestry at either end, depicting Councils long dead, accorded the room the weight of ages.

  “If you could first detail our strength of warrior and mage, General,” invited Kerela. Kard nodded and unrolled a piece of cream parchment.

  “I had a platoon conduct a census. I'm afraid to tell you
that it didn't take as long as I'd hoped.” Kard took a deep breath. “Inside these walls, we have one hundred and eighty-seven mages including yourselves. Yesterday we had over five hundred. Our military strength is hardly better. I now command seven hundred and seventeen able-bodied men, thirty walking, hobbling and lying wounded and a dozen I am not expecting to survive until morning. Four hundred and eight children between a few months and thirteen ran in here along with six hundred and eighty-seven women and three hundred and fourteen men of varying ages and abilities.

  “That's two thousand, three hundred and fifty-five altogether and yes, that's a real crowd in here but fortunately the wells are deep and enough of you took notice of my warnings to ensure there is four weeks’ food. After that, well…”

  Barras’ heart sounded loud in his ears in the shocked quiet that followed Kard's summation. Every head contemplated the three-coloured table top. No one could bear to catch another's eye. The braziers blew in the breeze, guttering for a moment.

  “Gods in the ground,” breathed Torvis, his old, tall and bony frame hunched, his wrinkled face showing all of its advanced years. “How big is the population of Julatsa?”

  All eyes were fixed on Kard once more. He shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable, looking at them through hooded eyes.

  “Before the Wesmen attacked, including approximations for transients and the absence of mages and the guard sent to Darrick at Understone, there were somewhere in the region of fifty thousand people in Julatsa, actually within the city,” said Kard. “We have less than one in twenty of the population inside the walls of the College.”

  Barras put his hands behind his head and leaned back. Kerela buried her face in her hands, while her head shook slowly. Stefane put a hand to a trembling mouth and tears ran freely down Cordolan's and Torvis’ cheeks. Vilif and Endorr gave no outward reaction, too stunned even to cry.

  Kard raised his hands. “I understand your sorrow, your shock and your helplessness, but remember that many of our people will have escaped into the surrounding countryside and will no doubt make their way to Dordover and the other Colleges.