Noonshade

by James Barclay

  In front of them was the Wesmen staging post. It was quiet, though a large fire burned in the centre of a hexagon of marquees and around it sat a number of Wesmen. Other fires burned along the shore, illuminating the ranks of boats drawn up on the sand, but elsewhere, the camp was in darkness but for the moon's cloud-filtered reflection off the water.

  The natural light gave a muddied blue tinge to Hirad's vision but he could still make out the three watchtowers, each, he had been reliably informed, holding two guards and a bell. The southernmost commanded a view along the main trail which meandered out of sight southwest and stood in front of a corral containing horses and cattle. Coops for chickens and pens for pigs sat nearby, but the animals were quiet. A quick scan of the camp gave no indication of any Destranas, but he had no doubt the wardogs would be there somewhere, probably on guard in or near the marquees to deter any Wesmen looking to boost their rations.

  The other two towers, set equidistant along the perimeter of the camp, partially obscured stands of Wes tents pitched around dead fires, the standards flapping and snapping in the wind. Thraun had been right; the only sensible way in was further north where they would be overlooked by just one tower.

  “All right,” said Thraun. “You can see our access point. The route we need to take will be across the top of the camp, skirting the main fire and dropping down on to the beach. We have to take out the tower guards or we'll be seen. Ilkar is suggesting two people under CloakedWalks can surprise the guards and bleed them quietly. That will be the first obstacle out of the way.”

  “By which he means two mages,” said Denser. “Which two did he have in mind?”

  “You can address me directly if you want, Denser. I can understand you.”

  Hirad sighed. “We have to work together or we'll all be killed,” he said shortly, staring at Denser. “I know things are hard for you right now, but we still have work to do and we need you. There are three hundred Wesmen down there. How long do you think we'll last if they catch wind we're on their beach, stealing their boats?”

  “I am well aware of our situation. I merely wanted to know who Ilkar had in mind for his little suicide mission.”

  “Me and you, that's who,” said Ilkar. “It might take your mind off your inner pain or whatever it is.”

  “You have no idea what I am feeling.” Denser was dismissive. Ilkar was earnest.

  “I know. But right now, you are doing your damnedest to make sure we all suffer with you. Try participating again, you might even like it. I know I will.”

  “Try completing your life's work and seeing it damn you,” growled Denser.

  “Enough,” said The Unknown. “We haven't much time.” His voice stilled hasty tongues. “Thraun, you were saying.”

  “It all hinges on the watchtower. As you can see, we can't enter from the north because the cliff is too steep to climb down and we'll be seen. We have to edge around toward the camp, scrambling down and keeping to the shadows in the lee of the cliffs.” Thraun pointed out the areas he was speaking about but Hirad couldn't make them out clearly.

  “Is this watchtower thing your whole plan?” asked Will. Thraun shook his head.

  “In terms of getting us into the camp safely, yes, pretty much. But our idea focused on two other things. First, a backup in case we are seen and second, we were debating a little sabotage while we were here.”

  “Oh God,” muttered Denser.

  Hirad smiled. “It would be rude not to,” he said. “Let's hear it.”

  Styliann did not travel to the Bay of Gyernath. Nor did he have any intention of so doing from the moment he left Darrick's pitiful band of horsemen. He had been approached by the Xeteskians in the cavalry but they could not offer him anything and he was not in the frame of mind to lead any but the very best in fighting speed, skill and stamina.

  So he approached the fortifications at the eastern end of Understone Pass with only ninety Protectors around him. He faced perhaps fifteen hundred Wesmen warriors but wasn't unduly worried. In a straight fight, he suspected he could force surrender or outright rout but he hadn't come to fight. He had come to organise a swift passage back to the east and to promise something he had no intention of giving. Help.

  His arrival caused a great deal of consternation on the platform that ran around the inside of the partially built stockade. Shouts filled the air, bows were bent and dogs barked. He was ordered to halt and did so, the fading light of late afternoon glinting off the masks of his Protectors, their quiet stillness clearly unsettling the Wesmen.

  Styliann sat on his horse in the centre of the protective echelon, his hands on the pommel of his saddle, watching the Wesmen come to some semblance of order. An initial urge to run to the attack was halted, and out of the angry and threatening gathering came one man flanked by four others. He strode purposefully across the space between them until he stood only a few yards from the front rank of Protectors. Two dozen masked heads moved fractionally to watch him and his guard, their weapons held at rest but their bodies tensed for action.

  The Wesman spoke in tribal Wes dialect, his accent clipped and harsh, his speech quick but confident.

  “You are trespassing on lands that belong to the unified tribes. State your reason for approaching.”

  “I am sorry for my sudden arrival,” replied Styliann, his Wes rusty but serviceable so long as he kept to the basics. “Before I speak, I ask who I am speaking to.”

  The Wesman inclined his head slightly.

  “Your use of my language earns you some small respect,” he said. “My name is Riasu. I would have yours.”

  “I am Styliann, Lord of Xetesk.” He saw no reason to correct the slight inaccuracy. “You are in charge here?” Riasu nodded.

  “I have a force of more than two thousand tribal warriors who have closed the pass to our enemies. You have the look of one such.”

  Styliann was sure his use of language was far more colourful but it was the best translation he could make in the time he had.

  “The skill of your warriors is known to me,” said Styliann, struggling for the right words. “But you have no magic. I bring you that.”

  Riasu laughed. “We have no need of your magic. It is evil and must die. As must you.” Styliann remained impassive despite the threat.

  “I know your fear—” he began.

  “I have no fear,” snapped Riasu, his tone hardening. Styliann raised his hands in a gesture of calm.

  “Your—ah—belief. But know the truth of it. Your arrows cannot harm me or my men. Try.” Styliann's HardShield was raised in seconds but Riasu merely shook his head.

  “I know your magic,” he said. “What do you want that would stop me wanting your head.”

  “Who is the leader of your armies in the East?”

  “The Lord Tessaya.”

  “I will speak to him,” said Styliann.

  “If I allow your travel,” said Riasu. “Something I have no wish to do. What do you want?”

  Styliann nodded, unwilling to make a show of force. The very fact that Riasu had not ordered an attack on him demonstrated the Wesman's caution and fear of the force of magic, not to mention the obvious power of the Protectors. But he was concerned that this lesser Lord would misunderstand him and he could not afford to lose any Protectors this side of the pass.

  “Let us sit, talk and eat by a fire,” said the former Lord of the Mount. “Out here on neutral ground.”

  “Very well.” Riasu shouted orders back to his men at the gate of the stockade. A flurry of activity resulted in firewood, a cooking pot, food and an increased guard arriving in the space between Styliann and the tribal Lord. Soon, the fire was blazing and water heating up over the flames. Declining any pleasantries, Riasu and Styliann took up positions on opposite sides of the fire, a dozen guards behind each of them. The remainder of Styliann's Protectors were ordered back as far from their master as the Wesmen were from theirs.

  Styliann smiled inwardly at the arrangement set out by Riasu. He ha
d no conception of the communication the Protectors enjoyed. If the meeting broke down, Riasu would be dead, his guard overrun and Styliann reinforced long before any help could arrive from the stockade. Still, it made him happy and that was all Styliann really wanted.

  With wine and meat in hand, Riasu began.

  “I will not say this is a pleasure. But I will not toss my warriors’ lives away in needless fight. This is one thing Tessaya has taught us.”

  “But it has not halted large loss of life in Julatsa,” said Styliann, preferring to keep his mind clear with a hot rough leaf tea that a quick divining spell had revealed as harmless, if a little bitter.

  “I know nothing of that.”

  “I do.” Styliann looked at the reaction of Riasu, his augmented eyesight piercing both fire glare and gathering gloom to see a flicker of doubt in the Wesman's face. “Your feelings about magic do you no help,” he continued. “You hate magic because you do not understand it. If you did, you would see that it could help you.”

  Riasu snorted. “I think not. We are a warrior race. Your tricks may kill and maim and see things far away but we will triumph over you one day.”

  Styliann sighed. He could see this discussion going round in circles.

  “Yet you said you would not toss away the lives of your men. If you do not listen to me, you will be doing that.” Styliann cursed his lack of vocabulary in tribal Wes. It was difficult to make any emphasis and Riasu needed his eyes opened very crudely if he was to see sense and give Styliann access to the pass.

  “Tell me of your bargain.” Riasu moved subject without any evidence he had heard, let alone comprehended, anything Styliann had said so far.

  “It is simple,” said Styliann. “I would regain access to my College quickly. You wish to destroy magic. You can help me do the one and I will help you do the other if you let my magic live.”

  “We are sworn to end all magic.” Riasu shrugged. “Why should we bargain with you?”

  “You will never end all magic,” said Styliann shortly. “If one mage lives, there is magic. If there is magic, it can be learned by others. And you will never take Xetesk.”

  “You are so sure. But if you were to die here, what then?”

  Styliann kneaded his temples with the thumb and middle finger of his right hand. He should have expected this rather blinkered and aggressive pigheadedness but that knowledge didn't help his frustration.

  “You won't kill me here. You haven't the strength,” he said, looking Riasu directly in the eye. The Wesman stiffened.

  “You dare to threaten me in my own lands?”

  “No.” Styliann permitted himself to relax and chuckle. “I just speak the truth.”

  “Two thousand men,” said Riasu, jerking a thumb in the direction of the stockade.

  “I know. But your beliefs—” (oh, to know the word for ignorance) “—about magic stop your eyes from seeing the truth. My men here are nearly one hundred in number and if I thought I had to fight you, I would not fear the outcome. They are magical. If you saw them fight, you would see.”

  “We would cut you down.”

  “You are skilled but you are not strong with magic. I do not wish to fight. Let me talk with Tessaya.”

  Riasu raised a forefinger. “Very well. A test. One of your masked men against two of my warriors.”

  “It will be an uneven fight,” said Styliann. “I have no wish to spill the blood of your men.”

  “State the odds, then,” said Riasu.

  “One of my men will take four of yours, armed or unarmed. But this is not what I want to see.”

  Riasu raised his eyebrows. “Four? This I must see. And armed, I think. Let us see a real fight.” He leaned to his left and spoke to one of his guard. The man nodded and ran back toward the stockade. “Choose who you will.”

  “Do you want this? It is wasted death.” Styliann pursed his lips.

  “For you, maybe.”

  “As you wish.” Styliann rose from the fire, his food forgotten. Perhaps this was inevitable. It really depended whether Riasu took it as insult or with respect. He summoned the nearest Protector with a crook of his right index finger.

  “Choose one who is willing to fight. It isn't to protect me but to prove a point so I want it to be quick and bloody, do you understand?” he asked of the masked warrior.

  “I understand.”

  “Excellent. Who shall it be?” The Protector was silent for a moment, communing with his brothers.

  “Cil.”

  “Give him your strength and your sight. Let him fight fast and true. There must be no error,” said Styliann.

  “It shall be done.” The Protector turned. Cil came from the group gathered away from the fire. He walked into the light, polished ebony mask reflecting the yellow flame. Behind the mask, the eyes were impassive, fixed on the four Wesmen who gathered to the left, leaning on their weapons.

  Styliann returned to the fire and stood across from Riasu. The tribal Lord was nervous and uncertain, feelings clearly not shared by those he had chosen to fight. Four large men, decked in furs and metal helmets, two carrying longswords, two carrying double-bladed axes. They came to the ready in a loose semicircle as Cil approached, axe in his right hand, longsword in the left.

  The Protector, in heavy leather and chain, stood well over six feet tall, towering over his thickset, powerful opponents. He stood in an open stance, weapons down and to either side, waiting.

  “You can save your men,” said Styliann. Riasu half smiled and shook his head.

  “They will save themselves,” he said. “Fight!”

  The Wesmen moved to encircle Cil, who stood motionless, not even acknowledging the two who flanked him. His head was straight, taking in the axemen who came at him from the front, weapons in two hands, wary, slightly crouched. At a signal from an axeman, one of those behind sprang forward, aiming a blow at Cil's broad back. The Protector lashed out with his axe, blocking the sweep, blade ending close to the ground. He hadn't turned or moved his feet. The man fell back and the circling began.

  Styliann folded his arms across his chest. It was a matter of waiting for them to run to their own deaths and suddenly he forgot his desire to see no blood spilt. Perhaps this display was what the Wesmen needed. A little reminder that taking Understone and its Pass meant little to the mages of Xetesk.

  Cil had returned to his open stance, body absolutely still. He was, Styliann knew, listening to his brothers, feeling the ground beneath his feet and tasting the air around him.

  Deciding numbers would win the day, the Wesmen attacked together, angling in from all four corners. Like two men, Cil blocked the first axe with his longsword while sweeping out and behind with his axe, catching one swordsman high in the head. The Wesman's intended blow never came and he clattered to the earth, blood and brain oozing from his skull.

  Bringing his axe back sharply, he caught his next enemy's overhead on his blade and, while twisting to disarm him, placed his longsword parallel to his back to block the fourth man. Cil pulled on his axe shaft, dragging the helpless Wesman off balance. Now he moved his feet for the first time, quarter-turning left, throwing the caught axeman hard into his companion. Both men fell to the ground.

  He turned again, this time to fend a stab to his side and bring his axe through, waist high, chopping through the Wesman's stomach and angling out and up through his rib cage, carrying gore in a wide arc as he rounded on the remaining two. They scrabbled to their feet but he was on them so fast, batting right with the flat of his axe into one's face while piercing the other's heart. Before Styliann could order him to stop, he had beheaded the last man.

  Finished, he returned to his open stance, blood streaming from his weapons into the dust, carnage surrounding him and a shocked silence falling on the arena of sudden slaughter.

  Styliann turned to Riasu who stared openmouthed at the corpses of his men.

  “Now, think if all of my men were fighting and I backed it with my magic,” he said. “It
was you who wanted this, not me.”

  Riasu faced him, fear in his eyes, fury in his body and humiliation burning from every pore.

  “You will die for this.” Riasu chopped his hand down and arrows flew from the top of the stockade, arcing over the fire to where the Protectors stood in tight formation, their eyes on Cil. The shafts flashed in the late afternoon light, every one bouncing harmlessly from Styliann's ready deployed HardShield.

  “You are testing me,” said Styliann. “And that is good. But now, I will talk with Lord Tessaya.”

  “Do not think to give me orders,” said Riasu, his face an angry snarl.

  “Pick your next words with care,” warned Styliann. “You are far from your two thousand men.”

  Riasu's eyes betrayed his anxiety, flicking over the situation in which he found himself, too close to a dozen Protectors for comfort and knowing his like number of guards would be no match whatever. “I will send word to Tessaya that you wish to talk.”

  “Good. I have no wish to see more blood spilled.”

  Riasu nodded curtly and turned to go. Styliann's next words froze him in his tracks.

  “I will give you until this time tomorrow to bring me an answer,” he said. “Or I will have to walk the pass anyway, whether you are with me or against me.”

  “I will not forget what you have done, Styliann, Lord of Xetesk. And there will come a time when you are alone. Fear that time,” said Riasu. He stalked across the dirt back toward the stockade, his guards lingering to look at their fallen tribesmen.

  “Take their bodies,” said Styliann. “He will not harm you.” Cil cleaned and sheathed his weapons and returned to the mass of the Protectors. Styliann looked after the retreating form of Riasu and sat back down by the fire. Poor fool. He would find out, probably to his cost, that no Xetesk mage, particularly not one so senior, was ever alone.

  The Raven trotted north along the gully in which they had made their temporary camp. Will's stove, cooled sufficiently by earth and boot, was packed in its leather coverings and was once more on Thraun's back. The shapechanger led the group, The Unknown at his shoulder. Hirad brought up the rear, sandwiching Denser, Ilkar, Erienne and Will between the warriors.